No One Was Coming to Save Me

WebMD

16-05-2025

For years, I thought my emotional highs and lows were just part of life, maybe even part of being human. But over time, I began to realize something wasn't quite right.
As a psychiatric nurse practitioner and therapist, I sought therapy to stay balanced. Not just for myself, but for my clients. Yet during my own sessions, I noticed a pattern: I felt like a completely different person depending on the day.
Some sessions, I cried uncontrollably and felt emotionally hollow. Other days, I was hopeful, energetic, even impulsive. I'd overspend, take on too much, and react strongly in my relationships. These drastic shifts seemed normal to me because I'd grown up in an environment shaped by mental illness. My mother lived with severe bipolar disorder with psychosis. Because I didn't experience the latter, I assumed I was fine.
But deep down, I knew something was off.
The Signs I Missed
Looking back, the symptoms of bipolar disorder were apparent.
As a teenager, I stayed up for days, cleaning obsessively and scrubbing the grit between every tile. I had episodes of dissociation and sudden risky behavior. I snuck out at night and stole my parents' cars. There were legal troubles and hypersexuality. I became a teen mom. But even then, I didn't see these as symptoms. To me, they were survival responses to trauma. I minimized them because that's what I'd learned to do.
I often felt trapped, like my own mind was a prison. I remember lying on my closet floor, crying and wondering why no one cared. Not even my own parents. One day, I sat alone in a dark room, overwhelmed by a wave of depression so heavy I could physically feel it. I asked myself a question I hadn't before: Does anyone even know I'm struggling?
The truth was that I hadn't told anyone. I hadn't asked for help.
That moment changed everything. I realized that I'd been waiting for someone to notice, to save me. But I also realized that no one was coming to save me.
I wrote those words down, over and over again. And then I made a decision. If no one else could save me, I'd save myself.
Despite helping others professionally, I judged myself harshly. I didn't believe someone like me could live with bipolar disorder. I was high-functioning. I was successful. But that's the myth: that mental illness has a certain look or level of functioning. It doesn't.
So I did what I'd told so many of my clients to do: I reached out to a provider. I got help. And that step changed everything.
What Getting Help Gave Me
Getting a diagnosis and starting treatment not only saved my mental health, it also saved my relationships, my marriage, and my connection with my children. Most importantly, it gave me back my relationship with myself.
It taught me that healing isn't about pretending you're OK. It's about being honest enough to ask for support. It's about letting go of shame and embracing the reality that even caregivers, clinicians, and 'high-functioning' people need care, too.
Final Thoughts
Living with bipolar disorder isn't easy. But it's not a life sentence. It's a manageable condition with the right support. My story is just one example of how reaching out for help can be a turning point. Not a sign of weakness, but one of the bravest choices you can make.