A Bipolar Expert Shares Her Struggle With the Disorder

I spend my days explaining bipolar disorder to other people: what mania looks like, why sleep matters, why “just cheer up” is not a treatment plan.
I quote studies, sketch mood charts, and talk calmly about medication side effects while my patients nod along, sometimes terrified, sometimes relieved.

What I don’t always say right away is this: I’m not just a mental health professional who treats bipolar disorder.
I’m also a person who lives with it.

To keep this simple, I’m going to tell this story in the first person. Think of it as a composite of real experiences from clinicians and
bipolar experts who have chosen to live openly with the condition — people like Kay Redfield Jamison and other professionals who have
combined lived experience with clinical expertise. The goal isn’t drama. It’s honesty, clarity, and a little humor to make a heavy topic easier to carry.

When the Expert Becomes the Patient

My first episode didn’t arrive with a polite introduction. There was no “Hi, I’m bipolar disorder, I’ll be ruining your week.”
It started as what I told myself was just being “really productive.”

I was sleeping four hours a night, bouncing into work like I’d been mainlining espresso, and generating ideas faster than my fingers could type.
I reorganized the clinic workflow, outlined three research papers, and volunteered for every committee in sight. My friends said,
“Wow, I wish I had your energy.” I agreed. Who wouldn’t?

The problem was that underneath the confidence was something less charming: irritability, impulsive spending, and a growing inability to sit still.
My mind wasn’t just busy; it was racing. Thoughts collided so quickly I felt like I was trying to watch ten channels at once with the volume on max.

The First Manic Red Flag I Couldn’t Ignore

The moment I knew something was truly wrong was strangely mundane. I was writing progress notes and suddenly realized
that my sentences didn’t make sense. My hands were flying, but the words were a jumble of half-finished thoughts and grand plans
that had nothing to do with the patient in front of me.

As a clinician, I’d seen this before: pressured speech, flight of ideas, decreased need for sleep, risky decisions.
The textbook floated into my mind like an accusing thought bubble. Oh no. This is not just stress. This is mania.

The crash came later. After the high energy, the optimistic overcommitment, and the “I can fix my entire life this weekend” frenzy,
my brain slammed on the brakes. I couldn’t get out of bed. Showering felt like climbing a mountain. The future shrank to the next hour,
and even that seemed like too much.

The Diagnosis I Didn’t Want, But Needed

Getting a bipolar diagnosis as a mental health professional is like being told your house is on fire while you’re holding a fire extinguisher
and wearing a “Fire Safety Expert” badge. The irony is not lost on you.

I knew the criteria. Bipolar disorder is not just moodiness or “having ups and downs.” It involves clear episodes of mania or hypomania
and depression that significantly impact daily functioning: intense energy and decreased need for sleep on one end, deep despair and lack of motivation
on the other. It’s not a personality flaw; it’s a serious, often chronic mental health condition.

Intellectually, I understood this. Emotionally, I went straight to self-stigma:
How can I help others if I can’t keep myself stable? What will people think? Am I broken now?

Living in Two Worlds: Clinician and Client

The hardest part wasn’t taking medication or going to therapy. It was walking through the waiting room knowing I might be recognized
by someone who had once sat across from me as a patient.

Being both a clinician and a person with bipolar disorder puts you in a strange double exposure. In one layer, you’re the calm professional
explaining mood episodes and evidence-based treatments. In the other, you’re the person who has sat in the same chair,
feeling raw, scared, and tired of answering “Have you had thoughts of hurting yourself?” honestly.

At first, I tried to keep the roles entirely separate. Work was work. My condition was a private side quest.
But hiding took energy I frankly did not have. And research — along with many powerful public stories — told me something important:
disclosure, when done thoughtfully and safely, can reduce shame and create connection.

I didn’t walk into every room announcing my diagnosis. But with some patients, particularly those dealing with bipolar disorder themselves,
I started saying a carefully chosen sentence: “I know this from both the research and from personal experience.”
Their shoulders dropped. The air changed. Suddenly, they weren’t the only one in the room navigating this thing.

What Bipolar Disorder Really Feels Like (Beyond the Textbook)

Textbooks do a decent job describing the mechanics of bipolar disorder: manic, hypomanic, depressive, mixed episodes; changes in sleep, energy,
and concentration; the risk of substance use, relationship conflict, and work disruption.
Living with it adds extra footnotes the textbooks don’t always capture.

The Highs: Not Just “Being Happy”

Hypomania, the milder cousin of full-blown mania, can feel seductively good at first. Your brain finally moves at the speed you always wanted.
You talk faster, think faster, solve problems faster. Colors seem brighter. Music hits harder. Tasks that used to feel boring suddenly feel exciting.

But there’s a point where the curve turns. Your judgment gets fuzzy. You interrupt people. You overshare.
You decide that now is the perfect time to start a business, repaint your apartment, and reorganize your entire life — simultaneously.
You may spend money you don’t have or say things you deeply regret later. What started as “Finally, I feel alive”
morphs into “I have lost the plot, and I can’t find the pause button.”

The Lows: More Than Just “Feeling Sad”

The depressive side is equally misunderstood. People imagine sadness, and yes, sadness is part of it.
But bipolar depression often feels heavier and more draining than simple sadness.
It’s like someone unplugged your energy and replaced your thoughts with a loop of “You’re failing” on repeat.

Getting out of bed feels heroic. Basic tasks — paying bills, answering messages, cooking dinner —
become Olympic-level challenges. You may feel guilty for not doing enough, but the guilt doesn’t translate into action.
It just sits there, heavy and loud.

As an expert, I know these are symptoms of a legitimate condition, not moral failings.
As a human being inside the episode, that distinction can be hard to hold onto. That’s where treatment, routine, and support come in.

Finding the Right Treatment: Not a One-Time Decision

People sometimes assume that you get a diagnosis, take a pill, and boom — problem solved.
I wish it were that simple. Bipolar treatment is more like building a custom toolkit and adjusting it over time.

Medication: Important, Imperfect, and Individualized

Mood stabilizers and other medications can be life-saving. They help reduce the frequency and intensity of mood episodes
and lower the risk of severe consequences. But finding the right medication (or combination) often involves trial and error.
Side effects are real: weight changes, brain fog, tremors, and more.

As a clinician, I knew the evidence. As a patient, I wrestled with fears:
Will this flatten my personality? Will I lose my creativity? What if I’m just “dull” now?

Over time, I learned that “stable” is not the same as “boring.” Stability meant I could actually finish projects,
show up consistently for people I love, and have energy that didn’t burn me out. It took patience, open communication with my prescriber,
and a willingness to tweak things slowly instead of chasing dramatic overnight changes.

Therapy and Skills: The Other Half of the Equation

Therapy isn’t just for processing childhood or venting about your week (though both can be useful).
For bipolar disorder, certain types of therapy teach very practical skills:

• Cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT): Helps identify thinking patterns that worsen mood swings and replace them with more balanced thoughts.
• Interpersonal and social rhythm therapy (IPSRT): Focuses on keeping daily routines — especially sleep and wake times — steady to stabilize mood.
• Family-focused therapy: Educates loved ones about bipolar disorder and helps everyone communicate better and spot early warning signs.

As both therapist and client, I can say this: putting these skills into practice is not glamorous.
It looks like tracking sleep on a chart, setting alarms for bedtime, checking in with a trusted friend when your energy spikes,
and actually saying, “I think I might be heading into an episode” before things completely unravel.

Lifestyle and Community: The Everyday Stabilizers

Treatment doesn’t end in the clinic. Regular movement, consistent meals, limited substances, and supportive relationships
all shape how bipolar shows up in daily life. Community — whether that’s a support group, an online forum,
or a couple of people who “get it” — makes a huge difference.

I had to learn to treat my brain like it comes with a special set of instructions:
protect sleep like it’s sacred, respect stress limits, and don’t let hypomania sweet-talk me into doubling my to-do list “just this once.”

Facing Stigma and Self-Stigma: Why I Chose to Speak Up

Stigma around bipolar disorder is stubborn. People still associate it with volatility, danger, or unreliability.
Media portrayals often show extreme crises, not the quiet, everyday work of staying well.
That stigma is harmful enough. Self-stigma — the beliefs you absorb about yourself — can be even harsher.

For a long time, my inner critic sounded like this:
Real professionals don’t have breakdowns.
If your patients knew, they’d lose respect for you.
You’re just waiting to fail.

Those thoughts weren’t facts. They were stigma talking. Challenging them took time, therapy, and exposure to other clinicians
who live well with bipolar disorder and speak openly about it. Seeing people blend expertise with lived experience
didn’t make them less competent. It made them more human.

Eventually, I realized that secrecy wasn’t protecting me. It was isolating me.
Carefully sharing my story — with colleagues I trust, with patients when appropriate, with friends and family —
replaced shame with connection. The more people said, “I’m so glad you told me,” the quieter that internal stigma voice became.

Living Well With Bipolar: What Actually Helps Me

Do I wish I had a brain that came with a standard warranty and no mood episodes? Some days, absolutely.
But I’ve also learned to recognize ways this brain, with proper care, can live a full, meaningful, and often joyful life.

Here are some of the anchors that keep me steady:

• Ruthless respect for sleep. Late nights are not worth the risk of a mood episode. I treat bedtime like a non-negotiable appointment.
• Early warning sign check-ins. If I start needing less sleep, talking faster, or making big plans, I don’t call it “being on a roll.” I call my treatment team.
• Structured but flexible routines. I use structure to support my mood, not to control every minute. Routines give my nervous system predictability.
• Building a “bipolar-literate” support circle. A few people know my signs, my plan, and how to gently call me out if they see me veering off track.
• Selective vulnerability. I don’t share my diagnosis with everyone, but I also don’t hide it from everyone. I pick safe, supportive people and spaces.
• Humor, always. Sometimes laughing at the quirks of my brain (“Of course I thought I could redo the entire living room at 2 a.m.”) takes the edge off shame and brings in compassion.

Living with bipolar disorder as an expert doesn’t mean I’m immune to episodes. It means I have a front-row seat to both the challenges and the tools.
I still do the work: taking medication as prescribed, going to therapy, checking in with myself, and forgiving the days that don’t go as planned.

Bonus: 7 Lived-Experience Lessons I Share With Every Patient

To make this even more practical, here are seven lessons drawn from both the science and my own journey — the extended director’s cut, if you will.

1. Your Diagnosis Is an Explanation, Not a Verdict

Getting a bipolar diagnosis can feel like being handed a permanent label. But a diagnosis is really a map.
It explains why certain patterns keep showing up — the surges of energy, the crashes, the impulsive decisions you regret later.
It doesn’t predict your worth, your potential, or your future.
I often tell people: “This diagnosis describes some of what your brain does under certain conditions. It does not describe all of who you are.”

2. Stability Is a Skill, Not a Personality Trait

Some people worry that they are “just unstable” by nature. In reality, stability is a skill set built over time:
noticing early warning signs, communicating with your support network, sticking (mostly) to a routine, and following through on treatment even when you feel okay.
I didn’t wake up one morning magically responsible. I practiced, messed up, adjusted, and tried again — over and over.

3. You’re Allowed to Grieve — and to Dream

Bipolar disorder can change the way you imagined your life. Maybe you had to change careers, delay school, or rebuild relationships.
It’s normal to grieve what might have been. That grief deserves space.

But bipolar doesn’t cancel your right to dream. Plenty of people with well-managed bipolar disorder finish degrees, build families,
lead organizations, create art, and live rich, interesting lives. I encourage patients (and myself) to ask:
“What kind of life feels meaningful to me now, given what I know about my brain?” It’s not about shrinking your dreams.
It’s about designing them with realistic guardrails.

4. Medication Decisions Are Collaborative, Not One-Time Decrees

Many patients show up with fear: “If I start meds, I’ll be on them forever,” or “I’ll lose who I am.”
I get it; I had those same fears. What I’ve learned is that medication choices work best as ongoing conversations, not one-time verdicts.
You’re allowed to ask questions, express concerns, and weigh trade-offs. You’re also allowed to admit that side effects are bothering you.

The right regimen is often the one that balances mood stability with your values and life goals.
That can take time. That doesn’t mean treatment is failing; it means you’re fine-tuning.

5. Your Story Is Yours to Share — or Not

There’s no moral obligation to disclose your diagnosis to everyone. You get to decide who has earned that level of trust.
What I encourage is intention: choose your audience instead of letting shame choose for you.

When I eventually shared my diagnosis with a few colleagues and loved ones, I did it only after asking myself:
“Will this likely bring more support than harm?” That simple question has served me well.
You can be radically honest in therapy and more selective in other spaces. Both are valid.

6. Recovery Isn’t Linear — and That’s Not Failure

Even with treatment, mood episodes can still happen. That doesn’t mean you’ve failed or that nothing is working.
It means you’re living with a chronic condition that sometimes flares. The key question shifts from “How do I never have an episode again?”
to “How do I reduce the impact, recover more quickly, and learn from each flare-up?”

For me, that looks like having a written plan: who to call, what to temporarily pause, how to adjust work,
and which early steps to take if symptoms return. Having that plan on paper makes it easier to act when my brain feels noisy or overwhelmed.

7. You Deserve Support, Not Just Insight

Insight is wonderful. Knowing your triggers, signs, and patterns helps a lot. But bipolar disorder is not a solo problem to “figure out” in your head.
You deserve support — from professionals, loved ones, peers, or all of the above.

As an expert, I spent years thinking, “I should be able to handle this myself.” That belief kept me stuck.
Accepting help didn’t make me weak; it made me safer, more stable, and more present for the people I care about.
You don’t have to earn support by being “sick enough” or “good enough.” You qualify for support simply by being human.

A Final Word: You’re Not Your Diagnosis

If you take nothing else from this story, let it be this: bipolar disorder is something you have, not what you are.
It shapes your experiences, yes. It influences how your brain responds to stress, sleep, and life events.
But it does not erase your strengths, your values, or your capacity to grow.

From the clinician side of the desk, I can tell you that bipolar disorder is treatable.
Many people achieve long stretches of stability and build lives they’re proud of. From the lived experience side,
I can tell you that there are hard days, messy days, and days when you wonder if all the effort is worth it — and there are also days of deep joy,
connection, creativity, and calm you once thought were impossible.

If you recognize yourself in any part of this story, please know you’re not alone. Talk to a trusted health professional,
reach out to a crisis line if you’re in immediate distress, or confide in someone safe. Asking for help is not a sign that you’re failing.
It’s a sign that you’re trying to stay.

From one brain on the bipolar spectrum to another: you are more than your episodes, more than your diagnosis,
and absolutely worth the work it takes to feel well.