To me, the scariest part of bipolar disorder is not just the symptoms themselves.
First, I want to be clear: I am speaking only from my own personal experience. I am not trying to generalize this to everyone. I am sharing this in the hope that it may help the society understand bipolar more, and maybe help some people who suffered like myself.
I have been diagnosed before. Looking back on the past ten years of trying to save myself, I feel that the scariest part was not simply bipolar disorder as an illness.
It was how society looks at this illness.
It reflects something much larger: how mainstream culture understands and tolerates emotions.
This society has always treated “controlling your emotions” as the default answer.
People with intense emotional fluctuations are easily seen as “crazy,” “unstable,” or “abnormal.”
As if not being able to fully control your emotions is your fault.
But sometimes, this is not simply a personal failure.
It is society’s lack of tolerance for emotions.
And when a diagnosis becomes a tool used to attack the person who carries it, when I started seeing myself as an “abnormal” person —
that was the second layer of harm.
Bipolar disorder is often described as a condition in which a person’s mood alternates between episodes of mania — extreme elevation, energy, and activation — and depression — low mood, sadness, and despair.
It is often described as a brain-based condition that requires long-term management, and one that can be effectively supported through proper medical care.
That is the answer you will often see on the first page of Google.
For many years, I could not accept this word.
Just thinking about it felt terrifying.
Reading explanations on WebMD only made me feel more depressed.
At the same time, I would still “relapse.”
I would fall into extreme self-blame and despair.
After long-term treatment, lifestyle changes, and self-observation, I am currently not taking medication, and my state is stable.
But this is only my personal situation.
It does not mean anyone should stop taking medication on their own.
For many people, medication and therapy are extremely important forms of support.
The name of the illness was scary. But the symptoms were even scarier.
For a very long time, I felt abnormal.
Probably since my teenage years.
Why am I so sensitive?
So emotional?
So irrational?
Why can’t I be more stable?
Why do I have so many thoughts?
From there, my mind would spiral all the way down.
I would start believing I was a failure.
Often, it was these thoughts that drove me into despair and depression.
My head would hurt so much that I would lock myself in a small room and hit my head against the wall.
But later, I realized something.
To me, the scariest part was not the diagnosis or the symptoms.
Once, a close friend told me she knew someone who had bipolar and had to take medication every day.
When she talked about it, she sounded very scared.
Her fear did not sound like concern for what that person might be going through.
It sounded more like she was talking about someone carrying a highly contagious disease.
As if once you heard the word bipolar, you should immediately keep your distance.
I did not tell her at the time:
I had also been diagnosed with bipolar.
Because I was afraid.
I was afraid she would look at me the same way.
That was when I clearly felt that part of what makes a diagnosis terrifying is not just the diagnosis itself.
It is what people imagine it to be.
Crazy.
Dangerous.
Uncontrollable.
Someone to stay away from.
And when you know that other people might see you that way, it becomes very hard not to start seeing yourself that way too.
I truly began to see myself as a crazy person.
A patient.
An “abnormal” person.
Especially when the people closest to me said things like:
“Shouldn’t you be taking medication?”
“Can’t you control your emotions a little?”
Of course I resisted their accusations.
But beneath the anger, there was also a deep obedience.
Yes.
Maybe I should take medication.
The scariest part was not the “illness” itself.
It was seeing myself as a crazy, sick person.
And then I really started to believe that I was abnormal.
That split inside me made my head hurt so badly.
Until I slowly began to see the mechanism behind so-called normality.
Some people are very good at pretending.
They hide their own insecurity under what looks like flawless logic.
When they feel attacked, their first reaction is not to understand.
It is to fight back.
And if you are someone who often thinks for others, someone who easily becomes an emotional blood bag, you end up receiving layers and layers of reflected harm.
You are hurt.
Of course your emotional reaction becomes stronger.
But then your stronger reaction creates even more harm:
“You are sick.”
So I brought every problem into the doctor’s office.
As if once I was fixed, everything would be okay.
In Norwegian Wood, Reiko says:
“What makes us normal is knowing that we are not normal.”
I increasingly feel that there may not be such a simple division between normal and abnormal people.
Some people are more sensitive.
Some people have stronger emotional fluctuations.
Some people are better at pretending.
Some people believe that being normal means having no emotions.
So they condemn people whose emotions are more visible:
“You are so abnormal.”
But this is the real point.
Both people are human.
Both people are normal.
But because one person attacks, the other person ends up wearing the label of being abnormal.
Because you are “abnormal,” you go see a doctor.
Because being emotional is “bad,” you try to suppress your emotions.
Because you are “too sensitive,” you stop trusting your own feelings.
I do not want to deny the value of diagnosis, medication, or therapy.
When I was at my lowest, they did stabilize me and gave me space to heal.
But in the end, what truly helped me was making peace with myself.
Learning to coexist with myself.
Learning to be more forgiving toward myself.
What truly helped me was reconciling with myself.
And slowly understanding that many people treated my emotions that way because they did not know how to deal with their own emotions either.
But understanding does not mean continuing to endure.
As for me, my obedience to them came from deep codependency and fear of abandonment.
At that time, I had not yet learned how to relate to my own emotions properly.
Especially when I was extremely overwhelmed.
All I knew was how to blame myself.
How to turn myself into someone more stable.
More rational.
Less troublesome.
But what is so wrong with being emotional?
Where do all the colors in this world come from?
What is so wrong with being sensitive?
Without sensitivity, how would we feel love, sadness, shame, pain, art, relationships, and all the things language cannot fully explain?
I am not saying all emotions should be released without boundaries.
I am not saying we do not need to take responsibility for our behavior.
I am only saying:
Emotions are not a crime.
Sensitivity is not an illness.
A diagnosis can help us understand ourselves.
But it should not become a weapon for others to attack us.
And it should not become a weapon we use to attack ourselves.
Later, I slowly began to understand:
My emotions have highs and lows.
When I am high, I can be very creative.
When I am low, I need more care.
That does not necessarily mean I am broken.
It simply reminds me:
I need to take better care of myself.
So now, I have left many of the stressors that kept me in a constant state of tension.
I exercise.
I eat well.
I sleep.
When I can create, I create.
When I cannot, I allow myself to slow down.
It turns out I was not abnormal.
I had just spent too long carrying emotions that other people did not want to face.
Too long explaining myself.
Doubting myself.
Fixing myself.
Too long forgetting:
My feelings are real.
My pain is real.
Now, I no longer want to hand myself over to the judgment of “normal” or “abnormal.”
I only want to slowly learn:
How to coexist with my emotions.
How to take care of myself.
How to stop being someone else’s emotional blood bag.
I do not need to be declared “normal” by someone else before I am allowed to believe myself.