Bipolar Mum Journey

Growing up, I didn’t have much understanding of mental health. It was simple: you’re either crazy or you’re not, an addict or you’re not, a bad person or you’re not. There was no discussion about different diagnoses. Even today, getting diagnosed is a lengthy process, often happening after you’ve already ruined your life. I remember my adoptive grandmother taking me to the doctor when I was around six years old, expressing concerns that something wasn’t right with me. The doctor dismissed it as abandonment issues and bad genes, a typical response in those days.

I always hated school and never fitted in, nor did I try to. At 13, I wore a Teletubbie bag to stand out, refusing to follow trends like sporting the latest Morgan or Nike bag. I only attended school if I liked the teacher. When I did go, I often ended up in the medical room, insisting they send me home. My form tutor suggested the school refer me for a diagnosis, suspecting an underlying issue. I refused, saying, “I’m not going to be told I’m more of a freak than I already feel.” Eventually, I was expelled at 15 due to poor attendance and had to finish my GCSEs at a provisional college. I managed to complete my exams and secure a place on a childcare course at college.

Alcohol never mixed well with my chemically imbalanced brain. During a night out, a fight broke out in a pizza parlour, and I imitated the chaos by throwing a milkshake bottle, which hit a boy from my school in the head. This led to my arrest and a battery charge, ruining my chance to work with children and forcing me to switch to a business course. Despite the issues, drinking remained my only escape from my internal struggles. Over the years, my criminal charges piled up with my abusive ex and my own mother called me a nut job, (disillusioned by the lies of my ex’s narcissistic nature). However, I believed her and continued down this path of destruction, it even resulted in a two and a half year prison sentence.

The prison guards often remarked on my unstable behaviour, wondering if I had been diagnosed with a mental condition. I would laugh and say, “No, I’m just a crazy bi**h.” They were shocked that a small 23-year-old woman like me was a prolific violent offender with a MAPPA 2 status, typically a status associated with male prisoners. I didn’t fully understand it myself until I was released and found myself ostracised by society, still without a diagnosis.

By this point, I had two children and lived alone in Nottingham while my partner worked away during the week. I would make numerous doctor’s appointments, pleading for help. A referral was made, but my struggles were dismissed. Frustrated, my partner insisted on further action, and I was prescribed Depakote to help balance me out. However, I stopped taking it due to weight gain, which led to a severe episode of psychosis and an arrest. They decided to re-assess me, Initially diagnosing me with schizophrenia, a few appointments later my diagnosis was later adjusted to bipolar disorder. At 27, I finally had an explanation for my behaviour however, it took further self sabotage, more assessments and another diagnosis to receive adequate help.