On May 7th, 2025, I went to the psychiatric clinic to begin treatment for bipolar disorder. For a while, my everyday life has been a trial-and-error process of finding the right medication. When I first started, I was incredibly naive: I didn’t look up any of the potential side effects of antidepressants or mood stabilizers. That naivety actually helped me get through the process.
My treatment began with antidepressants. That alone demanded every bit of resilience I had. The side effects were intense. I would wake up after six hours of sleep, unable to fall back asleep. I felt unwell—so sick that I couldn’t take care of myself. I couldn’t cook, couldn’t move. Sometimes, I was drenched in sweat for no reason.
At a follow-up visit to the hospital, we adjusted my medication. I was prescribed a different antidepressant, and we added a mood stabilizer: Aripiprazole. Honestly, I was very excited. I thought this new combination would bring me more control over the hypomanic and depressive episodes.
But I had no idea what akathisia was.
Akathisia is a movement disorder often triggered by antipsychotic or mood-stabilizing medications like Aripiprazole. It causes an intense, almost indescribable inner restlessness. Imagine feeling like you have to move. You pace, you fidget, you can’t sit still, yet no movement ever brings relief.
When akathisia hit me, it hit hard. Back in the hospital, I remember walking in circles nonstop, laughing in ways that didn’t even feel like me. I can see how I must have appeared—like the kind of person people avoid on the street—someone they walk a wide circle around.
We adjusted the medication again, and we finally found a mood stabilizer that worked for me: Seroquel.
Seroquel brought a stability I never thought was possible. For ten years, I had been going through episodes—either depressed or in hypomania. Whatever “normal” once meant, I had forgotten. Even though I spent much of those ten years rejecting the bipolar diagnosis, I still saw myself as mentally ill. That identity had become a constant. Being mentally ill wasn’t just something I experienced—it was who I was.
My circle of friends was made up of people who also struggled—borderline personality disorder, OCD, depression, ADHD. I had built a social support net where I felt understood. We shared our pain, joked about it, laughed together. And then we’d each go home and continue to suffer.
There’s no doubt that my own struggles opened a way of understanding others who were struggling too. It created empathy—a bond I’m not sure I would’ve had otherwise. I could listen to their stories without needing to fix them, because I knew what it was like.
Even during the difficult weeks of adjusting my medication, I loved the conversations about it. I’d talk about Seroquel and Aripiprazole, share the exact dosages, describe how they affected my body—sometimes in way too much detail. And honestly, I started to enjoy talking about bipolar disorder.
It was very welcome in my friend group. I’m grateful to have friends who listen without judgment to these unfiltered stories. I didn’t have to go through any of this alone.
But being on Seroquel for almost two months now has started to challenge the identity I’ve carried for so long. When I visited my parents for the first time since starting the medication, they noticed a change. My mother looked at me and said, “It feels like the old You isn’t here anymore.” And I knew exactly what she meant. She was thinking of the version of me who could barely get out of bed, who needed help with even the simplest tasks—the one who had been heavily depressed. But when she met me again, I was different—calm, grounded. I followed routines. I helped with everyday things.
Bipolar disorder dominated the past ten years of my life. It influenced how I saw myself and how I related to others. But now—supported by medical treatment—I’ve reached a point where I can start to quietly think about something different:
I’m beginning to wonder what a so-called "recovery identity" might look like for me—an identity about healing and independence.
Yes, knowing I had mental health struggles—and finding friends who made me feel like I belonged, like I wasn’t alone in this world— is important. That got me through some of the darkest times.
But as important as that was, it didn’t necessarily help me live a healthier life. What changed things was finally receiving the right treatment. That’s what gave me the stability I had been missing for so long.
Labels and diagnoses can be helpful—they give us a language to understand our experiences. They can lead us to allies, to support systems, and to others who know what we’re going through. But even more important than the label is what comes after: the correct treatment that actually helps us heal.
For too long, my identity was lost in the label “mentally unwell.” Giving up on this by quietly questioning it feels like something new. To be clear: I am far from a narrative about my identity that is unrelated to bipolar disorder. But I consider it necessary to ask myself what a story about me looks like when it is grounded in a healing.
I first came across the term “recovery identity” in Suzanne O’Sullivan’s book The Age of Diagnosis. What I really like about it is that it doesn’t mean abandoning my experience with bipolar disorder. It doesn’t require me to pretend it never existed. But, it makes space for both parts—the one who lived through the chaos, and the one who is now learning how to live with more balance. Bipolar disorder is still a part of me. But now, it’s starting not to be the only part.
So, who is this me on their way to recovery (hopefully)?
I don’t know yet. But I know I love cats. I love books. I love writing and fashion. And maybe that’s where it begins—not with a whole reinvention, but with small pieces of myself I’m beginning to notice again.
Recovery for me isn’t a full rewrite, but a quiet return to someone I’ve always been, buried under years of pain, now finally starting to come up for air.