Bipolar Stare and the Moment I Was Diagnosed
Bipolar Stare: What My Diagnosis Taught Me About Mental Illness
🖋 Editor's Note by Brendan McDonald, Co-Founder of URevolution
Bipolar disorder is often misunderstood—flattened into headlines, reduced to stereotypes, or mistaken for a passing mood. But the reality is more complex, more painful, and more deeply human. In this honest personal essay, one of our writers shares their raw experience of being diagnosed with bipolar disorder, beginning with the unsettling recognition of what some people call the bipolar stare. From the emotional shock of hospitalization to the isolation of misdiagnosis and bipolar gaslighting, their story reveals the hidden truths of mental illness—and the healing power of community. At URevolution, we believe in sharing stories that challenge stigma, amplify neurodivergent voices, and redefine what it truly means to live with a mental health diagnosis.
Discover the emotional impact of bipolar disorder diagnosis, from misdiagnosis and bipolar gaslighting to finding community after hospitalization.
Learn what the bipolar stare means through a raw personal essay that explores lived experience with bipolar type 2.
Explore the realities of psych ward experiences, stigma, and healing through the lens of a neurodivergent writer.
Table of Contents: A Personal Journey Through Bipolar Disorder
What the Bipolar Stare Revealed Before My Diagnosis
"Another One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest"
I stood staring in the foggy mirror, running my right hand through my thin, brittle hair, touching my left collarbone that stuck out like a small shelf. The blue hospital gown hung loose on my emaciated frame. My blue eyes looked hollow. How did I get here? I heard a gentle knock before the door opened. "Miss Larsen, the doctor will see you now," a stocky male nurse said as he walked in. He reminded me of a mini-Hulk as I looked at his chiseled arms.
I looked down at my blue no-slip socks and tried to tie the gown tighter. "Is there any way I can have my sweatpants?"
Mr. Stocky Nurse shook his head at me, "No, ma'am, there are no strings allowed in here. Until we contact your family, you have to wear the robe." I wasn't following him.
"Why can't I have string?" He shook his head, and I watched his eyes move towards my wrists.
"Oh….oh," I stuttered out. I forgot about my scars. I forgot about trying to hang myself.
Inside the Psych Ward: My First Moments After Being Diagnosed With Bipolar
I followed Mr. Stocky Nurse down a hallway illuminated with fluorescent lights that kept flickering overhead. It smelled like the inside of an old piece of Tupperware stained by spaghetti. Oddly, it comforted me as a vision of my petite mama smiling and brushing back her hair behind her ears as she poured the sauce in. A disinterested nurse at the front desk with short, black, curly hair looked up at me briefly, smiled, and returned to her paperwork. We walked past the front desk, and a couple of men were watching T.V. This elderly man with long, stringy gray hair screamed, "He stole her. He stole her!" while rocking back and forth.
"No one stole anything from you, old man," the redhead answered him back. It didn't persuade Mr. Stringy Gray Hair as he kept screaming, and a nurse came and took him down another hallway. The redhead winked at me as I walked by; his moss-green eyes captivated me. His eyes said, "I see you." Mr. Stocky Nurse Man gently nudged me back in the right direction. He tapped on a door with a sign that read "Dr. Stevens" and led me to a comfortable yellow chair that belonged in the '70s in front of a desk cluttered with folders and random papers. Dr. Stevens looked like Santa Claus, belly and all.
The Moment I Learned I Was on a 5150 Hold for Bipolar Disorder
The doctor put his pen down, smiled at me, and addressed Mr. Stocky Nurse. "Thank you, Frank; you can go now." He picked up a file that read "Larsen: 51:50." I knew that meant suicide. I knew it meant someone had admitted me. "Miss Larsen, do you know why you are here?" as soon as the words left his lips, I saw a flashback of Mr. Stocky Nurse, or Frank, pouring pills down my throat.
"It all seems kind of fuzzy to me, like a valerian-induced dream," I replied. He sighed, and a gentleness radiated from him, though the smile left his face.
"Miss Larsen, you had a manic episode. You were half-naked when you stole a car and went on a high-speed chase. The police stopped you by laying down three sets of spikes. They brought you into the hospital, and we put you in a drug-induced coma to bring you back down from the manic high. You've been asleep for three days."
This must be a dream. Santa Claus, that is quite a cruel joke.
He continued. "Have you heard of bipolar disorder or manic-depressive disorder?"
I remembered flashes—my reflection in the rearview mirror, wide-eyed, unblinking, frozen in what I now realize was the bipolar stare. I had no words for it then, only the sense that my mind was accelerating faster than my body could follow.
Pink shoes. I could see myself in pink Crocs walking across a stage. I wondered if I had graduated from nursing school. I wondered if I made my family and boyfriend proud.
"Miss Larsen, have you?" I nodded. "You have type 1 bipolar disorder. You are here to be evaluated and are on a mandatory two-week hold. Your family has been contacted, and your mother is on her way to see you." I closed my eyes as another memory floated back. I saw myself in a black SUV. I saw the glimmer of a police badge as they yanked me out of the car and put a gun to my head. It wasn't a dream.
Finding Connection in the Psych Ward After My Bipolar Diagnosis
Mr. Stocky Nurse returned, and I noticed his eyes for the first time since arriving in the psych ward. They were the same ocean blue as mine. "Miss Larsen, would you like to go back to your room, or do you want to watch TV? Your mother should be here within the hour," he said as he kneeled down to meet me at eye level. The world kept growing more concrete as I connected to the people around me. I wanted to reach out and touch his bicep. I wanted to reach out and stroke Dr. Stevens' beard. I wanted to make sure they were real and not a hallucination. Mr. Stringy Gray Hair stopped yelling, and a redhead glanced up at me and smiled. He had dimples like mine.
"I think I'll stay out here and wait if that's okay," I told Mr. Stocky Nurse as I looked at the redhead with hair-like flames spiking out in all different directions. It seemed to be reaching out for the sky, like somehow it was reaching for the sun. The faded beige couch sank in as I sat down. I could feel its steel coils on my bones.
He reached out his hand to greet me. It felt like summer, warm and inviting. "Hi, I'm Matthew. What's your name? Surely you want to be addressed by something other than Miss Larsen." His normalness took me back as I turned to see Mr. Stringy Gray Hair run down the hallway, his legs like toothpicks colliding with each other. Matthew laughed. "That's Clyde. He's a little loopy, but he's damn good at playing cribbage. Do you play cribbage?"
Making Friends in the Psych Ward: Finding Humanity After Diagnosis
I wasn't sure if I should tell him my name or tell him I played cribbage as I looked at his black sweatpants and white t-shirt with yellow pit stains. The strings were missing on his pants. He must be 'dangerous' like me. "Phoenix. And I used to play with my grandma a long time ago."
He stood up and curtsied to me. "Well, Miss Phoenix, splendid to meet you. Can I sit next to you? You seem nice. I need a friend." I couldn't understand what looked nice about me as I stared at my kneecaps. When did they get so large? When did I get so thin? I nodded, and he sat down.
"I saw you come in a few days ago. Bipolar, right? Me too. I checked myself in this time because every knife in my kitchen drawer was calling my name. It's better than being dragged in."
His transparency shocked me as he continued. None of my 'normal friends' spoke so candidly about their struggles.
"I was diagnosed two years ago. It slipped under my family's radar when my 5th-grade school counselor labeled me an 'angry child.' It all clicked when I had my first manic episode. I was standing in the middle of a grocery store in my birthday suit, dumping milk on myself. It all felt like a strange dream. Did it feel like a dream to you, the mania?"
Manic Episodes, Memory Gaps, and Questioning My Bipolar Identity
Memory after memory faded into my mind's eye, and I saw myself with a set of pink golf clubs. I have never golfed a day in my life. I could see myself dropping $1000 into a church's drop box. Where did I even get that money? Matthew poked me on the cheek to draw me back into the world.
I shrugged my shoulders as I avoided his gaze. "I guess you can say it felt like that. It's a little hard to comprehend how someone like me, a straight-A student and model citizen, could snap like that."
We turned to look down the hallway as we heard Mr. Stocky Nurse guiding Mr. Stringy Gray Hair, now all giggles, to the black leather chair to the left of us. Matthew inquired, "What's so funny, Clyde?"
Redefining Normal: Accepting My Bipolar Diagnosis Among 'Crazy' Friends
"I thought Frank here done stole my wife. I mean, look at that brawn," he blurted out. "Turns out there's no wife, and the voices lied to me again. That's why my grandson brought me in. I'll never know how I don't have a wife," he said as he jumped out of his chair with a twirl and slapped his pot belly. "I mean, who wouldn't want this?" We all laughed, and his brown eyes locked with mine. "You, missy, what are ya here for?"
He reached out his rough, wrinkly hand to shake mine, and his eyes sparkled with kindness and mischief. "They diagnosed me with bipolar disorder. I stole a car. Me, a straight-A student and model citizen, another one in the cuckoo's nest." Who am I now if I am not that woman, the 'socially acceptable' woman with dreams and goals?
Matthew laughed and brushed a piece of my loose hair behind my right ear, just like my mom did. Everything suddenly made sense. I never fit in because I wasn't with my people, these 'crazy' ones like me. I was never normal, but I was also never alone.
Clyde shifted in his chair, put his hand on my knobby knee, and winked at me. "Did you steal the car from my wife?"
Phoenix Piazzisi
Phoenix Piazzisi, a.k.a. “The Paper Therapist,” is currently a resident of Roseville, CA, and is finishing her last semester at Sierra Nevada University in Incline Village, Nevada, where she is studying to get her Bachelor of Fine Arts in creative writing. She graduated in the spring of 2020 from Sierra College in Rocklin, California with her associate degree in English. When she was five years old, she picked up her first Shel Silverstein book and instantly fell in love with poetry, dreaming to be a published author one day. Her first poem, "Winter's Bliss," was published in 2001, with several poems following. In May of 2021, her first piece of literature, “I am one with the lake” was published. She dreams of helping those with mental illness find their voice through creative writing along with being a mother and certified poetry therapist. She was born in Minnesota, raised in South Dakota, and has a passion for animals, nature, and mental wellness. Writing has always been her way of expressing her deep emotions and a way to bring the human experience to life with the written word.
