My name is Pedro and I live with Bipolar Disorder.
It’s been one hell of a year for my mental health.
Everything came crashing down at the end of August and through September of 2023. At first, I felt incredible—like I was on top of the world. I figured the Wellbutrin my doctor prescribed for anxiety had finally kicked in. Plus, we had just returned from our first trip abroad. Life felt full and exciting. Looking back, though, the shift in time zones may have played a bigger role than I realized.
I barely needed sleep. I was bursting with energy, checking things off my to-do list with ease. I threw myself into work with an obsessive focus, spending day and night on my computer chasing what felt like brilliant ideas. At night, I relied on heavy pours of botanical gin to wind down. I chased pleasure like a drug—any kind of pleasure. My libido became its own fixation, to the point of accidentally and physically hurting myself. Still, I felt positive, social, and energized. I would have referred to this time as the good days.
But within weeks, the noise in my head grew deafening—louder than it had been since I was a teenager. I drank every night, not just to dull the volume, but because alcohol intensified the euphoria I craved. I stayed up until 3 or 4 a.m. scrolling endlessly, then woke up just a few hours later to start my day. I chatted online—sometimes with friends in other time zones, sometimes with strangers. Eventually, I started waking up to conversations I didn’t remember. I was blacking out.
Then came the apex of what I now recognize as a full-blown manic episode—one of the most intense I’d had in over a decade. It was different from the hypomanic episodes I had come to know. Risky, out-of-character behavior snowballed into chaos. One night, I passed out on the couch around 5 a.m., knowing I had to be up in four hours for an event. I woke up, hungover and disoriented, wondering why I wasn’t in my bed. When I checked my phone, panic set in. The messages I’d sent the night before were horrifying. I had created a mess that would affect not just me, but others.
That entire day felt like walking a tightrope. I slapped on a smile and showed up, even though I felt completely empty inside. Disconnected. Numb. The only thing that felt real was the nausea—less from the hangover and more from shame, fear, and nerves. The worst part? I felt like I was dealing with the aftermath of someone else’s actions. But deep down, I knew it was me. A version of me I didn’t recognize, but me nonetheless.
That’s when I knew I needed help.
I remembered that my insurance offered therapy through Headspace Care, a telehealth platform. I finally signed up. The first sessions felt familiar. I’m good at therapy—I love it—and I’d missed it. We started scratching the surface of childhood trauma, the usual starting point.
But by November, something shifted. One session, my therapist began asking a string of specific questions—clearly a screening of some sort. By the end, she said something that landed like both a shock and a revelation:
“I think you have a classic case of Bipolar Disorder. If you’re open to it, I’d like to refer you to one of our psychologists.”
Was this it? Was this the answer behind so many of the patterns and struggles I’d lived with? I felt equal parts curious and hopeful. I said yes.
The psychologist wasn’t available until January. So I waited.
In January 2024, I was officially diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.
What I wasn’t expecting was the year-long journey that would follow—experimenting with medications, adjusting doses, and slowly building a rhythm with support from both a therapist and a psychologist. For the first time, I had a team. And that felt… really good.
By summer, my original therapist left Headspace, but before she did, she matched me with someone new: a queer Latina therapist who would become one of the most supportive people in my life. I still see her today.
I’ve learned a lot since then.
Bipolar isn’t just a mood disorder—it’s a behavioral condition deeply tied to circadian rhythm. Winter? I need my light therapy lamp to fight off depression. Summer? I have to limit sun exposure to avoid triggering mania. I’ve learned what rapid cycling looks like—flipping between depressive and hypomanic states over days or even within a single day. Exhausting doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I’ve learned how to recognize the symptoms of both mania and depression. I’ve learned to rely on my care team, to be honest about how I’m feeling, and to communicate when things start to shift. I’ve learned about brain chemistry, and how my own genetic makeup likely carries this condition—something I now recognize in my family tree.
Most importantly, I’ve learned how to live with Bipolar Disorder.
Almost one year after my diagnosis, we’ve finally found the right balance of three medications. Together, they stabilize dopamine, serotonin, and norepinephrine—fancy words for a simple outcome: I now live in the space between depression and mania, most of the time. It’s not perfect, but it’s stable.
And that stability has transformed my anxiety, my focus, my ability to connect, and the way I show up in the world.
And honestly—what could be better than that?
