From Breakdown to Breakthrough: How Bipolar Brought Us Closer

Trigger warning: This article contains references to suicidal ideation.

I remember my diagnosis; Bipolar Type 1 with Schizo-affective tendencies, and the initial wave of anger that came with it. I knew there was something but why did it have to be this one? Like the actual one thing I could die from, if I don’t keep on top of it?

Ironically, dying was all I’d really wanted to do up to that point, or at least, as far as I could remember. It wasn’t that I hadn’t found a beam strong enough to support my weight yet—I was too worried I’d mess it up just like I’d messed up everything else in my life so far.

The diagnosis came as a sharp wake-up call. I was going through a divorce, and I was not allowed to see my son as much as I’d like to, and part of all that was my fault. For so long, I’d struggled in silence—battling the voices in my head and all the intrusive thoughts that came with them. The moments where I would lock myself in my room, only to emerge 24 hours later, laden with bin bags and every piece of furniture rearranged, all the way to the moments where I would stare at the wall all night and couldn’t even muster the energy to care.

I thought these were just things that everyone experienced, and they were just so much more on top of things than I was. The anger I felt toward myself for my perceived inability to function like a “normal” person—the same anger that I had started to project outwards—suddenly had a target. Not something I could fight, but something that I could control and learn to work with.

My mental health wasn’t my fault—just like it isn't for anyone else—but it was, and it still is, my responsibility. A responsibility that I then took semi-seriously. I tried to be a bit more upfront with my thoughts and the voices, but I was still embarrassed by them.

Then I had my first real episode—a complete Schizophrenic break. 'A moment of depersonalisation and de-realism', is what the Doctors called it.

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I think it was the stress of the divorce, losing my job at a studio that I loved and then some past beliefs that weren’t congruent with my current life. Jokingly, my partner says she spoke with a demon that night —although I don’t remember that night at all. Whatever happened, the episode scared me enough to try harder and take my mental health much more seriously. I knew I had to be better for the people in my life, which meant forcing myself to be more open with my thoughts and feelings.

At first, it was hard. It was so hard to change almost 30 years of learned behaviour and talk to my family about suicidal ideations and other things that no parent wants to hear from their child. I had to explain how I viewed the world and what every little piece of it meant to me so they could begin to understand my thought patterns.

My new partner has been a rock through all of this. I think witnessing someone go through a complete meltdown helps cement a bond—it’s almost like that friend you made at university after a particularly messy night. They have seen you at your worst, so you don’t feel the need to hide anything from them. I think that level of companionship truly helps that “us against the world” team dynamic.

Even now, 3 years later, my partner and I have our monthly meeting where we go out and act like shareholders in the business of our life. It’s almost a date—well, actually, it is a date—but it feels liberating to know that we’re both in a safe space to give and receive feedback, where any little niggle can be aired.

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Although my relationship helped, my biggest reason for growth was my son. My new partner would be fine if I didn’t sort myself out—yeah, she might get sick of me and leave, but she’d be fine. But my son needed me. I remember looking into his eyes one day when he was barely a year old and thinking, I need to make sure he isn’t here when I kill myself. I don’t want him finding the body….that’ll mess him up. As if having your dad kill himself while you’re at nursery would somehow avoid any trauma.

Sometimes it’s hard to do something for yourself, even if that’s just making time, and it can feel selfish to put your wants before someone else’s. But my son became my audience. Everything was for him. Now nothing was selfish—everything was selfless. There were times I didn’t want to get up, and I couldn’t muster the strength for me, but I could for him.

My son was 5 when I had my first big episode. I vividly remember him telling me how much it scared him—not because I was scary, but because he just couldn’t understand it. He asked about all the pills I was now taking, and I had to explain that I had a poorly brain, just like he might take medicine if he had a poorly tummy.

We worked through it together. We’d talk about feelings and emotions, especially since he was at an age where he was beginning to struggle with his own thoughts and understanding of the world. Colossal things that seemed huge to him—like which girl in his class would be his girlfriend or whether Oreos or cookies were better.

My diagnosis also came with a small blessing: I had to listen more and react less, which only served to bring us closer together. We introduced the idea of "spoons"—a way to explain when you just don’t have the energy to do things anymore. It might sound strange, but teaching him to understand my problems helped me realise what they were and how I could handle them. In the process, I also gained a deeper understanding of him. Maybe he was just being a grumpy 5-year-old, or maybe he, too, was out of spoons.

It might sound sentimental and cliché, but breaking down and rebuilding myself made me a better person. I had a reason to face my challenges—my Son. Sure, there were times I didn’t want to do it. If I didn't want to do it for me, I could do it for him.

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Mental Health can often feel like an overwhelming burden, like drowning in an ocean. But really, it’s more like a fish tank someone left on your doorstep. You have to change the water every now and then, feed the fish, and make sure your cat doesn’t get into it. Sometimes, you don’t even have the energy to do one of those things. Sometimes, it might even spring a leak. But you don’t keep that tank clean for your sake—it’s for the fish.

And just like that fish tank, while it may feel overwhelming at times, you still have to take care of it—because ultimately, the responsibility lies with you, even if it's not something you asked for.

Mental Health is never your fault…but it is your responsibility.