I used to think mania was the hardest part of bipolar disorder. It’s loud. It’s noticeable. It comes in with a force that’s hard to miss. But real unshakable bipolar depression is different. It’s quieter. And in many ways, it’s even more terrifying.

For me depression feels like disappearing.

Depression is not just sadness but a creeping fog that erodes everything you know

It’s not just sadness. Sadness at least in my experience has shape. It has a reason a focus a narrative you can follow. Depression is more like fog. It rolls in slowly distorts everything and numbs whatever it touches. It takes color from your favorite things energy from your body and thoughts from your mind. It’s a hollowing out that happens so gradually you don’t even notice at first. Then one day you’re lying in bed wondering how many days have passed since you last felt like yourself.

On those days brushing my teeth feels impossible. Answering a simple text feels overwhelming. I can hear the world moving on outside my window and I watch it all like someone stuck behind glass. I’m there but I’m not really there. I become a spectator in my own life.

And the worst part isn’t just the heaviness although that’s crushing. It’s the guilt. The guilt of disappearing. Of canceling plans. Of not being myself. The guilt of watching the dishes pile up the messages go unanswered the to do list grow longer. I feel like I’m failing at life like everyone else got a manual I missed. There’s shame in that stillness. Shame in the silence.

Even the smallest acts of self care can become powerful victories on your hardest days

But over time I’ve had to learn a new kind of measurement. I’ve had to redefine what success looks like when I’m in that place. Survival on the hard days is a kind of success. Sometimes victory is drinking a glass of water or putting on clean clothes or texting one person to say I’m having a hard day.

Those tiny moments of movement matter. They remind me I’m still here even if I don’t feel like I’m fully alive in the moment. They’re the small signals that I haven’t disappeared completely. That part of me is still trying still reaching for the surface.

I’ve built what I call a low day list. It’s nothing fancy just a few gentle tasks that feel possible even when nothing else does. Sit up in bed. Open a window. Play one calming song. Eat something even if it’s just toast or a handful of crackers. These aren’t cures. They won’t snap me out of a depressive episode. But they’re anchors. They tether me to the present moment even just a little. They’re proof that I can still care for myself even in small quiet ways.

Building a simple toolkit and leaning on trusted friends can help you stay tethered when the fog rolls in

And when I’m not in the thick of it I prepare. I’ve learned to talk about the fog before I’m inside it. I’ve let my close friends know what to watch for when I go silent when I start turning down plans when my messages become vague or stop altogether. I’ve told them how to check in without pressure. A simple thinking of you or I’m here if you want to talk can crack open a little light.

Medication helps too. It doesn’t erase depression but it builds a more stable floor underneath me. It softens the edges. It gives me a better chance of catching myself before I fall too far. And therapy has taught me tools although using them in the middle of a crash isn’t always easy. Knowing what to do and being able to do it are two very different things when your brain feels like it’s turned off the lights.

So I’ve had to learn patience. I’ve had to learn to sit with the discomfort even when I want to run from it. I’ve learned to wait out the lies my mind tells me the ones that say I’ll never feel better that I’m too much or not enough that this is all I’ll ever be. I know now that the voice in my head that says you’ll feel like this forever is lying. I’ve outlasted that voice more times than I can count. And every time I make it through I trust myself a little more.

Even when it feels like you are disappearing you are still here and that matters more than you know

If you’re reading this while you’re in the middle of a low I want you to know something. You’re not broken. You’re not lazy. You’re not a burden. You’re just in the thick of something incredibly hard. And you won’t be in this place forever.

The fog lifts. Slowly yes. Unevenly absolutely. But it does lift. There is life beyond this moment even if you can’t see it right now.

I know how quiet this place can feel. I know how long a day can stretch when you’re moving through it in slow motion. But even if all you did today was breathe and stay alive that matters. Even if today felt like disappearing you’re still here. That matters more than you know.

Hold on. You don’t have to be better today. You don’t have to climb out of it all at once. Just stay. Let this be your reminder this moment is not the end of your story.

You are still here. And that is enough.

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