Bipolar

Erik Austin
Aug 19
2 min read

Updated: Aug 20

I know I’ve said this before, but here we are again: me vs. mental health labels.

Two years ago, they slapped me with Bipolar II Disorder. Translation? Days so heavy I could barely breathe, and nights where sleep didn’t exist—where I’d be reorganizing the kitchen at 2AM, words spilling out of me like confetti from a busted cannon.

Cute, right? Except my whole life I’ve been told I’m “too much.” Too loud. Too chatty. Too dramatic. Too me. And part of me? Still doesn’t buy the diagnosis.

Last month, my new therapist John suggested I try a new psychiatrist. Fresh eyes. Fresh start. Maybe someone who wouldn’t just rubber-stamp me “bipolar” like a return receipt from Target. Fifty-five minutes later? “Same diagnosis. No need to come back.” It didn’t feel like medicine. It felt like dismissal.

When I told my sister, she said she went through the same thing with Archie—how doctors just sign off on each other’s opinions until the label sticks, whether it fits or not.

Meanwhile, because I’ve researched this stuff endlessly, my algorithm started feeding me ads for clinical trials. I thought: fine, let’s make some cash off this circus. Two phone interviews. Uploaded my meds. Drove 45 minutes. Sat through an hour-long interview. And then—“You’re not bipolar enough.” No trial. No check. Just rejection wrapped in fluorescent clinic lighting. At least I could finally eat afterwards—I hadn’t been allowed food for 24 hours.

And here’s the thing: after years of bouncing through meds and doses (they even had me on lithium—the “Britney Spears med”), I’d already made a decision months ago. I stopped taking everything. Didn’t tell a soul. And you know what? No one noticed.

It wasn’t until I admitted it—to John, to my family, even to my original therapist (who admitted she may have misdiagnosed me, but still scheduled a one-month follow-up)—that suddenly everyone had an opinion. “You seem more anxious. More this. More that.” Funny how perception works. When no one knew, I was fine. The moment I said the words, suddenly I wasn’t. People believe what they want to believe. Always.

Here’s my truth: I feel fine. Better than fine. I feel like me. Maybe I feel too much. Maybe I talk too fast. Maybe I shine too bright, burn too hot. But is that a disorder—or is that just me, unapologetically, inconveniently, uncontainably myself?

And maybe—just maybe—being “too much” isn’t a problem at all. Maybe it’s my superpower. 💫