Surviving myself

In therapy, there are moments where disclosure can be helpful. Sometimes it builds connection. Sometimes it offers normalization. And sometimes disclosure is just about the therapist needing to say their own new thing out loud. Because of that, as therapists, we really have to stop and ask ourselves: is this disclosure for them, or is it for me?

Those of you who work with me, have read my book, or have poked around our website know that I am bipolar. Bipolar doesn’t rule my life, but there are moments where it absolutely grabs the steering wheel. Something happens, I try to make it better, sometimes I succeed, and sometimes I very much do not.

My bipolar symptoms usually involve cycling between mania and depression. Over the last several months, though, I’ve been in a depression that has lingered far longer than what is typical for me. Before that, there were periods of mania, not months at a time, but moments and days where my energy, judgment, and pace were off in ways that mattered. During those times, my behavior wasn’t always something I was proud of. Nothing dramatic or dangerous, but when you’re a parent, a business owner, a therapist, or just a person trying to live with integrity, behavior matters. I had to take accountability, make amends, and look honestly at the ways I had drifted away from who I want to be.

Then came the depression. Most days, getting through life meant crawling. Desk to bed, bed to desk. I did the best I could for my kids. I ordered takeout and meal services because those were the only things I could manage. I made sure they ate, even when I couldn’t get myself into the kitchen. My kids have lived through these seasons with me before, and often without me realizing it at the time, they step in. One gets the mail. One does the dishes. Groceries get put away. The dog gets walked. They quietly handle the things my brain cannot organize when it’s overwhelmed.

This has been the longest depressive episode I’ve ever experienced. Usually, depression lasts days or maybe a week. This has been months. I had a brief window where I thought I was coming out of it, a little energy, a little hope, and then less than two days later I was back in bed. Appointments were canceled. Feeding my kids felt overwhelming. My dog stood over me like a deeply concerned supervisor because he needed a walk. I canceled the housekeeper because I couldn’t tolerate anyone in my space. I showered but refused to wash my hair because water on my face felt overstimulating. I did not do laundry. I want that to be very clear. I did not do laundry. Thankfully, past-me invested heavily in underwear.

I reached out. I called friends. I told people I wasn’t okay. My brother had to take an active role in trying to get me to do something different. And still, I faked it. I smiled when I needed to. I showed up just enough. Inside, I continued to deteriorate. This past week has been the deepest depression I’ve experienced, even if depression has a way of making every low feel like the worst one yet.

I need to be very clear about something here. This is not normal. This is not something to brush off as just one of those phases or a rough patch that will magically resolve on its own. This level of depression should not be ignored, minimized, or normalized as something that just happens. It requires attention, support, and intervention.

Pulling myself out of this has not felt like motivation, insight, or a sudden desire to do better. It has felt like clawing. Like dragging myself inch by inch toward the surface with hands that don’t quite work, fingers slipping, nails bending, no solid ground in sight. There is no breakthrough moment. No clarity. Just effort. Small, unglamorous, sometimes painful effort. Washing my hair felt like a victory. Letting water touch my face felt overwhelming and I did it anyway. Getting out of bed felt like lifting concrete. None of it felt good in the moment. It just felt necessary.

Today, I wanted to do something different and couldn’t.  Hours passed and then... I took a shower. I washed my hair, which was overdue and honestly a public service. I don’t feel great, but I feel better, and that matters.

Doing something different doesn’t mean doing everything. It means one thing. It means asking for help when your own brain is not reliable. It means letting someone else hold the plan for a minute. I’m taking my meds. I’m taking my vitamins. I’m walking the dog. I ordered groceries, cautiously optimistic they won’t meet the same fate as the last several deliveries that never made it past the refrigerator. I let water touch my face even though it feels like too much.

Clawing out is not graceful. It is not inspirational. It is survival. And sometimes survival looks like clean hair, a walked dog, groceries that might get used, and the quiet agreement to keep going for one more day while your kids stay close, making sure their mom doesn’t completely lose her shit one more time.