For years, life felt like a mess I couldn’t control. Depression would hit hard, lasting for weeks, leaving me barely able to get through each day. It didn’t make sense—I had a good life with friends, hobbies, and, eventually, a solid career. Yet, I’d end up in these dark, heavy places, often stuck in my room, burning through sick leave, and going hard on substances, hoping to escape. On the rare “good” days, I’d get a rush of energy, ripping through work, catching up with friends, and staying up late with creative projects.
People would say I looked like myself again, whatever that meant, and I’d go all out, running wild, staying out all night, and trying to make up for lost time. A catastrophic failure a few years back pushed me to seek help once again.
Therapy has taught me to recognise mood shifts and understand other issues affecting my mental health, while medication, which I’d resisted before, has become essential for staying balanced.
I wasn’t new to therapy—I’d been on and off antidepressants since I was a teenager and had seen plenty of psychologists. But this time was different. An awesome GP recognised the pattern and got me to the right people, and I was diagnosed with bipolar II. Therapy has taught me to recognise mood shifts and understand other issues affecting my mental health, while medication, which I’d resisted before, has become essential for staying balanced.
Life isn’t perfect; I still have tough days, but I’m mostly doing well, enjoying my work, hobbies, and relationships in a way I couldn’t before. Starting treatment when I did made all the difference—it’s hard to say if it’s been life-saving or life-changing, but probably somewhere in between.
I’d end up in these dark, heavy places, often stuck in my room, burning through sick leave, and going hard on substances, hoping to escape.
