Trigger Warning
This article contains themes of suicidality and self-harm. Discretion is advised.
Living with mental illness is much like wrestling with your own shadow, and coming to terms with it has always felt like an uphill battle. I eventually learned the hard way, though, that it didn’t have to be. Self-acceptance, I’ve realized, isn’t about defeating the shadows; rather, it’s about finding a way to live alongside it.
Once, a local TV station interviewed me about my mental illness, asking me how I would explain depression to someone who’s never experienced it. After a long pause, I finally said:
It feels like you’re trapped inside a deep, dark hole, looking up at your friends and family living their lives, seemingly untouched by what you’re going through. You want nothing more than to climb out and join them, so you try with everything you have. But an overwhelming sadness and emptiness pull you back down every time.
That’s how I would describe depression. It’s being pursued by a dark entity—a shadow creeping up behind you, visible only to you, making each step forward feel like a struggle. This shadow has followed me for most of my life, but it was only a few years ago that it violently made itself known to me.
The Catalyst for Change
In 2020, as she was fighting renal and heart failure, along with colon cancer, my mother was diagnosed with major depressive disorder (MDD).
Fortunately, her mood improved significantly with treatment, and this change catalyzed my decision to seek professional help as well. After explaining to my mom my own struggles, despite not being able to label them fully at the time, she agreed to me undergoing psychiatric treatment.
So, I eventually saw a doctor. However, at the initial consultation, I felt as if my world had been turned upside down: My psychiatrist diagnosed me with the same psychosocial disability as my mother’s. Although there was relief in knowing that the symptoms I had been experiencing all along had a name, that relief quickly turned into fear and denial.
Fear because it meant admitting that I was dealing with something much bigger and scarier than I’d imagined.
Denial because I didn’t want my life to revolve around this illness, and I certainly didn’t want it to define me.
At first, I resisted the diagnosis, hoping it would fade like a lost dream. I stopped seeing my psychiatrist and started ignoring my symptoms, thinking, “If I ignore it long enough, maybe it will go away.” But the reality was much more complicated than that. With each passing day, I would find myself more disconnected from my emotions, all the while pretending that everything was fine on the outside. It became a delicate balancing act—one that left me feeling more isolated and burdened than ever.
A New Low
A year later, my mom passed away, just days shy of her birthday.
At that time, my dad had already left us, and my brother had moved away. That year caused the very foundation of my existence to crumble. In those dark moments, thoughts of ending everything began to creep into my mind, whispering to me that it would be easier to escape the pain than to face it.
Soon, I found myself in the bathroom—my thoughts turning into reality in the form of a kitchen knife. I was clearly at a crossroads; the shadow I was wrestling with overpowered me, but not enough that it felt like there was no other means of escape.
So, in desperation, I sought help from another psychiatrist.
Searching for Answers
For about a year, I diligently followed my new psychiatrist’s orders and recommendations, hoping for improvement. However, despite my best efforts, I didn’t notice any significant changes in my condition. The shadows of extreme lows and extreme highs still seeped into my life, often catching me off guard. Whenever I would try my best to explain this to my psychiatrist, she would shrug it off, saying, “That’s part of depression.” Her dismissive attitude left me feeling unheard and invalidated. Deep down, I sensed that I was dealing with something more than just depression. The fluctuating moods—the intense highs followed by crushing depression—felt like a puzzle missing vital pieces. I yearned for someone to truly understand what I was going through.
Desperate for answers, I decided to seek a second opinion from another psychiatrist. Although he initially diagnosed me with MDD, he explained that he would first need to observe me in an effort to uncover the truth behind my mental health problems. His approach felt more thorough and compassionate, which gave me a glimmer of hope.
While waiting for my final diagnosis, though, I had a severe depressive episode that resulted in me hurting myself. I was brought to the hospital where I was admitted for more than a week. It was during this period in my life that, after observing me for some time, my psychiatrist diagnosed me with a condition I suspected myself to have all along:
I was living with bipolar I disorder.
This diagnosis felt like a double-edged sword; though painful to accept, it also provided the answer I was looking for. For the first time, I understood the reason behind my unpredictable behavior.
As soon as my psychiatrist adjusted my treatment plan, I started to feel like we were heading in the right direction.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt hopeful.
A Rocky Road Ahead
Along the way, though, I realized that having a diagnosis was only the beginning of a much longer and more complicated process.
For nearly 2 years, I found myself in and out of the psychiatric unit, battling the unpredictable swings of my condition. Manic highs propelled me through sleepless days, only to be followed by crippling lows that left me utterly drained and trapped in an exhausting cycle. My emotional deterioration over the past few years, culminating into my most recent confinement, must have been that alarming to my psychiatrist, though, because he eventually concluded the need for more aggressive treatments.
Facing Doubts
Although the prospect of aggressive treatment sparked a flicker of hope, doubts lingered in my mind: What if this didn’t help? What if it was just a temporary fix, leading me back to my old, depressed self? I recalled past treatments that had failed to deliver lasting results, and the weight of potentially living with this condition felt overwhelming. Would I be trapped in a cycle of mood swings forever, unable to find normalcy?
So, in a moment of vulnerability, I asked my psychiatrist whether I would always struggle. He replied:
There are only three possibilities. One, you can’t be cured, which isn’t true—your condition can be managed. Two, you don’t want to get better. And three, you’re scared to get better.
His answer struck a chord within me. In that moment, I realized that my fear of not being cured had transformed into a fear of change that felt equally daunting. What would my life look like if I improved? How would it alter my relationships and identity?
Would I still recognize myself?
Confronting Fear in Pursuit of Self-Acceptance
Over time, though, I began to understand that fear could manifest in many forms. It wasn’t just about the fear of failure or disappointment; it was also about the fear of success and the unknown.
To complicate things further, my fear of getting better might also be stemming from a place of self-protection. After years of grappling with the chaos in my mind, in a strange way, my mental illness had become a part of my identity. Embracing change meant letting go of what I had known, and that unsettled me.
Gradually, I realized that the journey toward self-acceptance is scary. Regardless of how hard I try, I may never fully escape the shadows of my diagnosis. Healing isn’t going to be linear or straightforward; it’s likely to be riddled with obstacles and setbacks that would leave me feeling frustrated and disheartened.
Navigating the Uncharted Waters of Self-Acceptance
My journey toward self-acceptance morphed into an exhausting cycle of self-doubt. Although celebrating small victories was empowering, I would sometimes still feel like a ghost of my former self, wandering through life without a clear sense of purpose or direction.
As time passed by, the notion of normalcy became increasingly elusive, too. No matter how much I wanted to define it for myself, I would always grapple with the unpredictability of my emotions.
Yet, as I sat in my psychiatrist’s office, I realized that I wasn’t alone in this journey. Many individuals navigate the uncharted waters of mental health, battling their own demons and seeking solace in shared experiences. This realization became a lifeline, a reminder that there’s strength in vulnerability and connection.
The Light of Self-Acceptance Amidst the Shadows
Over time, I began to realize that self-acceptance wasn’t about climbing out of the vast, dark pit but rather, about finding ways to live within it. I’ve learned that self-acceptance isn’t about overcoming my condition; it’s about acknowledging its presence in my life and no longer fighting against it at every turn. I’ve come to understand that I can coexist with these shadows and still move forward, inch by inch. Each day, I build a small ladder of resilience—not one that will lift me out entirely of the dark pit, but one that allows me to climb a little higher, finding moments of light along the way.
Self-acceptance isn’t the escape I once longed for; it’s the understanding that I can still find purpose, even while carrying this darkness with me. And in embracing this journey, I hold onto the fragile hope that, amidst the shadows, the light will continue to guide me forward.
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