I Was Afraid That Being Bipolar Would End My Dating Life for Good
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Content warning: This story contains details about depression and suicidal ideation.
On one of the first sunny days in April 2021, I sat in a tattoo parlor in east London, wincing slightly as an artist inked the letters “EIC” and a small semicolon onto the sides of my ring and middle fingers. “EIC” stands for “everything is copy,” a nod to the iconic Nora Ephron quote about everything serving as fodder for storytelling. The semicolon was a hat tip to the English language, of course, but also something deeper—a reminder that I’d reached the light at the end of a very dark, tumultuous tunnel, something I genuinely could not have imagined even a year and a half prior. Both were celebrations of my recent book deal, but more than that, they were celebrations of the fact that I’d survived.
In the fall of 2019, I fell apart. I’d reached the end of an incredibly toxic, 18-month relationship with no gas left in my tank—having given so much of myself to a man who could not, would not, love me back—and I didn’t know how to put the pieces of myself and my life back together. I felt like I was trapped and floating aimlessly at the same time, struggling to find a tether on this side of existence. So, I decided I wanted to end my life.
My attempt, blessedly, did not work. Instead, I found myself in a hospital room with a close friend and a medical team, answering questions about my current emotional state and mental health history, trying to find a plan forward. We decided I'd take time off from work and check in with nurses daily, so they could monitor my feelings and behaviors. I also met with a psychiatrist who delivered the news that—at the time—I thought would drastically change my life and my relationships, and not for the better: I had bipolar disorder, type two.
In a roundabout way, this mental health crisis ended up saving my life. Although I’d long known I had manic and depressive tendencies, I’d never before considered that I might have bipolar, or that there could be treatments to address the specific challenges I was facing. Not until this psychiatrist (and then another psychiatrist, and another psychiatrist) assessed me and uttered the simple words, “I think—no, I know—you have bipolar disorder.” My breakup was the trigger point, the catalyst, but it wasn’t the cause of my suicide attempt. This just-diagnosed illness was. And I could treat that. I could get better.
It was freeing—a relief, almost—and it made sense to me. I wasn’t exactly a “textbook case,” but finding out I have bipolar explained so much of my behavior and shed new light on experiences I’d had in the past: The weeks I’d spent sleeplessly obsessing over the smallest things, from minor projects at work to conversations on dating apps. The collapsing lows I experienced after those weeks, crying in the office bathroom when higher-ups gave me minor critiques, or in a friend’s arms after getting ghosted.
But this news also freaked me the f*ck out. Learning I had bipolar made me feel like I was doomed to wear a scarlet letter—a bright, blinking warning sign to any and all future partners: “Steer clear of this one,” it would say. “She’s too damaged, too unwell, too ~bipolar~.” I’d had a hard enough time dating in my 20s. Now, I’d have to navigate this already-rocky terrain with a new set of emotional baggage. I pictured myself revealing my diagnosis in a heavy, make-or-break conversation with any potential love interest, and who would want to stick around after that? No one, I thought.
So many of the portrayals we see of bipolar—particularly in single women—are severe and one-dimensional. They’re talking a mile a minute, then bawling and brandishing knives. They’re threats to themselves and others. They’re absolutely unhinged. (Think: Erin Silver in 90210 or Anne Hathaway’s character in Modern Love.) Having grown up with close friends and family members who also had bipolar, I knew these were exaggerated portrayals. It is absolutely possible to manage this illness. But I wasn’t sure if the people I dated would be quite as understanding. There’s still so much stigma attached to mental illness, I was convinced that even the most considerate and compassionate person would probably view it as a burdensome quality in a partner.
To clarify, bipolar disorder—a mental health condition wherein your moods tend to swing from one extreme to the other, soaring highs to sweeping lows (most commonly treated with mood-stabilizing medication and therapy)—is an impactful diagnosis. It should be taken seriously by those experiencing it and those closest to them. In my case, learning I have bipolar meant seeking out additional and tailored forms of therapy, as well as several months spent with psychiatrists, finding and adjusting the appropriate cocktail of medications. But it also was not, and is not, the nail in the proverbial coffin of my romantic life that I thought it would be.
I didn’t immediately dive back into dating after my breakup (and subsequent diagnosis) for a variety of reasons. Not only was I still tender from my past relationship, still needing time to lick my wounds, but I also knew I had to prioritize myself for a change. I needed to focus my energy on getting healthy in every sense of the word, through therapy, conversations with friends, medication, and more. When I dipped my toe back into the dating pool, I did so relatively casually and without expectations. I was dating with a stronger sense of self and with a much more astute understanding of the dangers that come with over-investing in another person (particularly one who doesn’t invest equally in you), romantically or otherwise. I went on a few dates here and there; nothing serious that I felt required me to reveal my recent diagnosis. Though one man did tell me, without prompting, that he just didn’t think mental health was as important as physical health, which made my stomach churn with nerves. Is this how everyone I went out with would feel?
And then I met Iain. We matched on a dating app in September 2020, and for obvious, pandemic-related reasons, didn’t meet in person until April 2021, exchanging memes and jokes over WhatsApp for months instead. Almost immediately after we met in person, I knew I was in the very best kind of trouble.
Iain was kind and intelligent, dimpled and charming, thoughtful and accommodating, well-adjusted, and just as excited about befriending strangers’ dogs as I was. Naturally, I was terrified that the second he learned about my struggles with mental illness, he’d vanish as quickly and magically as he’d appeared. Not because he didn’t seem empathetic and understanding, but because he could surely date anyone—why would he choose to date (what I considered to be) damaged little me?
I didn’t feel “crazy”—if anything, my post-diagnosis treatment plan had me feeling more sane than ever. But again, I thought that telling a potential partner about my bipolar meant showing him the bright red “B” around my neck, a letter I feared he wouldn’t be able to see past. He was so wonderful, but what if he, too, had preconceived notions about bipolar? What if it changed his perception of me? My romantic history to date had taught me that men would take any excuse to avoid commitment; learning I had an oft-stigmatized illness had to be more than enough reason to drop me.
I kept my truth close to my vest until around our sixth or seventh date, when Iain asked about the freshly-inked semicolon on my finger. Even though we hadn’t really discussed mental health up until that point, I felt like I had a solid enough sense of his character where I could trust him. I also knew he was warm, open-minded, and that being with him felt like butter melting on toast…so I told him that my tattoo had a dual meaning: my recent book deal, as well as my less-recent suicide attempt.
“The writer could have chosen to end the sentence,” I explained, “but they kept going.”
Iain nodded politely, taking my hand in his, apologizing for the fact that I’d experienced that low and expressing gratitude at the fact that I was still here. It made me feel safe, held, and comfortable enough to share, later that evening, that my suicidal ideations were actually a symptom of my bipolar. Again, he nodded, fully understanding and accepting, completely nonchalant.
Our conversation allowed me to rewrite the narrative in my head a bit, to realize that having bipolar was not all-encompassing or defining; it was simply one element of who I was (and am). If Iain wanted to date me, he would get a kind and supportive girlfriend who also happened to have bipolar. It was no more complicated than that.
It’s been more than two years since I shared my diagnosis with Iain, and he and I are still together. He’s seen me at my highest highs and lowest lows, always reminding me that he loves me for all that I am, both the darkness and the light. While I’m still learning to manage my bipolar, it’s not the big, messy stain on our relationship, or on me, that I once feared it would be. It hasn’t prevented me from being a supportive, reliable partner, nor has it prevented me from finding one in Iain.
My past relationships led me to believe that love and affection were conditional; that I had to show up in exactly the ways my boyfriends wanted me to—no more, no less—in order to earn their commitment and adoration. But even from our silly, early text conversations, Iain made me feel at ease, at home in his company, and like I could show up exactly as I am. I’d worried, needlessly, that learning I had bipolar might taint the way he viewed me, but it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. Because no matter how stigmatized a condition may be, a worthwhile partner will accept every single part of you and love you fully—the way you deserve to be loved.
If you or someone you know is struggling with mental illness, contact the Mental Health Services Administration’s National Helpline at 800-662-HELP, or visit FindSupport.gov.
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