March 30th; World Bipolar Day, in honour of Vincent van Gogh’s birthday. Renowned, but troubled Dutch painter, diagnosed posthumously with the disorder. An artistic genius, identified as little more than a madman while alive. Maybe someone will stumble upon my writings after my death and brand me a literary genius. Most probably not.

Growing up with undiagnosed bipolar was a challenge. My tutor at secondary school described me in my report as, “Experiencing more ups and downs than her peers.” Too right. With hindsight I had my first hypomanic phase at around 14 or 15. And before that I was very depressed, but that was unsurprising given I was being viciously bullied at school and sexually abused by my mother’s bloke.

I took my maths ‘O’ Level exam at the end of my fourth year (now known as year 10). I remember silently humming a song on a loop in my head that I’d learned at church, throughout the whole process. Somehow I passed the exam, I was considered bright, but my brain was in overdrive that day.

I was first identified as having mental health issues in my twenties, but was only ever diagnosed with depression at that time. I was a student mental health nurse when I spectacularly broke down. The charge nurse who headed up the ward where I was on placement said to me, “I don’t know what to make of you, one minute you’re bouncing off the walls, the next you’re depressed as anything!” For someone running an acute psychiatric ward, I think he missed a trick there. There was definitely more to my mood disorder than straight depression, but my psychiatrist at the time was adamant I didn’t go high. My GP knew it, he’d seen it, but I used to taunt him saying, “You calling me manic? My shrink says I don’t go high!” Poor man.

I had, I think four voluntary hospital admissions in my twenties. The memories are hazy. I was chemically coshed for my own safety. I also was prescribed antidepressants that are contraindicated in bipolar, making me worse. But I always found friendship amongst the other patients. In the real world I felt different. In mental health circles I fitted in.

I had a couple more spells of mild hypomania in the subsequent years, but it was a quiet period for me on the whole. No medication for 14 years. I had my son (and despite many women with bipolar apparently experiencing mania/hypomania postnatally) I stayed well.

I still stayed reasonably well when my late husband died. Some people felt it necessary to point out they thought I was depressed, but I was surviving. Loss is never easy. Single parenting isn’t easy. Lone parenting a grieving child while trying to deal with your own emotions is nothing short of hell. But I hung in there, still medication free.

It was only when my own mother died that the floodgates of the last five years of living with grief and being strong burst open, and life was irreparable. To be honest, it hasn’t been the same since.

I received my diagnosis of Bipolar 2 in 2015 at the age of 44. The year previous I was picked up by the police from a tall building and taken to hospital; sectioned under the mental health act. Section 136 pertains to being mentally disordered in a public place. For me that equated to being suicidal on the tenth floor of the car park. The approved social worker who assessed me wanted to send me home. I begged them to let me stay in the hospital for a while until I felt safer. Reluctantly they relented but it was made very obvious they disapproved highly of my request. They didn’t understand me. It seems I don’t fit the mould for a psych patient; even when acutely ill I have insight and intelligence intact, which leads people to the conclusion I must be fine.

Even after another couple of weeks as an inpatient, no one picked up on the fact that I was both up and down in mood during my stay. I was wide awake until 3am every night, agitated, feeling like a caged animal in my room, because I couldn’t pace the corridors at night like I did in the day, for fear of disturbing others.

When finally I was diagnosed with bipolar, the first mood stabiliser I took was horrible. I felt empty and nauseous much of the time. If I ate, I felt better, but consequently piled on so much weight. People with bipolar are more susceptible to type 2 diabetes, heart disease, stroke and circulatory problems. Mainly because the medications used in bipolar cause weight gain or hunger. In an attempt to keep brain chemistry in order, physical body has to suffer. The straw that broke the camel’s back with that first medication though was the bed wetting. It was unworkable for me. I genuinely felt I had enough to deal with.

I subsequently made the difficult decision to start taking lithium to stabilise my mood, but despite not being a particularly nice drug, it has been reasonably painless for me. I can live with the three-monthly blood tests, the taking it the same time each day (mostly) and staying well hydrated. Generally keeping my alcohol intake low. And going to bed by 11pm (usually). The bedtime thing is down to the illness rather than the meds actually. Additionally I did thorough mood tracking at the beginning, but the lithium generally keeps me at a level, and I’m more than familiar with what signs and symptoms to be aware of now.

The level lithium keeps me at is, at least in my mind, questionable. I am living with a low-key depression all the time. More exhaustion and lack of motivation than actual low mood. But I also take a very low dose of antipsychotic medication at bedtime, just to still my mind and help me settle. So that could be responsible for my weariness. Or the chronic pain I live with. Or the effects of living with serious mental illness. Who knows?

I know I can’t work anymore. Again, probably a combination of the aforementioned factors, but I do feel like since the bipolar diagnosis, life has been very compromised. I miss my work in the nursery, but realistically who wants a nutter caring for their precious preschooler? I’d have thought twice in my previous ignorance. There’s more misunderstanding and stigma still around mental illness than I think people care to admit.

We’re accustomed to seeing bipolar celebrities like Britney, Kanye, and Kerry Katona having very public meltdowns. At some point, these crises are likely to happen in the life of any person with bipolar, we’re just not so obviously recognised. Staying medicated helps, but it’s not foolproof. Trying to live a healthy lifestyle helps. But healthy choices and depression don’t tend to sit well together. It’s a challenge.

So what do I have to look forward to as a middle aged woman with bipolar disorder? Well, apparently bipolar can become less stable and more symptomatic as we get older. Oh joy. And then there’s the life expectancy thing. For years the statistic went that the average life expectancy of someone with bipolar was 59. I’m already 51. Currently, the statistics seem to suggest a life expectancy of 9-20 years less than average. For a UK woman that gives me 61-72 years. Okay. I should probably be living life to the full right now. If only I had the energy…