My mom knew something wasn’t right when I was eight years old and crying in my room. She asked what was wrong. I said, “It’s like there’s this dark cloud over my head that won’t go away."

This seemed like a level of sadness that an eight-year-old shouldn’t be experiencing. I was taken to therapy, but was held back from a diagnosis until I was 12 and started having suicidal thoughts.



I was originally misdiagnosed as depressed, at which point they put me on an antidepressant. All was well until I ended up in the hospital due to a reaction to the medication. Bipolar people can’t be on just antidepressants, my family would eventually find out.

I went to a new doctor and was correctly diagnosed. For the next seven-ish years I was in and out of hospitals, changing medications frequently, getting every bad reaction possible, until I finally landed on a dosage and combination where the side effects were manageable and my mental state was balanced enough.