Bipolar Mum Journey

Happiness. It’s a word thrown around so casually that it almost feels like a finish line we’re all expected to cross. People ask, “Are you happy now?” as if once you say yes, you’ve conquered life, as if it’s the final destination on this twisted, uneven road we’re all walking. But what is happiness, really? Is it something you achieve, a fleeting moment, or just an idea we’ve all been sold? Because when I’m asked if I’m happy, the truth is complicated. No, not really, not in the way people expect.

Instead, there’s this persistent emptiness, this gnawing sense that something is missing. And how could it not be? Imagine being a mother and having your child taken from you, by a broken system and a narcissistic father who manipulates and controls. There’s no way to describe the agony of having a piece of your soul ripped away. Mothers are meant to protect, to nurture, to be there. But what do you do when one of your children isn’t in your arms, when your “pack” is incomplete? You exist, but you don’t feel whole. It’s a kind of pain that no words can truly capture.

And that’s just one layer of it. Add to that the memories, the traumas, the stolen innocence that so many of us endure sometimes at the hands of people we should have been able to trust. For some, it’s a family member; for others, it’s a stranger. But the result is the same: a piece of you is shattered, and no matter how much time passes, the cracks remain visible, even if only to yourself.

I look at my children and feel a fierce pride. Despite everything I’ve been through, I’ve managed to give them the kind of stability and love that I never had. They haven’t lived through the same chaos and heartbreak that shaped me, and for that, I’m grateful. I’ve worked hard to create a safe, nurturing environment for them, and in many ways, they’re my greatest accomplishment. Yet even as I bask in their joy and marvel at who they’re becoming, there’s still that void.

Is it the absence of my son that creates this hollow ache? Or is it something deeper, my dignity, my sense of self, my trust in the world? I try to fill the emptiness by throwing myself into causes, by helping others, by pouring my energy into making the world a better place. And for brief moments, it works. Giving to others gives me purpose, a reason to keep going. But the void remains, lurking in the background, a constant reminder that something is missing.

So, what am I chasing? What am I missing? Is it a person, a feeling, or some intangible sense of peace? Maybe it’s all of those things. Maybe it’s none. All I know is that the idea of being “happy” feels almost like a cruel joke, a societal expectation that ignores the complexities of life and loss.

Maybe happiness isn’t the end goal. Maybe it’s not even possible in the way we’ve been taught to imagine it. Maybe what we should be striving for is something different, contentment, meaning, resilience. Maybe it’s okay to carry the emptiness, to live with the scars, to acknowledge that while we may never feel complete, we can still find moments of beauty and connection.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

P.S: Fuck Medication