Hope is Often Hard to Find

One of the most frustrating things about living with a mental illness is that your illness changes over time. You think you’ve got it all figured out until your brain chemistry pulls sanity out from under you. As you grow up your illness morphs and mutates, which also means your attitude towards it, your coping mechanisms, and treatment plans have to change too. That or you’re completely fucked. Adapt or let illness take over your life.

Throwback to my 21st birthday #dontworrythatturkeyisofage

The bipolar disorder I had as a teenager looks completely different compared to how it impacts me today. When I was in my late teens-early 20s my bipolar consisted mostly of hypomanic and manic episodes. Any depression I experienced was pretty mild and it was more of an inconvenience than a troubling aspect of my illness. Let me tell ya, I looooved being hypomanic and manic more than anything in the world. Trust me, if you could dabble in it, you’d be hooked too. I thought of hypomania and mania as drugs — I mean that’s even how I talk about them today. The language I use is that of an addict struggling to kick their addiction. This was particularly hard considering I could cook up my own customized drug right in my brain whenever I pleased (drugs, risk-taking, not sleeping, and oh yeah ditching your meds could do the trick). It’s hard to stay sober when that type of high is bubbling at the surface of your brain, waiting for you to just trigger a deluge of euphoria.

But what comes up must come down, so it was inevitable that I’d experience depression. But like I said earlier, when I did slip into a depressive episode it wasn’t that intense. I felt sad and was low energy, but I never felt completely hopeless — thanks in part because I knew hypomania and mania were around the corner. I just had to wade through this shallow depression and then I’d be rewarded. All of the terrible things that had happened in my past, the everyday struggles I lived with, all faded when I handed my brain over to my hypomania and mania — no questions asked. Mania was my drug, a vacation from reality, my salvation. It gave me the power to push past negative things in my life and replace them with feelings of grandeur. Back then I actually thought of my bipolar as a gift. I felt special, magical, superior. Like I was the only member of a very elite, exclusive club. Or more accurately, like I built the club and then burned it down and transformed it into a shrine for hypomania and mania. Don’t bother lighting a candle because this baby runs on neon lights.

Sometimes I catch myself reminiscing about my life with hypomania and mania. I look back and a small part of me still thinks that life back then was spectacular. It’s easy to fall victim to the lies that mental illness whispers to your brain. Mania didn’t set me free, it threatened my life. My existence wasn’t shiny, beautiful, brilliance, it was sickness wrapped in a glittery ribbon. It took me years after I got serious about owning my illness to admit that I used to live a dangerous life. Pushing my brain and body past the brink. I took stupid risks, strained relationships with my irresponsible behavior, and courted disaster when it came to my future. I didn’t have the perspective to understand that this was illness. It just felt like identity.

Gotta laugh to keep from crying

But as I’ve gotten older my bipolar disorder has grown darker. Now that I’m in my 30s my illness is practically unrecognizable. My hypomania and mania are just exaggerated sparkly memories and instead I experience mixed episodes — when manic energy and depressed agitation meet. This is often followed by a tidal wave of anger that has no source, which actually drives me even crazier. Really, really, REALLY not fun stuff. And after that angry, futile, anxiety burns off I plummet into depression. No sliding, no slipping, no sinking, plummeting like a hopeless rock into a festering depressed cesspool. The depression I live with now is vicious and violent. Under its shadow all I can think about is giving up. I daydream about getting hit by a bus, succumbing to some mysterious illness that has no cure, of just not waking up. Thinking about suicide becomes part of my everyday routine. It’s not that I want to kill myself, it just hurts too much to think about a tomorrow. The depression these days doesn’t just linger, it haunts me. The deepest darkest parts typically last for two weeks and then the illness changes again and I find myself feeling muted and subdued, dominated by feelings of dread and anxiety, which soon transform into colorless numbness. I’m no longer suicidal — in part because I don’t have the energy- but I feel hopeless. So incredibly hopeless that I can’t even begin to describe it. I feel lost and alone. I feel rubbed raw and utterly broken. I feel estranged from myself. I distance myself from others. Even thinking about that feeling sends shivers down my spine and oozes cement into my stomach. It is a feeling that robs me of myself. It’s terrifying.

Me and Trixie Pickles

The thing is, naturally I’m a happy person and thus my personality syncs well with my hypomanic/manic self. And hypomanic/manic me as well as the real me are a serious departure from my depressed self. A huge part of my self-care is telling myself that depression isn’t the real me and surrounding myself with people who remind me that I am more than this black void. And I also have to remind myself that hypomanic/manic me isn’t the real me either. Whatever the illness tells me, I have to confront and provide a better answer. But when I’m sick that feels like an overwhelming, ominous, nearly impossible task.

One of my deepest fears is that -despite everything I’ve done to manage my bipolar — one of these depressive episodes will break my brain. Change me forever. I won’t just lose hypomania and mania, baggage from my past that I try not to care about, but I’ll stop being happy. I’ll stop being myself. Depression will pummel me into a miserable person. I’m frightened that I am going to be erased and drawn back as nothing but an embodiment of disease. I’m putting the work in, I’m adapting, I’m trying my best, but at times I feel defeated. What I once saw as a gift I now know is a curse. My illness is changing and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll have enough of the real me left to keep me moving forward with life on my terms. I just can’t give up.


When we talk about mental health it’s easy to get distracted by the allure of quick fixes and saccharine mantras. For example, touting yoga as a cure all and sharing feel good messages on Instagram — “just love yourself!” — typed in flowy font set against a sunrise. And I think the most damning thing of all is the fact that we see significantly more white people having these conversations compared to people of color. None of this is easy. Hope is often hard to find. And while I know that having diverse narratives about mental health is integral to fighting stigma, I think we also have to talk about mental illness. The fact that mental illnesses leave us messy and exhausted and shaky on our feet. That they challenge our sense of self worth and our sense of self. That they make neurotypical people uncomfortable which can actually be productive when it comes to redefining mental health and mental illness. But here’s the thing, if we make living with mental illness seem easy, we’re inadvertently telling people that if they struggle it’s their fault. Not all stories have happy endings but we should still talk about them with the energy and amplification that we reserve for tidier interpretations of mental health. Because that’s reality. That’s representation. Today I can’t end on a high note, I don’t have it in me, but I’m here and I’m typing and I’m doing my best. And I know I’ll have more to say when I’m ready. Thanks for listening.


We can all help prevent suicide. The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals.

You are not alone.

Invisible Illness

We don't talk enough about mental health.

Dr. Rachel KallemWhitman

Written by

Educator, advocate, and writer who has been shacking up with bipolar disorder since 2000. The “Dr.” is silent. The bad jokes are loud.

Invisible Illness

We don't talk enough about mental health.

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