Bipolar Wasn’t My Diagnosis—It Was My Sentence

Bipolar, an illness I never had

But they labeled me, and my life turned so bad

Lithium, a medication I didn’t need

Ruined my body, sowed the poisonous seed

They listened to her, but never to me

Caught in the web of doubt and scrutiny

They didn’t spot the signs that were plain to see

Just another profession manipulated by abuse, woe is me

My mind was a battleground, a war within

Struggling to break free from the chains, so thin

But no one seemed to understand my plight

Trapped in a world of darkness, devoid of light

I fought against the demons, day, and night

Hoping to find solace, hoping to make things right

But the stigma and the ignorance, they stung

As I battled against the tide, where my voice was sung

Bipolar, an illness I never knew

Lithium, a medication that left me so askew

But through it all, I refuse to be defined

By the labels and the misconceptions of my mind

I’ll rise above the judgment and the shame

And reclaim my power, my spirit aflame

For I am more than the battles I have fought

I am strong, resilient, and I refuse to be caught

In the web of ignorance and deceit

I will rise, I will conquer, and I won’t accept defeat

For I am not just a diagnosis, not just a name

I am a warrior, a survivor, and I’ll rise above the blame

Bipolar. A diagnosis I never actually had. But once they labeled me, everything changed.

I was 15 when the word “bipolar” was stamped onto my medical file—and my life. I didn’t fit the diagnosis, but that didn’t matter. One doctor said it, and the rest followed without question. No one listened to me. They listened to my mother. And just like that, my identity, my care, and my future were shaped by someone else’s version of my reality.

I was prescribed lithium—a medication I never needed—and it wrecked me. It didn’t make me better. It didn’t stabilize me. It sedated me. I became a shell of myself: drooling, exhausted, detached. At times, I literally pissed myself in my sleep because the doses were so high I couldn’t wake up. My mother says that’s when I “got better”—but what she means is, I stopped resisting her. I didn’t have the strength to argue anymore.

This diagnosis didn’t just affect my treatment. It bled into every corner of my life. If I cried, I was off my meds. If I laughed, I was manic. If I disagreed with anyone, I was “unstable.” Every emotion became suspect. Every decision—especially if it went against someone else’s comfort—was labeled as a symptom.

No one ever asked what I’d been through. No one considered that the real cause might be trauma. That risky behaviors could be rooted in abuse. That intense emotions might be part of something else—something more complex, more human. Instead, they simplified me into a diagnosis that served their narrative.

Eventually, I moved out of state just to be heard. To finally have professionals reevaluate me without bias. And guess what? I wasn’t bipolar. I never was.

Turns out, like so many others diagnosed in the early 2000s, my symptoms were the result of trauma. Of Complex PTSD. Possibly BPD. Maybe AuDHD. Or something else entirely. The point is, we were hurting. We were kids, teens, and adults trying to survive abuse, neglect, and unimaginable pain—and instead of being helped, we were drugged and dismissed.

Misdiagnosis isn’t just a clerical error. It’s a detour on your life path. It can harm your health, destroy your self-esteem, and damage your relationships. In my case, it stole years. And it nearly stole me.

But I’m still here.

I’m speaking out, not because I want pity, but because others need to know they’re not alone. If you've been misdiagnosed—especially with bipolar disorder when your reality is rooted in trauma—you are not crazy. You are not broken. You are not beyond help.

You're human.

You're surviving.

And you deserve care that actually sees you.