I didn’t walk into the doctor’s office expecting a revelation. I just wanted relief. I wanted someone to help me understand why I was either everything or nothing—why I burned so bright and then disappeared into myself. I had kept a journal of symptoms, moods, patterns. I brought it with me like a shield and a confession.
The psychiatrist was quiet, focused. She asked questions that dug deeper than I expected. I answered honestly—not because I trusted her, but because I was too tired to lie anymore.
When she said the words, I didn’t flinch.
“You meet the criteria for Bipolar II Disorder.”
I nodded. She watched my face, maybe waiting for shock or denial. But what I felt was… stillness. Like someone had finally named the monster I’d been fighting blindfolded.
It wasn’t relief exactly—it was recognition. Like finding the word for a language I’d been speaking my whole life without knowing what it meant.
Bipolar.
Not crazy.
Not broken.
Not dramatic or overreacting or lazy.
Just… bipolar.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel ashamed of that.
But what came next wasn’t easy. Naming it didn’t fix it. There were still meds to trial, therapy to show up for, people who didn’t understand. There were still sleepless nights and overwhelming days.
But I finally had a name.
And in a world that had called me everything else—unstable, moody, manipulative, intense—that mattered more than I could explain.
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