Back in May, I wrote about how I was entering a Bipolar II depressive episode. What I didn’t know then was just how long and deep it would be. The past four months felt like quicksand, with every day pulling me deeper thanks to the weight of the depression. Recently, though, it seems like something has changed. Morning temperatures have slipped into the forties, the PSL is back, and I’m beginning to stagger out from one of the darkest stretches I’ve ever faced.

I always had a tendency towards melancholy as a kid, but everything changed when I was nineteen as a college freshman trying to hold it all together. Out on my own for the first time, I was working forty hours a week while taking a full load of advanced courses- some at the 300- and 400-level. It was too much weight for me to carry, and that’s when things started to blur.

What had been just simple depression turned into something darker. The storm didn’t come all at once. Instead, it crept in slowly, heavily and relentlessly, until it swallowed me whole. I could barely get out of bed. I stopped going to school. I sunk.

That was when my doctor finally put a name to it: Bipolar. Getting the diagnosis was like putting a name to a face, but it hasn’t offered much comfort. The truth is, living with Bipolar disorder can be brutal. Depression pulls me under until I disappear into myself, shutting down and shutting out. I don’t want to be here at my lowest points. Survival boils down to the basics: forcing myself to eat, to sleep, to clock in at work, and to go to the doctor.

That’s where I found myself in May. I thought I was managing this depressive stretch on my own: I felt worthless, was convinced my life was useless, and plumbed the depths of despair, but that’s the cruel rhythm of a depressive low you get used to. I tried to remind myself that every phase eventually ends, but even picking up the phone to call my doctor took days of second-guessing and crushing anxiety. When I finally did, he doubled my dosage. For a moment, it worked. Relief washed in, and I felt steady again.

It didn’t last. The bottom dropped out, and when it did, the crash was harder than anything before. The exhaustion, the dread, and the hopelessness all gave way to something simpler but much more relentless: sadness. I wasn’t just sad about one thing; I was sad about everything. I got sad watching goofy cat videos! It swelled inside me, spilling over again and again. Eventually it became less like moments of sorrow and more like a constant, unbroken stream.

I knew something was off, but it wasn’t just me- my mom could see it too. She implored me to call the doctor again, but I still dragged my feet. It wasn’t because I didn’t want relief, which was the furthest thing from the truth, but because picking up the phone felt impossible. Weeks slipped by before I finally made the call. The doctor assured me that my medication shouldn’t trigger intrusive thoughts or crushing sadness, but he still cut my prescription in half and sent a referral to a specialist.

The meds had done their job when it came to shutting down the exhausting manic phases of Bipolar, but the depression only kept getting worse. Week after week, I sank deeper, until another appointment became unavoidable. This time, the doctor added antidepressants to the mix. It’s only been a few weeks, and I can’t say everything’s fixed, but the fog doesn’t feel as suffocating. For now, that’s something.

Now that I’m finally crawling out of the darkness, I’m facing the hard part: the cleanup. For most of my adult life, I reached for self-medication when the deep depression hit or when I went unmedicated. Some of that self-medication has been working on this blog, but all of it was easier than facing the pain head-on. Unfortunately, every negative shortcut came with a cost. Those costs have stacked up over the years, and I’m left to deal with them. Some of the damage is minor. Some of it’s serious. All of it is mine to stand up and face somehow.

I’d rather be writing about anything else. I love to fill this space with stories of schoolhouses, old courthouses, or and the discovery of my next flowing well. From the beginning, though, I promised myself I’d be honest about my disorder. I’ve written openly about bipolar since the early days of this blog, and some people have called that brave.

I’m not sure I believe the “brave” part, though. Often when I write these posts, it feels less like courage and more like survival. I’m getting thoughts out so they don’t crush me from the inside. That said, when someone reaches out to say they saw their own struggles in my words, or that a post made them feel understood, I’m reminded why it matters. If my writing can do that, or help, then it’s worth the discomfort of being vulnerable.

I’ve been living with Bipolar II for fifteen years. I can’t say how long this light will last, but I know this much: I’ve survived the darkness before, and I will again. The cleanup won’t be easy, but I’m still here for now. I’m still writing, still chasing schoolhouses and flowing wells, and still surviving. Bipolar may insist I don’t belong, but I keep going anyway.