+ Follow
image by pexels.com

Some mornings, I wake up at 5 a.m. The world is still dark. Quiet. And my mind is already spinning. I should sleep more, I know. I sleep about five hours these days. My body protests. Drowsy, slow, begging me for another hour or two. But I can’t. I have work to do. I have reading to finish, writing to do, and KLEE prep to tackle. Productivity calls, and I answer. I always answer.

I don’t like sleeping much. I never have. It feels like stolen time. Hours wasted when I could be living, feeling, doing. But I know, somewhere deep down, that my body hates it. Sleep is medicine. Sleep keeps me balanced. And yet, it’s always a battle.

I am bipolar. Type II, mostly. Hypomania. Depression. The words feel clinical, dry, and boring. They are not boring. They are my life. My moods swing like a pendulum. Some days, I am electric, unstoppable, unstoppable, unstoppable. My brain fires in a thousand directions. Ideas, tasks, sentences, calculations - all at once. I can write for hours without stopping. And then - then - there are the days when even picking up my pen feels like lifting a mountain. I don’t feel lazy. I feel trapped inside my own skin.

Sleep affects everything. If I miss it, everything changes. My thoughts get loud. My emotions get sharper. My body protests. My family notices before I do. “You didn’t sleep enough, did you?” they ask. “Be careful.” And I nod. I nod, but I keep going. I have a purpose. I am working toward something big. KLEE, May 2026. October 2025. I have no choice.

Working is strange when you’re bipolar. On good days, I can study, write, read, work for eight, nine, sometimes ten hours. I don’t feel tired. I feel alive. Purposeful. Grounded. And then someone notices. My ex, once, said, “Are you going hypomanic?” I looked at them, confused. No. I am grounded. I am doing what I must. But the intensity has costs. Relationships fray. Body frays. Brain frays. Treadmill life. Constant motion. Survival.

And then there’s the other side. Depression. Days when even writing is impossible. Even breathing feels like an effort. Even thinking feels like effort. Guilt, sadness, rage, emptiness. Sometimes, I hurt myself to cope. It is real. It is raw. It is human. I write to survive. Writing is my anchor. My self-harm is the other anchor. Together, they are lifelines.

I have always been raw. Unfiltered. That’s my style. No gloss. No polish. Everything exposed. Even when people say I write well, I hesitate to accept it. Am I really good? Or is it just survival that looks like skill?

Medication helps. Therapy helps. But they don’t stop the swings. They don’t make life predictable. They don’t make me consistent. Sleep still matters. Nutrition still matters. Awareness still matters.

Being productive is tricky. People see me writing, working, reading, preparing, and they think: stable. Organized. Strong. And yes, in a way, I am. But it takes work. Constant work. Invisible labor. Watching moods, noting triggers, monitoring sleep, adjusting. The world doesn’t see that. People don’t see the effort it takes to function. To survive. To contribute. To exist.

I wake up early. I push through hours of work. I nap when necessary. I write. I read. I study. I monitor my moods. I adjust. Some days I succeed. Some days I fail. Some days I am luminous, unstoppable. Some days I am dark, empty, terrified of myself. Some days I write poems in exam answer sheets because I know I might not survive to see the results. True story. It happened. And yet, life goes on.

Support is everything. Family, friends, therapists, teachers - people who understand that my highs and lows are part of me, not personality flaws, not laziness, not drama. That support changes outcomes. It literally saves lives. Social support matters more than most people realize (Mayo Clinic, 2025).

Bipolar disorder is work. Constant, invisible, relentless work. Managing sleep, moods, productivity, emotions, relationships, medication, therapy, and nutrition. It is invisible, because society sees only what is visible: performance, smiles, written pages, grades, tasks completed. No one sees the hours spent stabilizing, coping, breathing, surviving.

And still, life has color. Life has purpose. Life has moments of joy. Writing. Reading. KLEE prep. Planning. Making lists. Checking things off. Feeling the satisfaction of completion. Feeling like, for once, I am in control. But the control is delicate. Fragile. Easily broken. One missed night of sleep can tip everything. One trigger can spiral a day out of control. One careless word can unsettle a week.

Living with bipolar disorder is negotiating with oneself constantly. Survival is success. Productivity is success. Self-care is radical. Writing is therapy. Sleep is therapy. Medication is therapy. Therapy is therapy. Everything is therapy. And the day ends with exhaustion, reflection, acceptance, and tiny victories.

I have learned to live like this. Not perfectly. Not consistently. But persistently. Bipolar doesn’t define me, but it shapes the rules of my existence. Every day is navigation, negotiation, adaptation, and balance. And every day, when I survive, when I work, when I write, when I breathe - every day is a victory. Small, fragile, human, imperfect. And I’ll take it. I have to.

References:

.    .    .

Discus