By the time the relationship ended, I was running on fumes. Breakups are challenging no matter what, but a breakup after 18 months of fighting for someone to love you felt near impossible. I’d given so much; how could it not have been enough?

As I sat there amid the wreckage, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of it all. The end of that relationship wasn’t just a breakup, it was the shattering of a series of illusions, the collapse of a world I had built around someone who could never truly reciprocate my love.

In the aftermath, I found myself adrift, lost in a sea of depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts. It was as if I had been clinging desperately to the wreckage of a sinking ship, only to realise that I was the one dragging it down. The pain was suffocating, consuming me from the inside out. Yet, in the midst of that darkness, there was a glimmer of hope. It came in the form of doctors and therapists, of friends and family who refused to let me drown in my despair. They pulled me back from the edge, metaphorically and otherwise, offering a lifeline and sense of stability when I felt I couldn’t stand.

It was during those days spent in hospital rooms and clinics that I received a diagnosis that would change everything: bipolar disorder, type two. The words hung heavy in the air, a double-edged sword that offered both explanation and uncertainty. Suddenly, so much of my past made sense: the highs and lows, the moments of clarity and chaos. It was as if someone had finally handed me the missing piece of the puzzle, allowing me to see the bigger picture for the first time.

“I thought my breakup was the end of me. Instead, it helped me receive a lifesaving diagnosis”