Bipolar Mum Journey

Well, well, it seems my blog has taken a rather serious turn lately. That’s the thing about being neurodivergent (yes, bipolar is part of that club, thank you very much) when we feel, we feel. Deeply. Passionately. Unapologetically. And we’ve got a strong sense of justice to match.

But oh, wait according to the ever-so-enlightened patriarchy, I’m not a person with feelings or justice or, apparently, even a soul. No, no, they branded me a sociopath. Charming, right? My forensic psychologist even stamped it official: no empathy, no feelings, no regard for humanity. Which, of course, makes perfect sense just look at how I raised three thriving, compassionate children who excel at everything they touch. Textbook sociopathy right there.

Oh, and let’s not forget my habit of talking to literally everyone, from all walks of life. The more complex and messed up your story is, the more I want to connect unless you hurt kids, in which case I’ll see to you myself. (Whoops, did I just promote violence? My bad, I forgot that standing against rapists, child abusers, and women beaters makes me the real villain. Someone hand me a scarlet letter, stat.)

Honestly, it’s laughable. They want to weaponise my trauma against me, slap a label on my head, and call it a day. As if my reactions to a lifetime of SHIT weren’t completely warranted. But here’s the thing: I didn’t have to be public about my diagnosis. I could’ve hidden it, stayed quiet, and let the patriarchy keep their little weapon.

But I’m not here for that. I’m here to shine a light on how systems designed to “help” us actually silence and punish us. I’m here to show how they twist the narrative so that we’re the problem, instead of acknowledging the hell we’ve endured.

So watch me fight this. Watch me refuse to be silenced. Watch me challenge the absurdity of a world that thinks branding me a sociopath erases my humanity. Because here’s the truth: I’m living proof that their labels don’t define us.