The Quiet Weight of Living With Bipolar Disorder

I keep my disease locked away, tucked beneath half-truths and omissions. But silence is its own kind of burden, and I am tired of carrying it alone.

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how to explain that I have been nowhere, that I have disappeared inside myself, that I am a body sinking into sheets and silence. I think, "I should eat," but I don't. "I should answer that text," but I don't. The weight of everything is unbearable, and yet I wake up each morning and bear it again.

The one time I told my mother my diagnosis, it was like she chose to forget it the next day. Maybe she heard it, processed it, and decided it was something that happened to other people. Not to her daughter. Not to the person she raised to be capable, high-achieving, and well-adjusted. Not to the daughter she could be proud of. If she does not acknowledge it, does it cease to exist? And if I don't name it, does it become something else?

My mother messages me in the middle of the day to check in. She tells me to take better care of myself. She sends me videos about holistic remedies, mindfulness, and natural ways to fix what she assumes is just insomnia. I do not have the heart to tell her that this is not something tea can fix. That the medicines aren't just so I can sleep; they're so I can live another day.

And yet, I cannot always trust my mind. There are days when I believe things that are not real. When my own thoughts betray me. I hear and see things that others do not. I know this is a symptom. I know my mind is lying to me. And yet, in the moment, it feels as real as the ground beneath me.

How do you explain that to someone?