The Hidden Abuse Behind "Bipolar": A Story of Factitious Disorder by Proxy

In darkness’ hold, a twisted plot unfolds

Her whispered lies, a treacherous mold

Not just the bruises, but the wounds unseen

Her callous truths, a shadowed screen

A desperate thirst for eyes that see her pain

Yet blind to the harm, like a haunting stain

Her child, a pawn in a game so vile

A victim of her deceitful guile

The echoed screams, a haunting sound

In silence, the scars deep and profound

Beholden to an expert in manipulation 

Caught in a web of falsification

Caressed by words that cut so deep

Illusions shatter, secrets to keep

For in her façade of care and concern

Lies a darkness for which we yearn

So, let the truth be known, let it ring clear

For in the light, there’s nothing to fear

A tale of factitious disorder by proxy told

In whispers of the lies, and truths untold

The trauma I endured growing up can't truly be captured in words or explained by a diagnosis. However, I’ve come to recognize the pattern of behaviors that reflect something much deeper than a typical case of bipolar disorder. My mother wasn’t diagnosed with Factitious Disorder, but I believe it fits the circumstances of my childhood—just not in the way most people would expect. It's not about physical abuse; it’s about control, manipulation, and the way she weaponized my mental health against me.

You might be familiar with the case of Gypsy Rose Blanchard, a young woman who endured both physical and mental abuse at the hands of her mother, who fabricated illnesses and convinced everyone that her daughter was constantly sick. While my experience doesn’t compare to Gypsy's in every way, the parallel lies in the way my mother twisted my health issues for her own benefit, creating a reality where I was constantly medicated, compliant, and silenced.

I grew up hearing my mother tell people that she was "afraid of me" and "locked her door at night." As a child, I couldn't understand why. Now, as an adult, I see it clearly. When you're treated a certain way for so long, when your voice is silenced, your behavior becomes a response—a reaction to the years of suppression and manipulation. This is often referred to as reactive abuse, where the victim’s natural reactions to being mistreated are used against them as proof of their instability.

I never once had an intention of hurting my mother, but the years of mistreatment, the constant invalidation of my feelings, and the emotional control she exerted over me led to behaviors that terrified her. She couldn’t see that she was the one driving me to the edge with her abuse. She couldn’t see how her actions were the reason behind the very behaviors she feared.

Whenever I disagreed with her or stood up for myself, whether it was laughing at a joke she didn’t find funny, not agreeing with her opinion, or refusing to lie for her, I was sent to the doctor. She'd tell them that I was out of control, that I was defiant, manipulative, and a liar. And every time, the doctors would just increase my medication. My "bipolar" symptoms, they said, were being managed with more pills. In truth, I wasn’t being treated for a disorder; I was being chemically restrained. I was zombified, made compliant, and silenced under the guise of medical care.

What my mother didn’t understand—or perhaps didn’t want to—was that her actions, her manipulation, and her emotional control over me were causing the very behaviors she claimed to fear. My desire to speak up, to ask questions, to be a normal child, was suffocated by the over-medication. The fact that I felt broken, worthless, and invisible was the result of her actions, not some inherent flaw in me.

As a child, I often found myself defending my curiosity and ideas, only to be dismissed. I remember once asking my mother about aliens when I was 15, just as a curious kid might. I told her that I believed they could exist, and instead of being met with an open conversation, I was belittled. She yelled at me, called me a moron, and told me that my "mania" was returning. She went so far as to tell our family and even my therapists that I was having delusions, even though I had done nothing more than express a thought. She exaggerated everything about me, framing me as a case of delusions, when in reality, I was simply trying to make sense of a world that had been so cruel to me.

The real tragedy was that I learned to conform. Over time, I realized that saying “I don’t know” and agreeing with my mother’s narrative was the easiest way to avoid the consequences of her fury. This was how I survived. I complied, even when it meant losing my own voice and perspective. It was safer to conform than to challenge her lies.

In these doctor’s appointments, my mother would receive so much sympathy. The doctors, unaware of her manipulations, would praise her for being such a dedicated mother. They would reassure her that she was doing everything right, even as they handed me more medication to "manage" my so-called bipolar disorder. The system failed me by validating her lies and ignoring my truth. It’s a classic case of what’s now understood as Factitious Disorder by Proxy.

To put it simply, Factitious Disorder involves creating or exaggerating symptoms of illness to gain attention or sympathy. When the "Proxy" is involved—meaning someone else is affected—it usually happens in a parent-child relationship, with the parent (most often the mother) controlling the narrative of the child’s health. In my case, my mother used my mental health as a tool to manipulate others and to maintain control over me.

The question remains: What happens when the person who should be protecting you is the one making you ill? When the person who should be nurturing your growth is the one causing you to shrink? How do you recover from a life where you were conditioned to believe that your voice didn’t matter, that your reality wasn’t valid, and that you were broken beyond repair?

This is my truth, and it's one that, unfortunately, many people who’ve experienced Factitious Disorder by Proxy can relate to. While the symptoms may not be physical, the emotional and psychological scars are real and deep. I am learning to heal, to find my voice again, and to break free from the grip of that manipulation.

This journey isn’t easy, but it’s a necessary one. And by sharing this, I hope to shed light on the lesser-known forms of abuse, to give others the courage to speak up, and to remind everyone that the system does not always protect those who need it most. It’s time we change that.