Getting the diagnosis was a beginning—but not the kind I expected.
I thought once I had a name, things would make sense. That understanding would bring control. That control would bring peace.
But knowing the name didn’t stop the cycle.
I still had mood swings. Still wrestled with shame. Still had people misunderstand me—sometimes even more now that there was a label to use against me. I became “the bipolar one,” as if that explained everything I did or felt.
The diagnosis gave me tools—but it didn’t give me immunity.
It didn’t stop the nights I stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed and anxious.
It didn’t silence the voice that said I was too much.
It didn’t erase the trauma I’d buried beneath years of pretending.
But it gave me language.
And with language came connection. Resources. Community. Self-compassion.
I began to see the diagnosis not as a cage, but as a map. Imperfect, yes. Incomplete, sometimes. But useful. Grounding. Humanizing.
The battle didn’t end with naming.
But it finally had a direction.
And that changed everything.
Leave a comment