MY-BIPOLAR

A day in the life with suicidal thoughts…

Somewhere between the sheets and the ceiling, I became aware of myself—still here. Still in this body. Still trapped inside this quiet, numb, and unbearably heavy version of life.

Unable to move. Not because of pain or injury. But because everything—every thought, every breath, every motion—felt like a heavy mental weight.

And that’s the part that breaks me.

I used to race marathons. I’ve finished an Ironman. I’ve skied across entire mountain ranges. But today?

Getting out of bed, feels almost impossible.

How does it feel?

It feels like being erased from your own life.
Like you’re stuck behind glass, watching everything happen without you.
Like you exist in slow motion, while the world runs around your stillness.

I feel gone.
The version of me who was sharp, social, strong—that person’s been quiet for a long time now.
What’s left stares blankly, listens to the hum of silence, and thinks:
maybe I just won’t exist today.

The guilt piles up fast.
I see my partner carrying more than they should.
I see my kids watching, silently checking if I’m “okay.”
I want to be present. I want to be better.
But my limbs feel tied to the bed.

The thoughts keeps me in darkness …

Negative thoughts are draining. Like background noise, they won’t switch off.
“You’re broken.”
“This will never change.”
“Everyone is better off, if I am are not here.”

I know the thoughts lies. I do.
But they feel so real. They hurt. So convincing.
They settle into every quiet space and repeat themselves until they’re all I hear.

They follow me into the night.
They keep my in darkness on able to get up in the morning.
And sometimes, they don’t sound like thoughts anymore.

You start to think:
Would it hurt?
How could it be done?
Would they forgive me if I left a good note?

I’ve gone there.
Not because I hate life.
But because the idea of not existing seems like the only thing that would bring relief.
No cry for help.
Just—gone.

How Do I Keep Moving Forward?

I didn’t do it.
Not because I found hope.
Not because the darkness faded.

I stayed because of something small—
something that would seem insignificant to anyone else, but was enough for me.
A breath.
A memory.
A voice from my partner, or my kids.

That’s all it took. Not hope. Not healing.
Just one reason to wait—
an hour longer, another night, one more morning.
I kept staying for just one more moment.

I took my medication, even when it blurred the edges of who I am.
I got out of bed, even when my mind barely felt real.
I said “I’m fine,” even when I wasn’t—
because saying anything meant I was still here.

It isn’t recovery.
It’s endurance.
This isn’t success.
It’s survival.

This is what staying alive looks like for me.

Small things that to help you stay

Be still with music
“Saturn” by Sleeping at Last – Listen here
“Breathe Me” by Sia – Listen here

Step outside, even just to the door
– Let your body feel the air.
– You don’t have to walk far—just breathe where the world moves.

Say one sentence
– To a partner. A friend. A voice note. Even if it’s: “I can’t talk, but I need you.”
– Let someone hold space with you.

Stay with your meds
– Even when you feel numb.
– Medication isn’t supposed to fix you. It’s there to hold the floor steady beneath you.

Lie down and don’t act
– You don’t have to be productive. You don’t have to feel better.
– You just have to stay alive. That’s enough for today.

Notice one small thing
– A color. A song lyric. A scent. The shape of light on your wall.
– Let it remind you that you’re still here.

A Gentle Reminder to Myself?

Suicidal thoughts in bipolar depression don’t always come as crisis.
Sometimes they arrive with calm.
With a steady voice saying: This is your way out.

If that’s where you are right now, I get it.
You’re not weak.
You’re not broken.
You’re not alone.

You don’t need to fix yourself today.
You don’t need to explain.
You don’t need to “get better.”

You just need to stay.
Even in the dark.
Even when it’s quiet.
Even if you’re only breathing.

That’s enough.

Suicidal Thoughts

Suicidal thoughts are a painful and often hidden part of bipolar type 2. They rarely come with drama—more often, they arrive quietly, as a calm, logical idea: “Maybe not being here would be easier.”

For people with bipolar type 2, the risk is serious. Research shows that up to 50% experience suicidal thoughts, and 10–20% attempt suicide. The overall risk of dying by suicide is estimated to be 20 times higher than in the general population.

It’s not weakness. It’s a symptom.
And even when everything feels hopeless, staying one more hour, one more day. Stay with the hope, it will make a difference.

You are not alone. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, hopeless, or thinking about suicide, it’s important to know that help is available and things can get better.

Call emergency services if you’re in danger or feel like you might hurt yourself.

Local psychiatric emergency units are open 24/7 and can provide urgent care.