#bipolar II Tumblr posts

  • not-that-manic-pixie-dream-girl
    14.05.2021 - 1 day ago

    For the first time in my life i'm talking about my gender dysmorphia,sexual orientation and all that stuff with my therapist. Just took me 8 years. It took me 8 yrs to feel comfortable enough about who i Am ,what do i like and who i love

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  • highkeybipolar
    11.05.2021 - 3 days ago

    The worst part of bipolar is actually trying to get better but nothing happens because you’ve been fighthing against it for too long that it has became a part of your life.

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  • highkeybipolar
    11.05.2021 - 3 days ago

    If your group of friends don’t get that you need to take care of yourself in order to be okay and being able to take care of them too, are they really your friends?

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  • sosickofmaddi
    08.05.2021 - 1 week ago

    Today, I picked up my sister and my nephew from daycare, and we spent the afternoon and evening bopping from store to store, looking for home decor, and self care items, and Mother's Day gifts.

    We went to Chili's for dinner (which is kind of one of our regular haunts, right beside Olive Garden).

    She was joking, and I don't even remember the context, but basically she said that she thought that I was going to outlive her, outlive everyone, so that it'd just be me and my nephew someday.

    At the time I just gave her a look like "really??" and said yeah right.

    But it's popped back into my head for some reason, and I wonder what grain of truth there is in. In my head, I always thought I'd be one of the first to go. And sometimes I still think that I won't survive living.

    My past is difficult and peppered with mental health issues that I've only just started being able to talk about in the last year. Well, talk about with people who really know me.

    See, in my world, I never thought I'd be alive this long. It's not like I planned to die, but I couldn't actively picture my future. I had goals, but they never really felt real. I was "invested" but it was skewed, like the future I talked about was in a next-door dimension, technically real but intangible. I talked about what I would like to do, but it always felt like a story. Like if I could write the fiction of my future... X is what it would be. It didn't have hooks in me. The world never really did.

    That being said, I always pictured the future, but it was the same way I pictured my characters' lives. It could be anything because it wasn't real.

    It took years for my family and my mom to understand the severity of my mental health issues. As a teenager, I begged for help just to hit the "you're just a dramatic teenager" and "everyone goes this this" walls. They couldn't see what was going on, even when I begged. It was an inconvience. A drama they wanted no part in.

    So when I got older and left, I stopped telling them. They preferred it that way. It was like a glitch in the matrix. When I was brave enough to mention therapy (as in, my mom calls and asks "what're you up to" and I say, "just got out of therapy"), it was like they literally couldn't hear me. The conversation would glitch and move forward without acknowledging what I'd said.

    When my therapist told me she thought I have bipolar II rather than MDD, it was like the top layer of my skin was gone. The armor layer that I'd spent 10 years reinforcing was useless.

    A couple days later, I was scared of myself, of fitting what I knew about myself into a new diagnosis, and I told my mom, even though I hadn't told her anything in years.

    She shrugged it off and tried to glitch the conversation.

    At the end of last year, we finally really talked for the first time. My life plans imploded and I found myself without a path to follow. My success and ability to function had always been because I followed the path of least resistance. I did what was expected of me. I did well in high school, I struggled my freshman year of college and thought I would kill myself (but the school had warned new parents that their kids would struggle so my mom thought it was normal), but then I learned to succeed in college and I did that, at the top of my game for three years.

    My senior year, my depression got so bad that my mom actually noticed. She didn't say anything about it at the time, but once I was "better," she said, she "was worried" and that she wasn't sure I was going to be okay or bounce back. That's the first time she ever acknowledged my mental health on her own. Every other time I had brought it up, and it usually ended in a confrontation. A "what do you want me to do about it"? And me just crying because I just wanted someone to understand.

    When we talked last year, I felt like I'd lost everything to the pandemic, and I didn't have much left to lose. We were fighting all the time, and she just didn't understand how my brain worked. So I finally told her. I told her that I was almost hospitalized a year and half before because I thought I was going to kill myself during my first year of grad school.

    She actually heard me.

    She told me she didn't know how bad it was. Even though I'd been struggling for over a decade, she never really saw it. Even when I told her how bad it was, she didn't understand. Didn't want to understand.

    I had it in my head that my mental health issues ruined the facade I'd built. I was just as afraid to shatter it as she was, so I never outright (as an adult) told anyone anything about what was going in my head.

    When they wanted to hospitalize me, the only things I could think about were that I'd have to take days off from my job and my classes (and somehow someone would know why) and I'd have to tell my family... because someone would need to come take care of my cats. I didn't want to leave my cats.

    This was the first conversation that ever sunk in with my mom. I could see it hit her... hard. She had a completely different understanding of my life and my success and me. She saw me succeeding and thought things were better.

    When I was in 7th grade, my depression was bad and new. I didn't know how to cope back then. I started failing every class. Avoiding my friends. Not eating. Not sleeping. Crying all the time. I didn't know what was wrong with me. On my 13th birthday, my mom had planned this party for me, either at a hotel or a waterpark... I don't remember. But I remember the morning. My friends were in the car waiting to go. My mom was calling me down from my room. I went down crying and met her at the bottom of the stairs. She was mad.

    I told her I wasn't excited and I didn't know why, and I was scared. It was probably the first time I tried to explain that I was having a mental health crisis. I knew how I would've felt (how I'd felt every year before on my birthday), and I knew something was wrong because I didn't feel the way I was supposed to.

    My mom called me ungrateful and yelled at me. I remember getting into the backseat of the car to go to my party, crying with my hood pulled up over my head so my friends wouldn't see. That's all I remember of that birthday.

    But after that, I learned to cope on my own. I started researching depression. I put a name to what was wrong with me. It helped, because now I could read about myself and my brain and work through it.

    I "got better." On the outside at least. I started passing my classes, making new friends in our new town, being a normal teenager. But inside I wasn't okay. I'd picked up disordered eating from that year, intrusive thoughts, and a depression that kept becoming more of me.

    My mom called it "one bad year." In the next 3-5 years, whenever I was struggling and trying to tell her, she would say, "no it was only 'one bad year'." No it wasn't, I'd say. But she wouldn't believe me, because I was passing my classes, eating food, making friends. She'd say, "what you're feeling is normal teenager stuff," and then the conversation would be over or it would turn into a fight.

    So for my mom, that story is an analogy for how she saw the rest of my life. Whenever things would get better on the outside, she'd think they were better. My freshman year of college, my mental health spiraled again. I called her near the end of my first semester and begged to move back home. I told her I thought I was going to kill myself, and she kinda laughed without humor and told me that I didn't know how to kill myself. That she didn't want me back.

    The university had told her that every new student would struggle. That everyone would want to go back home in the beginning. She thought it was normal, just like she always thought it was normal.

    And when I learned how to balance college and my mental health, and things did get better, once again she thought I'd outgrown whatever I was struggling with, that I'd learned to fit in at college and things were better.

    But I just stopped telling her. I gamed my own depression into a form that I could work around. I'd go to class, get As, join clubs, go to work, and function "normally." But at night I'd lay on the floor of my dorm and stare at the ceiling or out the window and feel the weight of me anchored to the floor.

    Things were better in my life. I had friends. I was succeeding. I loved my job. School was getting better.

    But just because my outer world was better doesn't mean my head was, and that's what my mom never understood.

    When we talked at the end of last year, it came after I gave up my opportunity to live and go to school in Edinburgh, Scotland (something I'd always dreamed of). The pandemic took that from me and introduced an anxiety so strong that I couldn't live with it. It was new, and I hadn't learned to game that system yet like the depression. I wasn't comfortable in it the same way.

    So I had another "bad year" (or two months really). And when I went back to the states, I was at the lowest point because I wasn't even high functioning depression anymore (there was no job to "function" at, no school because I'd walked away, no successs. just a minimum wage job and job applications that were being denied by the handful.

    I couldn't hide the depression or the new anxiety. I didn't want to. My entire adult life, my depression had been mine and mine alone. I'd lived alone since I was 18 and I never felt like I could share that part of me. And when I dropped hints or mentioned it, the conversation would glitch around it. So it stayed mine alone.

    But when I told her that I was really scared that I would kill myself.. that I really didn't even think I could control myself... I think that scared her into understanding. Because she'd always seen me as the "high-functioning" part of my depression (which my therapist pointed out is likely the "manic" part of bi-polar but I'm not really to relinquish that yet.)

    For the first time a few months ago, my mom actually recommended that I "find someone to talk to." A therapist, although I doubt she's ever called it that.

    The anxiety that found me in Scotland has stayed, and I've struggled too earn to cope with it. With depression, there was always a transition year. When it first came, it took a year for me to learn to cope and get back to succeeding and balancing it. When my situation changed and I moved to college, it took almost another year to learn to be an adult, to be independent and balance it.

    It's been 7 months since my chest started burning for the first time. It's been 7 months with my life out of my control as I try to find a new path (even though I worked so hard to get to Scotland).

    I think sometimes my mental health is still too much for my mom. She's a "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" kind of person, so she doesn't understand why one minute I'm being glass-half-full, then an hour later I'm crying in my bed because the anxiety is eating me alive.

    But she's trying. She really is. I think now her pushes are more out of fear than anything else. When I told her that I'd been suicidal in the past, it was like that became part of me, something that can rear up at any minute. Now my mental health scares her because she never imagined that her over-achieving daughter would be planning to kill herself between writing A-level graduate papers and teaching undergrad courses.

    It's like I drew a line in the sand that she'd never noticed before, and just as she sees it, it blurs, and she can't tell which side I'm on because I can stand on both sides at once.

    I understand her thought processes all these years. I can see how she could rationalize every cry for help. I can understand now why she told me again and again that this was normal. She thought it was. The signs that she saw told her it was normal.

    The "normal" thing was hard for me. Because I knew it wasn't. I screamed that it wasn't. But what did I know? Was this normal? Why couldn't they see that I wasn't?? Why was it easier to call me ungrateful and dramatic and bitchy and bratty rather than accept that I wasn't normal??

    I used to think that was why my mom refused to see that there was something wrong with me. I was the her successful child. The one who "could do anything" if I tried. I thought she wanted to revel in my success without having to acknowledge that something was wrong with me. For me, I revelled in the fact that something was wrong and I could do it anyway. I thought I could snap myself out of my depression when I wanted. It thought I had it beat. Like I gamed the system. But my therapist connected the dots... she said I wasn't gaming the depression system because it likely wasn't depression it all... She said she thought I'm bipolar, and those times were I was "snapping myself out" were really just the normal ebbs and flows of bipolar II.

    So I wasn't beating my mental illness. I wasn't succeeding because I'd found a way to cope and live. I didn't have ownership over my depression because it wasn't just depression at all.

    This is something it's taken me almost a year and half or more to come to terms with. I haven't been officially diagnosed with BPII because I wouldn't make a mood chart, wouldn't talk about it, couldn't let go of the mental illness I'd clung to for so long. Eventually I stopped going to therapy... it was one week after she transferred me to a therapist who would've diagnosed me... one week after that therapist asked me to promise that I'd keep showing up no matter what.

    After some of the hardest months of my life (because I wasn't able to succeed in my outside life which impacted my mental health), I'm finally ready to go back to therapy and have that conversation. But my new job makes too much for me to quality for state health insurance... but doesn't pay me enough to actually afford their plan.

    So I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place, riddled with anxiety, which I'd never felt before last September, trying to understand the mental illness I've had so long... I know now that giving it a new name won't change anything about it. I've written about this before, that fear, that sense of loss that comes with the new name. But now more than ever I just need to know what it is so that I can cope with this new mental health issue. The anxiety being out of control made me realize that whether I'm depressed or bipolar... I can still cope with either like I've been doing since I was 12-13. I need to name it so I can put it behind me and learn to cope with this anxiety, because it's too much for me to handle.

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  • mosaicofmymind
    07.05.2021 - 1 week ago

    Friendly reminder: stop treating your mental disability like it's less bad than it is. A disability is a disability, regardless if you can see it. Treat yourself accordingly.

    If you saw a person with a physical disability, you wouldn't expect them to be able to do everything a non-disabled person would be able to do. You would understand that they might need assistance doing certain things, and there would be no shame in that. So stop shaming yourself because you need help from time to time, or all the time. Stop telling yourself that you should be able to do everything a non-disabled person does.

    If you're having a depressive episode, it's okay to ask for help doing stuff like your laundry or cleaning your room.

    If you're having a manic/hypomanic episode, it's okay to ask a friend to make sure you get some sleep or keep you from spending all your money.

    If you have ADHD, it's okay to ask for extra time on your test because you get distracted easily.

    If you have autism, it's okay to explain to people that an environment you're in is causing sensory overload and you need to leave.

    Obviously a mental disability is not an excuse to be an asshole all the time or take advantage of those around you, but don't feel like you're making excuses when you need help to do something a non-disabled person can do on their own.

    You are worthy of help, and you're not a lesser person because you need it.

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  • mosaicofmymind
    07.05.2021 - 1 week ago

    A note to future me

    I know things are hard right now. I know your depression might be kicking in again, the little things feel impossible, and every day you're simply surviving. But listen to me- things will get better. There are people in your life worth living for. People don't hate you. Don't minimize your accomplishments, even the small ones, because they all matter. Even if all you do today is drink a glass of water and lay in bed, that's okay. You will be okay again. Just take it one step at a time.

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  • mosaicofmymind
    07.05.2021 - 1 week ago

    my depression can't be real I just cleaned my room after weeks of letting it fall apart... could a depressed person do that??

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  • mosaicofmymind
    06.05.2021 - 1 week ago

    "am I really bipolar?" I ask myself as I lay in bed listening to mitski and scroll endlessly on this hellsite we call home right after taking my prozac

    #bipolar ii#bipolar #youre depressed you dumbass #rip my mental health #depression#mitski
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  • rightingtheship
    05.05.2021 - 1 week ago

    Self-Loathing

    Self-Loathing Self-loathing is something I can't seem to escape. It comes, unbidden, to torment and denigrate. It came today.

    Self-loathing is something I can’t seem to escape. When I sit to relax, it pops up, infecting the tranquility I might otherwise feel. When I seek to bask in a moment of success, it creeps into my thoughts robbing me of any sense of accomplishment. I think, on the whole, that I’m a good person. I think that I’ve been a good dad. At least I tried to be. Yet, self-loathing won’t release me. It…

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  • treesforbees
    05.05.2021 - 1 week ago

    Here’s just a fun little tale that happened to me this evening. In honor of mental health awareness month or whatever it is I am taking Zoloft to balance out my mood stabilizer and barring some minor setbacks it’s been OK haven’t been able to cry and usually I cried a few times a day you know not like big cries but I tear up hasn’t happened and I was just casually watching TikTok in bed and started crying hysterically until I threw up and baby that’s mental health

    #mental health month #zoloft#crying #I couldn’t even enjoy the cry #bipolar ii #medication is so annoying #like I need it and I know that but you think oh I got a diganosis #and that’s it but it never is
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  • supergenericteam
    03.05.2021 - 1 week ago

    That feeling where you couldn’t tell how depressed you’ve been until you’re suddenly *not* depressed.

    #I honestly can't tell if I'm hypomanic #or just *not* depressed #mental illness#depression#bipolar#bipolar ii
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  • lesbianologist
    02.05.2021 - 1 week ago

    just this friendly reminder based on this interaction i had here: bipolar disorder is primarily genetic (accounting for about 60-80%) and most people with bipolar disorder have had it from birth. usually with a wide array of symptoms affecting sociability, learning, attention, mood and other mental functions such as cognition, energy, affect, sleep, and so. much. more. just like other neurodivergence!!!! and fyi? people with bipolar disorder’s brains are different. meaning it is absolutely a fucking neurodivergence and yes, you’re being an ableist asshat by gatekeeping the term. walk a day in a bipolar person’s life before talking shit maybe. and yes, i urge non-bipolars, NDs, and NTs to reblog this fucking post.

    #personal #these have actual published ncbi articles #eat my bipolar ass you fuckfaces #tw ableism #tw ableist language #tw gatekeeping #neurotypicals reblog this #neurodivergents reblog this #actually bipolar#actuallybipolar#bipolar#bipolar disorder#bipolar mania#bipolar depression#bipolar diaries#bipolar ii
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  • mybasementstudentworld
    02.05.2021 - 1 week ago

    Dogs on skateboards. Pretty much sums it up. Having a different mind is not something that is bad. It just means that I see the world through a different lens.

    #bipolar disorder#bipolar recovery#bipolar ii#bipolar #mental health aware #mental health awareness #mental health support #mental health advocacy #mental health
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  • how-am-i-feeling
    27.04.2021 - 2 weeks ago

    I feel antsy. Keeping myself still is impossible. I tried to talk to my NP about possibly having ADHD and she dismissed me. I fall under so many categories for inattentive. I am struggling so fucking much. I need help so bad.

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  • anghraine
    26.04.2021 - 2 weeks ago

    I thought the hypomania was fading, but NO, IT IS NOT.

    #lots of energy + zero focus wheeeee #anghraine babbles #rare breed of attack unicorn #/#//#////#///#/////#bipolar ii#anghraine whines
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  • highkeybipolar
    26.04.2021 - 2 weeks ago

    You’re not obligated to ‘love’ or ‘care’ about relatives/friendships if they don’t respect or support your healing process.

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  • cappuccinofemme
    26.04.2021 - 2 weeks ago

    i’m now a double major and a double minor and an unpaid intern and a peer tutor and enrolled in three summer classes. i am a girlboss i am a war criminal i will never die.

    #alana said this sounds like a manic episode and i was like lol! #but then i looked at webmd’s signs of bipolar II and boy howdy...... were they right? am i manic? #see this is something i would unpack but i can’t because i have Shit To Do! #mine
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  • how-am-i-feeling
    26.04.2021 - 2 weeks ago

    Maybe I won’t wake up tomorrow. What a blessing.

    I’ve never felt more like wasted space in my life.

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