The Bipolar Path

By Carin Aharon

I struggle to find my place.

Some days I feel like I’m floating above life, watching everyone else know exactly who they are. Other days, I feel like I’m too much.

Too intense, too loud, too sensitive, too everything.

And still, there are days when I feel invisible.

Living with bipolar disorder means constantly navigating these extremes. It’s not just about moods.

It’s about identity. It’s about presence. It’s about learning how to act. Not in a fake way.

But in a way that doesn’t scare people off or leave me picking up the pieces of something I didn’t mean to break.

Right now, I’m going through a breakup. And it’s cracking open things I thought I’d already healed.

I’m on medication, and it helps. It really does. It keeps the worst from swallowing me whole.

From me – disappearing into the sofa for days.

But medication doesn’t stop the pain of heartbreak. It doesn’t silence the ache of wondering if I’m simply hard to love. Or the voice that whispers, maybe this is your fault.

There’s also this deeper fear running beneath it all: What the fuck am I gonna do?

It feels too late to start over sometimes.

This – this version of living, of managing, of surviving – it’s the only thing I know.

And ever since I’ve known myself, I’ve been the one blamed when things fall apart. Mostly because of my moods. When something went wrong in a relationship, it was always me they turned to as the problem.

I tried to argue it wasn’t really me – but nothing was there to defend. Nothing solid to hold onto.

Just emotion, reaction, confusion. And silence.

That part of me still aches. The part that tried to explain, to hold on to some version of myself that wasn’t just “the problem.”

When you’re constantly being told it’s your fault, it starts to sink in. You begin to wonder if love and stability are even yours to claim.

I’ve hurt people I love. That’s hard to admit. Even when I was overwhelmed or unwell, the guilt still lingers. I’m not here to justify it. I’m here to face it. Writing this is part of that process – letting go of the need to lie, even to myself.

There’s a unique kind of loneliness in masking your condition, pretending you’re okay when you’re not. But there’s also a different kind of loneliness in revealing it – and being met with silence.

I’ve learned something from that silence, though: sometimes it gives birth to clarity.

When you stop pretending and just stand there in your truth, your real people find you. Or maybe, more importantly, you find yourself.

The hardest part of all this is balance. Every day feels like a tightrope.

One wrong step and I might tip into overdrive – or vanish into fog. Even with medication, even with support, there’s no easy formula for feeling okay.

It’s a constant recalibration of energy, emotion, and intention.

Sometimes I feel like I was made to walk on eggshells – always careful, always aware, always trying not to hurt anyone else or explode into pieces myself.

But maybe that carefulness isn’t a weakness.

Maybe it’s a kind of strength.

Maybe it’s what’s teaching me how to be softer with others, and kinder with my own heart.

This blog isn’t here to give answers. It’s here to tell the truth.

And the truth is: I’m hurting, but I’m healing. I’m confused, but I’m not lost. I’m bipolar, and I’m doing my best to stay grounded in the middle of a heartbreak I didn’t expect.

If you’re feeling the same – if you’re navigating love, loss, identity, or just trying to understand yourself – I see you.

You’re not too much. You’re not broken. You’re walking your own quiet path, just like I am.