Living with bipolar disorder feels like constantly walking a tightrope, except the rope moves unpredictably, and you have no say in how far or fast you have to walk. One of the most frustrating things about bipolar is the sheer amount of misunderstanding surrounding it. So let’s get real for a moment—because there’s no use sugar-coating this beast.
There’s a certain stigma that clings to bipolar, and a lot of it comes from the fact that people don’t really understand the illness. And how could they? Unless you’ve lived through the mental chaos, it’s hard to wrap your head around it. But here’s the thing: the misconceptions, assumptions, and judgments – they hurt. They make an already isolating experience feel even lonelier.
One of the most common misconceptions those around me have regarding bipolar is that I have control over my episodes. That, somehow, I choose when I’m going to be manic or depressed, as though I can wake up and decide, “Today I’m going to spend three days without sleep and blow through my savings!” or, “Next week seems like a great time to sink into a depression so deep I can barely brush my teeth.”
It doesn’t work like that.
I don’t get to choose what I’m manic about, either. It’s not like I wake up one day and think, “You know what, today I’m going to become obsessed with reorganising my entire life and writing a 20-page manifesto on how to fix the world.” Then, BAM—I’m wired, and my brain’s racing with all these grand ideas that feel life-altering at the moment, even though half of them make no sense in the cold light of day.
When I am manic, I don’t get to choose what I suddenly fixate on—maybe it’s a hobby I’ve never cared about before, a work project, or perhaps nothing. What I do have is a maddening sense that I need to be doing something, anything, right now, or I’ll explode.
The flip side is just the same. I don’t choose to crash into depression. I don’t select the paralysis that comes with it—the kind that keeps me lying in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, feeling like there’s a hole inside me that can’t be filled. There’s no schedule for these episodes. They hit when they hit, and you never know how long they’ll last or how deep they’ll go.
And that unpredictability is exhausting.
It’s like living with a ticking time bomb in your head, and you have no idea when it’s going to go off or what kind of explosion to expect. One day, you’re okay—maybe even great—and the next, you’re spiralling. The need to control everything becomes intense because you can’t control the one thing most people trust—your brain. You try to plan and make sense of it, but no amount of planning can prepare you for what’s next. It’s like trying to tame a hurricane with a paper bag.
The worst part? The loneliness. Not just because people misunderstand what we’re going through but because there’s this constant fear of becoming a burden to those around us. We don’t want to push people away, but sometimes it feels inevitable. When I’m manic, I can feel like too much—too intense, too unpredictable, too erratic. And when I’m depressed, I feel like not enough—too quiet, too distant, too withdrawn. It’s this constant cycle of being “too much” or “not enough,” and it’s isolating.
People often don’t know how to respond. They’ll say, “Why don’t you just calm down?” or “You’re overreacting.” And the worst, “You should get over it.” Like I have control, I’m just not trying hard enough to keep my brain in check. Sometimes I feel like screaming, “Do you think I want to be like this?”
Bipolar doesn’t play nice. It doesn’t let me choose how I want to feel or behave. And living with that kind of uncertainty every single day puts you constantly on guard. This nagging voice in my head says, “What if it all falls apart again within the next ten minutes?”
There’s a stigma, too, amongst the Bipolar circles that if you do seek help—medication, therapy, whatever—you’re somehow weak. Or worse, that you’re trying to avoid responsibility for your actions. But managing bipolar isn’t about dodging responsibility; it’s about survival. It’s about trying to maintain some semblance of control over a life that often feels like it’s spinning out of it.
We do what we have to do to keep moving forward, whether that’s meds, therapy, lifestyle changes, or a combination of all of the above. And trust me, if you haven’t walked a day in the shoes of someone with bipolar, you don’t get to judge how they manage it.
So, how do we break the stigma? We talk about it—openly, honestly, even when it’s messy. We stop pretending like we’ve got it all figured out. Because let’s face it—bipolar doesn’t come with a handbook. There’s no set of rules that will make it easier, no formula that guarantees stability. Some days, it feels like a fight just to stay afloat.
But here’s the thing: we keep fighting.
Even when it’s hard, even when we feel like we’re drowning. We keep showing up, even when our brains do everything they can to pull us under. And that’s where our strength lies—in the showing up, honesty, and refusal to let stigma win.
I like to call it – bouncability.
If you’re reading this and you have bipolar, know this: you are not alone. I know what it’s like to feel like your brain is a ticking time bomb. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re walking through life with no idea what’s going to hit you next. And I know what it’s like to feel misunderstood, judged, and isolated. But we don’t have to carry that stigma anymore.
We’re not broken. We’re just living a different reality. And we’re damn strong for doing it.
So let’s keep talking about it—without the masks or sugar-coating. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned after 30 years of living with bipolar, it’s this: the more we share our stories, the more we break down the walls of misunderstanding. And the more we break down those walls, the less lonely it becomes.
We might not be able to control what’s coming next, but we can control how we show up for ourselves and each other. And that’s powerful.
Let’s keep breaking the stigma, one brutally honest conversation at a time.