Our Background

It's a new day.

The first thing I ask myself is, "How do I feel today?"If you're living with Bipolar Disorder, you probably wake up asking that same question, too. Because with bipolar, mornings don't just start—they arrive with questions. The biggest one is: Where am I on the spectrum today?

 

Welcome to Bipolar Nation—a new era where this disorder is more recognized than ever before. Decades ago, if someone mentioned being bipolar, people pictured straitjackets, institutions, and whispered rumors. The stigma was thick and cruel. Today, it's become one of the most common diagnoses, treated more like anxiety than insanity. But just because the world is catching up doesn’t mean living with it is any easier.

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The question for us isn’t just "what side of the bed did I wake up on?" It’s deeper, more complicated:

• Did my meds work last night?

• Did I take them at the right time?

• Did I remember all of them?

• Did I convince myself not to take them because I hate how they make me feel?

• Was I too exhausted or too defeated to even try?

 

These are real, daily struggles. Having bipolar is like dragging invisible bricks—everything is harder. Even the simple things take more energy than most people realize. Getting up, brushing your teeth, feeding the kids, responding to a text—it all feels like too much when you're sinking.

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But today, for once, I feel like I’m on the right medication cocktail. That doesn’t mean it’ll last. I already know that within a month or two, something will shift. I’ll feel the anxiety rise. The depression sneak in. The aggression boil up. The paranoia crawl back. It’s a cycle I’ve come to know intimately.

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After fifteen years, I’ve accepted the truth: this isn’t something I’ll outgrow. This is for life. And managing it means accepting that "normal"—whatever that means—will always be something I chase, not something I simply am.

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To even get close to stability, I’ll need to keep working with psychiatrists. I’ll need to try new meds, adjust doses, start fresh—again and again. I’ll have to go through the side effects, the emotional whiplash, and the pain it causes not only me, but the people I love. And all of this... just to feel like I’m standing still.

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But the alternative? The alternative is far worse. The alternative is being swallowed by the abyss. Living in that dark, endless place where I’m not just sad—I’m gone. Where I become a stranger to myself, a danger to my peace, and a prisoner in my own mind.

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That fear—that deep, gut-level dread—is why I never let myself run out of meds. It’s why I double-check my pillbox, even if I’m exhausted. Even if I’m angry. Even if I don’t want to. Because I know what happens when I don’t.

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I remember the days before medication. The fear, the confusion, the chaos. I can feel the shift when my meds start to wear off now—that rising tide of unease. And I’ll do anything not to go back to the beginning.

So I take them. Every day. Not because I’m cured, but because I want to live. I want to keep trying.

Let’s talk about that trying—the fight behind the scenes. Let’s talk about the parts no one sees but everyone with bipolar understands.

 

Anxiety

Let’s start with the big one: Anxiety.

Anxiety isn’t just nervousness. It’s not being a "worrier" or having a bad day. It’s a full-body storm that can make everyday life feel impossible. Today, people throw the word around like it’s trendy. But 19 years ago, when I was first diagnosed, it was treated like a scarlet letter. People acted like I had schizophrenia. The judgment was thick. Cruel. Lonely.

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But I stood my ground. I kept saying, "Yes, I have anxiety." Because hiding it only made it worse.

When anxiety hits, it doesn’t knock—it crashes in. You feel it before you even understand what’s happening. That rush of blood moving through your body—cold and electric—starts from your head and rolls down to your toes. It’s not warm. It’s not soothing. It’s unsettling and sharp.

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Then comes the agitation. You start to overreact to small things. Something as minor as forgetting to pick up a prescription can send you spiraling. You know you’re overreacting, but that doesn’t stop you. Your brain starts spinning, trying to justify the emotion. And the more you try to fight it, the worse it gets.

Worry turns into anger. Anger turns into aggression. And suddenly, you’re not just anxious—you’re shaking. Crying. Yelling. Maybe even frozen in panic.

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Some people end up in the ER, believing they’re dying. Their hearts race, their hands go numb, their vision blurs. Panic attacks take over, and nothing—not logic, not deep breathing, not even someone holding your hand—can bring you back until it’s run its course.

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This is the reality of anxiety. Not a trend. Not a phase. A real, physical, emotional, mental force that can stop your entire day in its tracks.

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And for those of us with bipolar, it doesn’t always show up alone. It brings friends—depression, aggression, paranoia. But let’s keep going. One truth at a time.

 

Depression

Depression isn’t just sadness.

It’s not just crying in the shower or feeling gloomy on a cloudy day. Depression is like falling into the biggest hole you can imagine—and realizing you don’t even have the strength to climb out.

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It wraps itself around your spirit, suffocates your motivation, and whispers things like, “Nothing will ever get better,” or “Why even try anymore?” And worse—you start to believe it.

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Sometimes, it feels like the world is ending, even though everything outside your window looks fine. You cry and cry, hoping it’ll ease the pressure in your chest. Sometimes it helps. Other times, it just leaves your heart aching more than before.

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Depression gets deep—into your bones, your soul, your very identity. It tears at your heart, piece by piece. And when real-life sadness is layered on top of it—like grief, heartbreak, or failure—the emotional pain becomes unbearable. It’s not just sadness; it’s devastation.

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The darkness starts to circle you, pulling tighter with every thought. Eventually, that deep hole begins to look like relief. That’s why some people jump. Because the weight becomes too much. Because they didn’t get the help they needed—or couldn’t believe they deserved it.

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If you’re someone who lives with this, you know what I mean. You’ve stared into that hole. You’ve wondered if anyone would even notice if you disappeared. But I promise you—someone would. And there is light, even if right now it feels impossible to find.

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I’ve been in that place. I’ve walked through days where nothing mattered, not even the people I loved. And that’s the cruel trick of depression—it doesn’t let you feel the love that’s still around you.

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But medication, therapy, and time can shift that fog. Little by little. It might never fully go away, but it becomes something you learn to live with. Something you learn to recognize before it gets too loud.

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This is what depression really looks like—and why it’s so important we talk about it, share our truth, and keep reaching for the light, even if it feels like a million miles away.

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Because eventually, the sun does come out again. Even if you can’t see it yet.

 

Aggression

Aggression doesn’t always come out of nowhere—but it can sure feel that way.

One minute you’re trying to hold it together, and the next, your blood is boiling. You don’t just feel mad. You are mad. At the world. At the person in front of you. At the driver who cut you off. At the fact that the dishes aren’t done. Even at yourself.

It’s a wildfire of emotion, and it spreads fast.

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When you're bipolar, anger can feel like it has a mind of its own. Your heart races. Your hands tremble. And suddenly, everything and everyone feels like a threat. You lash out—sometimes with words, sometimes in silence, sometimes by completely shutting down. And sometimes, that aggression explodes onto the people who least deserve it: your partner, your kids, your friends.

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Some people take it out at work. Others snap behind the wheel in traffic. Many of us hold it in until it erupts at home. I’ve been there—boiling inside and unable to cool down until the damage was already done.

The worst part? You don’t always recognize yourself in those moments. The rage takes over. Logic disappears. The only goal is to release the pressure, no matter who gets burned in the process.

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And yet, too often, bipolar anger is mislabeled. People say, "That’s just your personality," or "You’ve always been like that." But here’s what I’ve learned: it’s not just who I am. It’s a symptom. A real, biological symptom that can be managed—with awareness, support, and the right medication.

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When my anxiety and depression are high, they feed into that anger. The three mix like gasoline, a match, and wind. And suddenly, aggression becomes inevitable.

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But here’s the truth: deep down, I’m not an angry person. I don’t want to yell. I don’t want to fight. I want peace. Calm. Stability. And the more I’ve worked with my doctors to treat all of the pieces—especially the underlying anxiety and depression—the more I’ve been able to catch the aggression before it explodes.

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It’s still work. It always will be. But just knowing that anger doesn’t define me—it frees me. I’m not my worst moments. And neither are you.

 

Paranoia

Paranoia was once the most consuming part of my bipolar experience.

And for a long time, it ruled me.

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I was terrified—of everything and everyone. I wouldn’t go to social events. I avoided people’s homes, walks through the neighborhood, stores, even just saying hi to strangers. Driving made me anxious. Traveling felt impossible. I couldn’t go out of town without my nerves unraveling. Every environment, every interaction, felt threatening.

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I felt like a prisoner in my own home. I obsessed over alarms, locks, and window coverings. I needed everything secured tight. I was afraid someone might break in. Afraid someone might be watching. Afraid something terrible would happen and I wouldn’t be ready.

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And it didn’t stop at the front door. That fear followed me into sleep. I had intense nightmares night after night—people chasing me, trying to attack me, break in, or hurt my family. I’d wake up in a panic, covered in sweat, heart pounding. There was no peace. Not in daylight, and not even in my dreams. The fear was constant, wrapping around my mind like barbed wire.

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I was always bracing for the worst. Always in survival mode. And unless you’ve lived through that kind of paranoia, it’s hard to describe how exhausting it is—mentally, emotionally, physically.

But once I got on the right medication, slowly, things began to shift. I opened my curtains. I cracked a window. I went for a walk and smiled at a neighbor. Eventually, I could drive myself to the store without feeling like I was being watched or followed. I could breathe.

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The chains started to loosen. I was no longer a prisoner in my home—or in my own mind.

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That healing didn’t happen overnight. And I still have moments. But now I have tools. I have awareness. And most importantly, I have hope.

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If you’re living with that kind of fear, I see you. You’re not broken. You’re not crazy. You’re just trying to survive. And I promise—there is a way out. You don’t have to live in fear forever.

 

Bipolar Nation

Where are we now?

It feels like we’ve all become part of a Bipolar Nation. Once considered a shameful secret, bipolar disorder has become a more common part of public dialogue—especially for generations X, Y, and Z. Still, for some, it’s seen as the disorder you don’t talk about. The "crazy person’s problem." But the truth is, the more you acknowledge it and face it head-on, the more you start to see others like you. You begin to realize you’re not alone. You start to recognize your tribe—people who live with the same symptoms, the same chaos, the same highs and lows. And you realize they’re bipolar, too.

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So what now?

Live with it. Learn about it. Embrace the fact that there’s a reason behind some of the choices you’ve made and the ways you’ve reacted. Get on the right medication. And know—that’s just the beginning. The first visit to a psychiatrist isn’t a finish line; it’s mile one of a long, winding road toward stability. But here’s the good news: you’re not walking it alone anymore. In this era, where medication and therapy are becoming more normalized, we can begin to heal out loud. We can begin to define what "normal" looks like for us. That’s the real goal—to find a balance that lets us live, love, and be fully ourselves, without fear, shame, or apology.

 

Could You Be Bipolar?

Have you ever wondered if you might be bipolar?

Maybe people have told you they think you are. Maybe you cry a lot, even when you don’t know why. Maybe you go on shopping sprees you regret later. Maybe you lose friends as quickly as you make them. You might feel on top of the world one moment and then suddenly snap—yelling at someone you care about the next.

Or maybe you feel stuck. Like one day you have the biggest, boldest ideas about how to fix your life—and the next, you can’t even get out of bed. Your thoughts race. Then they crash. You question everything, yet nothing seems to change. You keep asking yourself, "What am I doing with my life?"

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Here’s something I’ve learned: you’re not crazy. You’re not broken. You might just be bipolar.

And if you are, that’s not a death sentence—it’s a starting point. Because once you know, you can begin to take care of yourself. You can stop feeling so alone. You can start to understand why you feel the way you do. You can start healing.

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The first medication your psychiatrist prescribes might not be the one that works. It might not make you feel better right away. It could be the wrong type—or the right one at the wrong dose. It may take weeks to even feel a difference. But that’s part of the journey.

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It can take a combination of two, three, sometimes even five medications to stabilize your symptoms. And yes, you may have to take them twice a day. You might have to keep adjusting. But all of that is part of the process of finding what your version of normal looks like.

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Because let’s be honest—most of us with bipolar disorder have never really known what normal feels like. We’ve known chaos. We’ve known extreme highs, crashing lows, spiraling anxiety, and isolating depression. But stability? Peace? That takes time. And that takes effort.

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But it’s worth it. Because the goal isn’t to become perfect—it’s to feel better. To feel balanced. To stop being ruled by anxiety, depression, paranoia, or aggression. And while you may never be completely free of symptoms, you can get to a place where they no longer control your life.

You’re not alone in this. And you’re not beyond help. You're just getting started.

 

Living Large, Losing Hard

One of the wildest things I’ve done while in a bi-polar manic phase was move—constantly. Sixty five times, all within the two cities. I was addicted to change, to shaking things up, to chasing something new. But that was just the beginning.

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At one point, I bought 16 homes in just three years—over $18 million in real estate. I was deep into the world of investing, flipping, and building an empire that felt larger than life. I felt unstoppable. I had no business taking on that kind of financial weight, but when I’m manic, logic goes out the window. I was flying high and convinced that I could do anything.

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I’d drag people into my world—friends, partners, lenders. I’d fly down to Los Angeles, get real estate agents to show me million-dollar homes, talk to hard money lenders, put offers in, even open escrows. All without a dollar to my name. I believed I could buy properties with no money down and make $25,000 a month Airbnb-ing them. And in my head, it all made sense. It was a full-blown manic episode.

 

Then Came the Crash.

When reality set in, I’d panic.

I’d hide. I’d avoid phone calls, cancel deals, ghost the people I’d looped into the fantasy. Sometimes I’d even change my phone number to escape the shame and anxiety. The high would turn into a deep, dark low, and I’d retreat into bed, not wanting to face the mess I’d made.

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It took me years—eighteen of them, to be exact—to see the pattern for what it was. I’m not just a risk-taker. I’m not just impulsive. I have bipolar disorder. And one thing I’ve realized is that I’m addicted to chaos. There’s something intoxicating about instability, about the constant movement and excitement that mania brings. But that rush always comes with a cost.

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Eventually, I ran out of money. I couldn’t afford my psychiatrist anymore and started relying on old prescriptions from previous visits. My general practitioner would refill them, but he wasn’t trained to manage the rollercoaster of bipolar disorder. When my symptoms shifted—as they always do—I didn’t have the support I needed to recalibrate. And things got worse.

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I made poor choices. I surrounded myself with people who fed into the drama. I chased adrenaline through chaos and conflict. Because when you’re manic, that energy feels like power. Like purpose. Like you finally matter. But when it fades, you’re left in the rubble.

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It’s easy to look back and cringe at the decisions I made. But I try to look back with compassion, too. I wasn’t just being reckless—I was unwell. And now, I know better. I know how to catch the signs earlier. I know the importance of staying connected to care. And I know that healing doesn’t mean becoming someone else—it means becoming yourself, with fewer explosions along the way.

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When I completely ran out of money and found myself in a terrible place mentally, I left a beautiful home I was renting with my 8-year-old and 1-year-old sons and moved into what I can only describe as a chaotic mess. Desperate and without income, I made the irrational decision to move into one of my foreclosed homes on the outskirts of town. The house had a "For Sale" sign out front and technically wasn’t mine anymore, but in my mind, I justified it—thinking that since I hadn’t personally been served eviction papers, I still had a right to be there.

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I moved all our belongings—everything I owned—into three massive 40-yard cargo containers and hauled them to that house. I even started fixing the place up. My new boyfriend moved in with me, and along with him came some dangerous people. Some were using drugs and crashing at the house, and the environment quickly turned toxic. I didn’t use drugs, but without being on the right medication, my bipolar disorder clouded my judgment. Right and wrong became blurry.

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About two weeks in, I came home one day to five police cars in my driveway. I panicked and drove past the house to a friend’s nearby. She later found out the police had raided the home. I was told I had 48 hours to get out—I was trespassing.

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I had no idea where to go. Thankfully, my friend let us borrow her RV trailer, and my mom agreed to let us park it on her property temporarily. I was in complete survival mode. My anxiety was at its peak. I barely remember those days because it was such a dark, dissociative period. I remember the heat though—it was summer, yet everything felt cold and uncertain.

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We spent the weekend setting up the trailer, trying to convince ourselves it would be okay. But by Monday, that illusion shattered. My mom talked to her insurance agent and found out that having the RV on her property voided her coverage. She told me I had until the end of the day to move it and leave. On top of it, I had just started a job at my boyfriend’s family’s recycling company, trying to piece my life back together.

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I moved the RV, but we had no other place to go. So for the next two weeks, the boys and I bounced between hotels—living out of our car and booking last-minute Priceline deals for $50 a night at Hilton or Hyatt. We tried to make it feel like an adventure, but inside, I was falling apart. It was survival, not living. And once again, it was a storm I had created by not getting the help I needed soon enough. But I was trying. Always trying.

During this time, my 1-year-old son needed to get some vaccinations. When we went to the doctor, I questioned whether five shots at once was too much. The nurse insisted it was fine and administered them.

 

The next day, he had a 104-degree fever, and when I picked him up from daycare, I rushed him to the doctor. As we waited, his eyes rolled back and he began seizing. It lasted 25 minutes. The hospital had to give him a spinal tap to check for meningitis. I stood there, helpless, as he screamed in pain. A priest came in to pray, as if preparing for the worst. He survived, but was hospitalized with a 104-degree fever for days. That moment changed everything. My son became mentally disabled and later was diagnosed with autism, ADHD, social disorders, and bipolar disorder. I’ll always carry the guilt for not insisting they space out those shots.

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Eventually, I landed a full-time job at my boyfriend’s parents’ recycling company. I was making good money, so I rented a nice house with the idea that we’d split the rent. But soon, he moved in his loser friends, and I was too mentally fragile to put my foot down. I didn’t want to rock the boat or lose him. My depression was settling in, and my self-worth was at a low.

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Things only got worse. My mom had allowed me to use her credit card for the hotels during our in-between phase, but when the charges came in higher than she expected, she pressed charges against me. The police showed up at my job, handcuffed me, and booked me into jail for eight hours. I had to post bail and hire a lawyer. My own mother charged me with four felonies.

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That same week, my mother called the car dealership and had my car repossessed in front of my workplace, it was my only car.

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Back at the house, my boyfriend refused to pay rent, saying it was too high. I couldn’t cover it all alone, so we stopped paying. Four months later, we were being evicted. The night before we had to leave, he still wouldn’t help. I had to hire a babysitter at 2:00 a.m. so I could load what I could into a moving van. I broke TVs in the process and had to leave behind expensive belongings. And still—I let someone walk all over me.

This wasn’t just bad luck. This was my disorder unchecked. But even then, I kept pushing forward. I didn’t stop fighting. And I’m still here.

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The next place we found was out of pure desperation—I only had a week to secure something. It was dirty and dimly lit, the walls painted in chaotic swirls of yellows, blues, purples, and browns that made the space feel even more overwhelming. Ants were everywhere. And to top it off, the skies seemed to cry with me—it rained constantly. My almost two-year-old son, who was struggling with undiagnosed mental health issues which later became Autism and severe ADHD, was incredibly hard to manage. It was a dark, heavy time.

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In the midst of that chaos, I was also trying to pull off another huge real estate deal. I was in the process of buying a seven-unit apartment building in San Francisco for $4 million. I’d paid the appraiser, gotten into escrow, and was on the brink of closing. It felt like I was building something big again.

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Then came the call. A friend told me she’d heard from someone—possibly the FBI—about me. She wouldn’t tell me what was said. She never spoke to me again. I panicked. Later it ended up being a fake call.

And just like that, everything started to fall apart. I’d just found out I was pregnant with my daughter, and when I told my boyfriend, he snapped. He threatened that if I kept the baby, he’d report me for real estate fraud or make up something worse. He said he’d ruin my life. But I wasn’t giving up my child.  I had no family support or support from friends.

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My bipolar brain couldn’t handle the pressure. I unraveled. I canceled the entire deal, pulled out of escrow, made up excuses to the real estate agent, changed my phone number, and ran off to Los Angeles for a week. I didn’t even tell my manager—I just disappeared. When I returned, I explained what I could, but the damage was done.

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Once again, my boyfriend refused to help with rent. After four months of not paying, we were evicted. We managed to get into an apartment complex just in time, but by then I was nearing the end of my pregnancy, barely able to walk or sit due to a pinched nerve. My toddler was still incredibly difficult, and I had almost no energy.

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This time, I chose to take medication—Wellbutrin—throughout the pregnancy. I had learned from my past and knew I couldn’t go through another pregnancy unmedicated. And honestly, it helped. I didn’t cry nearly as much. It didn’t solve everything, but it made it bearable.

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More than anything, it gave me a small thread of strength to keep going.

In the middle of all this, I also got evicted from a beautiful home in the suburbs. The weight of my relationship struggles, financial instability, and worsening mental health had taken their toll. I was at my limit. I stopped paying rent—just trying to survive. I had three days to move out.

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I held a garage sale, rented a dumpster, and crammed what I could into a moving truck heading to a 10x10 storage unit. I lost more than half my belongings—they simply wouldn’t fit. I had to leave them behind. That broke my heart. But I couldn’t dwell on the loss. I had to focus on survival. I had to figure out what came next.

We moved in and out of hotels for a couple of weeks. Some stays were fine. Others were miserable. One night we came back from dinner to find the hotel room flooded with an inch of water from the toilet. The next night, the fire alarm went off three separate times in the middle of the night—we ran outside each time, terrified there was a real fire.

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Another night, all the hotels were booked because of a big bike race in town, so I found a place on Craigslist. It was pouring rain, and when we pulled up, my car got stuck in a mud-covered hill filled with hay. I had to call for a tow truck the next morning.

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And then there was the night we had nowhere to go. I called my mom and asked if we could stay at her place. She said we could—for $50. We stayed the night but left the next morning because she wanted us to pay extra for breakfast.

 

Monte Rio, Russian River

Eventually, we found a place I could afford—about 50 minutes outside of town, in Monte Rio, near the Russian River. It was a tiny one-bedroom cabin, maybe 400 square feet, but it was peaceful. It had a beautiful deck overlooking the water, and in the mornings I’d sit out there with my coffee, letting the sun warm my face. We didn’t have cable, so I used my Verizon Wi-Fi device to stream movies for the kids. That bill ended up being $3,000. I couldn’t pay it. It went to collections.

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But for a brief moment, I felt calm. Like maybe things could turn around.

However, that peace didn’t last. One night during a massive storm, the river began to rise—fast. Water crept closer and closer to the cabin. By 3:00 a.m., it was almost at our front door. I had no choice but to evacuate. My daughter’s dad came to get us in his truck, and we weaved our way through fallen trees and closed roads to make it back to Santa Rosa. It felt like a war zone.

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I called my mom and asked if we could stay the night. She said yes—but charged me $40. I had to pay her the second I walked in the door.

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The very next day, I knew I had to find a new place to live. I had only been in that cabin for three months, but another storm would destroy everything. My anxiety was sky-high. But sometimes, when you have bipolar disorder, that pressure—the desperation—pushes you into action.

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Within a week, I found a tiny but charming cabin in the woods. I started moving in with very little help. Most of the things I’d left at the river house didn’t make it. I lost a lot, including all my photo albums that I’d stored underneath the house. Memories. Gone. Another blow in an already relentless string of losses.

 

But I kept going. I had no choice.

It was December 23, 2012, 11:37 p.m.. Just two weeks after moving in, everything changed again—this time forever.

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That night, my daughter and I were asleep in the cabin. I woke to the smell of smoke. At first, I thought it was just the fireplace smoldering. I laid back down. But the smell got stronger. I got up, called the landlord, and they told me there were flames coming off the roof. I grabbed Taylor, threw her in the car, and we raced down the steep hill.

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I had to get out of the way—fire trucks wouldn’t be able to get up the driveway unless I cleared it. As we drove down the narrow road, I passed seven massive fire engines making their way up. It was like something out of a nightmare.

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I called my mom to tell her the house was on fire. Surprisingly, she said we could stay the night.

We lost almost everything in that fire. Some smoke-damaged paperwork survived, but that was about it. All our clothes. The kids’ toys. Electronics. Furniture. Gone. The pictures themselves survived, but the frames were destroyed. It was such a traumatizing experience that I couldn’t even go back to the cabin for weeks—not until the insurance claim had been processed.

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I did have renter’s insurance, but it took time to kick in. While my mom was away on vacation, she let us stay at her place. But even then, she charged me for the PG&E utilities while we were there—right in the middle of my grief and trauma.

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The insurance eventually moved the kids and me into the Hilton Hotel, where we stayed for about four and a half months. I would have left sooner, but I was struggling with severe PTSD from the fire, and that made my bipolar symptoms even worse. I wasn’t seeing a psychiatrist at the time—just taking whatever meds I’d been prescribed by my last doctor and having my primary care physician refill them. I was an emotional mess.

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I had nothing but my kids and the laptop I managed to save during the fire. Imagine that—one day you’re living in a home with a future ahead, and the next, you’re a former millionaire with nothing but trauma, debt, and a broken heart. And just to make matters worse, I had to go to child support court with Taylor’s dad, who also happened to be my supervisor. He threatened to make my life hell—said if I didn’t watch Taylor on his days while he “worked,” he’d make sure I lost my job. I couldn’t handle all of it. I was trying to find a new place to live, build a new life, stay strong for my kids, and hold it all together with untreated bipolar disorder.

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So when the insurance check came through, I made the only decision that made sense—I quit my job.

We moved into a small but cute two-bedroom apartment downtown. I started over again. I furnished it using secondhand items and garage sale finds. I tried to make the kids' rooms cozy, with nice used toys and colorful touches. I wanted to give them a sense of normal.

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In the beginning, we slept on air mattresses. Not because I couldn’t afford beds—but because I just couldn’t decide what kind to buy. Twins? Bunks? I wasn’t sure. About two months in, I finally made a decision and bought beds. Two days later, Child Protective Services knocked on my door at 6:30 p.m. Someone—either Charles or my mom—had reported that the kids didn’t have beds or that the house wasn’t properly set up. The stress that added to everything else was almost too much to bear.

 

As if I needed another reason to be on edge.

It was time to figure out the psychiatrist issue next. I applied through the state and explained how severely I was struggling with PTSD and Bipolar Disorder. Eventually, they connected me with both a counselor and a psychiatrist. But the facility wasn’t exactly comforting—it was a mental emergency ward high on a hill, manned by guards, filled with people in deep crisis.

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Every visit was unsettling. I’d have to check in my purse, wait in a dull, padded room with gray walls and metal chairs, and listen to the sounds of patients yelling or talking to themselves down the hall. I wondered more than once, “Am I one of these people now? Am I really this far gone?”

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But then something unexpected happened: I found one of the best psychiatrists I’ve ever had. It took almost a year of trial and error, but he got me on the right combination of medications. There was a price to pay—I gained 60 pounds—but it was worth it for the stability it gave me.

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That year was still far from easy. Taylor’s dad continued to be verbally abusive and threatening. He told me he was going to kill me. He never saw Taylor, never helped. I started to pursue legal action to protect myself, but the process was so exhausting and emotionally draining, I couldn’t follow through. So I endured it.

But at least I had support. At least I had a doctor who saw me, who treated me, who didn’t give up on me. And that—more than anything—was a turning point.

​

That year was a good year, in its own way. I didn’t work, but I focused entirely on my children. I needed to. Right after the fire, I could see Taylor was affected. She seemed to be showing signs of trauma—likely PTSD from what we had both gone through. So I kept her home from preschool most days, only sending her part-time. We spent a lot of time together at home while I got on the right medication, kept the apartment tidy, and for a while, it felt like I was finally getting my life back in order.

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But then it happened again. I fell back into the familiar spiral.

I tried to buy houses again. I got swept up in the fantasy and the adrenaline. I was talking to a group of people, lining up real estate deals—about $3 million worth of houses and apartment buildings. In my mind, I could do it. I felt unstoppable. That’s how my disorder works: it convinces me I can conquer the world. But when reality hit—when the details got too real, or the pressure too intense—I panicked. I backed out. I ghosted everyone involved. The shame hit hard, but I didn’t regret the high. That high is what my disorder feeds on.

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Then came the crash. I spiraled into depression again.

I let toxic people into my life—people who weren’t supportive or kind. They were takers, feeding off my energy while offering nothing in return. They distracted me, drained me, and made me feel worse about myself. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t breathe.

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Money ran out. I was living off child support and food stamps. I was facing eviction again. We had nowhere to go.

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For a short time, we lived in an RV of my best friend and parked on vacant land owned by my employer. We didn’t have running water, only a portable toilet and a power outlet to plug into. But to the kids, it felt like an adventure. We watched movies on a little TV. We were together, and that was enough. Until it wasn’t.

My mother, once again, complicated things. She told the kids’ teachers that we were “traumatizing” the children and living in a recycling yard. That triggered calls to CPS and the police. They came looking for us. They never found us, but the fear and betrayal were real.

Instead of helping, she made things harder—again.

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The next house we moved into became known as the “skunk house.” There were actual skunks living underneath it, and the smell seeped up through the floors. Still, I thought I’d lucked out. The house had a gorgeous deck with views of hot air balloons and sunsets. Jordan had a tiny attic room he couldn’t stand up in, and I shared a room with the other kids. We made it work. But then I made another mistake—I let Charles move in.

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He never fully moved in unless he was fighting with his girlfriend. I could always tell she’d been there when I wasn’t—things felt off, like my privacy had been violated. The landlord was invasive, too. She’d walk right into the house or up onto the back deck without warning. Charles wasn’t on the lease, so we had to hide that, which only added to my anxiety.

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The tension in the house grew.

Charles brought around people who were clearly using drugs. He didn’t like my friends and mocked them. He started becoming verbally abusive with me. It was all happening again. I kept asking myself, "Why do I keep repeating these patterns?"

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Between the landlord and Charles, I broke. I let the eviction process start. I stopped paying rent. I shut down. I ran from the situation, just like I had before. I wasn’t on my proper medication at that time—hadn’t been for months. My judgment was clouded, my anxiety was through the roof, and my bipolar symptoms were out of control. I couldn’t afford a good psychiatrist, and I refused to go to the terrifying state clinic with locked rooms and impossible waitlists.

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Another move out was coming. And I had no money, and very little help.

I prayed and prayed and looked each and every day for a place to move to. I opened my mind up to whatever opportunity might be out there. Finally, I found a place. It was a one-bedroom, in not the best area, but the rent was affordable. Just me—I could cover it on my own without help from Charles or anyone else. That was huge. It was also small enough that people wouldn’t want to crash there. No more chaotic guests. No more freeloaders, like Charles. Just peace.

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We moved in, and something shifted. Even though it was tiny, it didn’t feel that way. It felt calm. It felt stable. It felt safe. The kids and I made it home.

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I started seeing a new psychiatrist regularly—monthly at first. I worked closely with him, adjusting meds until things began to level out. Eventually, I was able to stretch visits to every six weeks, and soon it’ll be every two months. It’s progress.

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This home has brought a quiet I didn’t know I needed. I don’t socialize much, and honestly, I prefer it that way now. Too many people mess with my head and my rhythm. I focus on my kids, the house, and work. I don’t chase the big dreams like I used to. I’m not looking for the next wild idea to pull me out of my life—I’m finally starting to enjoy the life I have.

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That’s the biggest change of all.

For years, I was always looking for something more. A bigger house. A better deal. A new location.

I thought the answer was always somewhere else. But for the first time in over sixteen years, I’ve stayed in the same apartment for more than a year and a half. That may not sound like much—but for me? It’s everything.

This place might be small to someone else, but to me, it’s a sign that I’m healing. I’m growing. And maybe, just maybe, I’m finally finding peace.

 

My days come with their good and bad. Rustin, my middle son, is clinically disabled and has also been diagnosed with bipolar disorder—along with Autism, ADHD, anxiety, depression, social disorders, and dyslexia. He can be incredibly difficult to manage at times. And my youngest daughter sometimes mimics his behaviors, which makes things even more challenging. When Rustin has a meltdown or a tantrum, it can feel impossible to stay grounded. Sometimes I have to ask my oldest son to step in and handle it while I walk away and collect myself. With my own mental health challenges, it’s overwhelming. It feels like the cycle is repeating—like it’s hereditary.

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Now I’ve moved into a big, beautiful three-bedroom house with a landscaped yard filled with gingko trees and Japanese Maples. Each of my children has their own room. On paper, this should be my dream. But even here, I find myself waking up with anxiety. I drink my morning coffee inside, in the corner of the living room, instead of outside on the deck in the sunshine. The depression lingers. The sun seems dimmer. There’s a fog inside me I can’t always shake.

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Then comes the spending. That familiar manic symptom sneaks in—where I start spending money like water. On things I don’t need. Things I justify somehow, as if they’re essential. As if they’ll fix something inside me.

And there’s the question that won’t go away: What now? What will make me happy next? I scroll Facebook endlessly. I stare at blank screens. I try to find the next thing that will spark something—anything. But maybe that’s not what I need. Maybe what I need is to keep doing what I’m doing, only with more peace, more presence, and more compassion for myself.

 

Conclusion

This memoir isn’t just about being bipolar—it’s about surviving it, living with it, and learning to live beyond it. It’s about falling, getting up, and falling again. It’s about chaos and stillness, despair and hope, loss and recovery. It’s about being human in the most raw and vulnerable way.

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If you’re reading this and see pieces of your story in mine—know that you’re not alone. You’re not weak for struggling. You’re not broken for needing help. You’re not lost for not knowing the way forward.

You’re simply on the path. Just like I am.

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And even if that path twists and turns and doubles back on itself—you’re still moving. Still growing. Still becoming.

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Healing doesn’t always look like happiness. Sometimes it looks like waking up and trying again. Sometimes it looks like crying in the shower or calling your psychiatrist or walking away from the chaos. Sometimes it’s just getting through the day.

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But every step you take toward stability, toward peace, toward understanding your mind—that’s healing. That’s bravery.

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This isn’t the end of the story. This is just where I am now.

And I’m proud of that.

If nothing else, I’ve learned this: I’m still here.

And maybe—so are you.

~Love, Bonnie Johnston