My Bipolar Autistic Story.

I came into my therapist’s office, and when I saw my parents there, I made the lighthearted joke. “I feel like I’m walking into the principal’s office.” My hands went up in the air like I was caught red-handed. There was a gentleness in the room for the first time. The truth is I have been here many times before. Through tears and swearing and fights- I have been here.

But this time was different; it felt like I might be actually getting better. I saw the hope in my parents’ eyes. I felt lighter, fresher, happier. I had been in the mental health hospital for nearly two weeks at that point.

Before I went there. I remembered begging my mother. Can’t we just wait a bit more before I go? I needed more time. I didn’t fully understand why back then.

Truth is, I wanted to be in a better mood before I went. That rare and getting rarer moment where the sun shines and the birds sing. And I will get better! I will finally live my life. I’m still different, but I will make it work.

(Autisssmmm, I was diagnosed before I could speak.)

I will finally stop hiding from my loved ones. I will take time to reply to texts; I will be ready to hang out with friends.

(Avoidant-we figured that one out real soon.)

I can finally write again, I can finally enjoy doing the things I love. I can take better care of myself now. I will laugh more and sing more and dance more!

(Clinical depression-everyone saw that coming.)

Oh! And I will never ever ever ever ever! Go back to feeling that depressed ever again.

(OOF! And the crowd goes wild; it’s Bipo- that one is about to hit.)

The room wasn’t heavy. The day wasn’t too hot or too cold. It was all too perfect. When my therapist calmly suggested bipolar. I felt like I was unaffected.

Little did I know that bipolar was actually the reason I might never get better.

Because nowwww I was in that happier mood. In fact, I’m happier than I have been in a longgg time. That unstoppable period of bliss that crashes dramatically and dies because it was, in fact…stoppable.

Every single time, it would see a very brutal, bloodthirsty, violent end.

One where I make yet another attempt.

So I sat in that office that day, unaware that it was all about to come crashing down.

Subscribe now

Share

Cody sends kisses

Thanks for reading. I love yooouu.

I have been on Substack for about four months now. I am no expert. I am not a professional. I'm just a writer with a platform that wants to build a community. Each Sunday, I choose my Top 10 articles from my subscribers. I choose my favorite ones that I have read throughout the week. I try to keep a steady promise of reading more than I write. Which means I go through a lot of articles each week.

This is a lot more casual than my usual posts. It was supposed to be a note but I changed my mind. If you like or dislike this type of content, let me know.

What makes me put down an article in just seconds? What makes me click immediately? What makes me stay and indulge in your words?

Each question has different answers. Let's take a look at five reasons for each of them.


It is time to get controversial. Here are 5 things that make me NOT want to read an article.

1. AI-generated image. This makes me question whether or not the article was written solely with AI. I like to read articles by people with an appreciation for human creativity. If you are someone who writes, you should love writing. You should love art and the act of creating. An AI-generated image makes me question your morals.

2. Bad grammar. I understand English isn't everyone's first language. It isn't mine either. But you have to take some amount of pride in your work to ensure it isn't laced with poor grammar and spelling mistakes. A small error here and there isn't the same as someone who just refuses to proofread. Yes! I also know dyslexia is a thing. I struggle with Dyscalculia myself. There are tools you can use to help you spell-check.

3. It is obviously copied and pasted directly from an AI-generated bot. Your article is littered with dead giveaways that this wasn't written by a human. I can understand if people use it as an assistant, but don't let it write for you. Don't let it steal the art of creation from you.

4. You use the same selfie of yourself for every article you post. Yes! I know it is a nice selfie. You do look hot. But save selfies for the notes part of the app. I want to see a creative insight into what your article is about.

5. Vague title. Don't be scared to get specific. Also, don't be scared to add a byline. Your article matters; your image and title should reflect that.


I see your article, and I'm interested. What makes me click immediately?

1. I know you! You have a reputation for writing good articles. I look forward to your posts. I engage with you on notes and my own articles. Your effort really makes a difference. If you show up for other people, chances are they will do the same for you.

2. The title captures attention. This is something I need to read immediately or when I have the time. I wish Substack had a feature where you could make playlists of all your favorite articles and writers. What I want to read later, what did I actually end up loving?

3. The image stands out. As I stated before, it gives me creative insight into what your article is about. How you choose to express yourself says a lot about you. I personally use paintings that are old enough not to have copyright anymore. There are lots of different ways to find a cover image. Unsplash, Pixabay, Pexels, etc.

4. You write about interesting topics. That's an immediate subscription from people. The people who have found and perfected their niche are among the more interesting writers. I say this as someone who hasn't done this myself. But I am launching both a media analysis and an autism publication soon. Please subscribe to Saphodite's Analysis and The Autism Archives. Sorry for the shameless self-plug, but someone needs to do it. It leads me to my final point.


5. You know what you are about. You know what your interests are, you know your aesthetic, your vibe. It stands out. You stand out. You have a certain amount of trust in who you are as a writer, and you aren't afraid to self-promote. I'm not a confident person by any means, but I can tell writers who struggle with self-criticism to go read my article about The War Within a Writer. Because I know that it holds value for them.


Oh! This is so good. I need to finish this article. What makes me stay?


1. Your voice stands out. I can tell that the author has a unique style of writing that makes me want to read the rest of their work. It could be anything from the way you describe the weather to the narrative twist that pulls you in.

2. You have put a lot of effort into it. Whether it is research or creative energy, I love to see it. Effort makes me think you aren't just writing to be seen, you are writing because you love writing. I LOVE writers who love to write.

3. You actually made me laugh. Rare, truly rare. But a bit of humor goes a long way. I'm terrible at comedy. I find myself cringing when I attempt to put humor in my stories. If you can do that without eliciting the immediate cringe factor, you are worth a lot as a writer.

4. I can relate to you. People don't want to feel alone. If they can see that other people have the same experiences and struggles, they will take an interest in your writing. The most popular article I published was a vent about my struggles with PMDD. During a time that I was struggling it meant a lot to me to see that a lot of people could relate.

5. The writer has something they genuinely want to say. In my most viral note, I asked to connect with people who truly have something to say. It is always good to promote yourself, but finding the gems can be hard. Some people just don't know what they want to say yet. If you want to say something, don't whisper it, SCREAM IT!

My Ouma Marie. If you translate it, it simply means grandmother but that woman was so much more than a word could hold.

There's something they don't tell you about getting older, about being around people who have been on this earth far longer than you have: knowing when to listen becomes one of the most important things you'll ever learn. Because they have so much to tell. And if you're lucky enough to have someone like her, you, talking, and you start hearing.

Her dreams were stitched into her heart like the careful threads of one of her handmade quilts. Strong, intricate, and full of love. My Ouma knew what she wanted — and she fought for it.

It all started in a sterile hospital room.

She was just a small girl, eyes filled with wonder and stars, when she saw them ,moving through the ward in their pristine white uniforms. She turned to her mother and asked, "Who are the angels in white?"

The day she learned about nurses was the day she made up her mind.

When she finally turned sixteen, she was going to follow that dream, and no one was going to stop her.

But Marie, you're too young.

But Marie, what if you change your mind?

But Marie, what about school?

But Marie had decided. She was going to be one of the angels in white.

Order. Unity. Neatness. Structure. Deep, personal care. These were the things that made her who she was — and the things that helped her chase what she loved. She wasn't just a nurse. She was a legend. She wore her white dress with the quietest, most dignified pride.

I took care of her for six years, right up until she died.

Sacrificing - as she had once sacrificed for me.

She asked me to stay, and I stayed. But if you listened to the first part of this story, you know what she believed in: chasing your dreams. Following through. Grit and determination, even when it costs you something.

So I promised her, on her deathbed, that I would follow my dreams the way she once followed hers.

She didn't hold me back. She never held me back. She made me a better person.

She taught me love and sacrifice but also strict lessons in neatness. Oh, how serious that woman was about cleanliness. I was taught to make a bed like a nurse, to clean and organise like Marie. There was a system for everything. It wasn't always easy. We had our fair share of fights. But we always made up — because that was another one of her lessons.

Never go to bed angry. She said it was the secret to a happy marriage.

As a child, I spent a lot of time in the hospital.

I would sit and listen as the nurses talked about the glory days, about Nurse Marie. And every single time, they would ask if I wanted jelly.

I don't like jelly.

But I always said yes. I always made them bring it.

Because I knew - I knew ‘ that my grandmother was on her way. And she loved jelly.

I did it because she would do the same for me, in all her different ways.

A bowl of warm oats at sleepovers. A present on not just birthdays, but on bad days too. My favourite cookies, always in the pantry. Each summer and spring, the garden bloomed with flowers, my favourites and hers both.

Care. Love. The ability to give without expecting a single thing back.

Each night, she gave the Lord a prayer to protect every person she held dear. She named them all,every single one. No one was left out.

She taught me what it means to have friends and family. Really have them.

Marie is no longer with us today.

But her love and her life lessons live on,in me, in the people she named in those prayers, in every bed made with intention and every act of care given without condition.

I am so proud of her.

She once again chased her dream. She has once again put on her white dress.

And now, she truly is an angel in white.

Rest well, Ouma. I'll keep my promise.

This piece includes references to self harm, suicide and depression. 

I don't dare catch her reflection, not in pictures, the mirror or in the eyes of those I love.

She's not me, I'm not her. I don't want to look at her, I don't even want to know she exists. I shut down, like I always do. I just pretend I don't exist. I turn on autopilot but it's never smooth sailing. Because she strikes when she wants to, at anyone or anything. I'm scared of her and she lives inside my head. Waiting like a predator, going on the hunt and leaving once blood has been shed.

When she is in control, all I can do is watch in horror. Even my own father has called her a monster that lives inside me. She destroys my life. She takes pleasure in destroying everything I build. Every month I build my towers and every month she knocks them down. 

It truly feels like possession. 

When she leaves I'm exhausted, just exhausted. I could sleep myself into a coma and it wouldn't be enough to recover. It's a tiredness that sleep doesn't fix.

I can tell this to my doctor. That a week or two before my period, I genuinely feel insane. Like a demon has possessed my body. Like I'm no longer in control. But I'm diagnosed with multiple other things, so they just blame that. 

Or they just don't take it seriously. The truth is that PMDD is the worst thing about me.

Yes! The worst. Worse than my depression, bipolar, anxiety or any of the other things I'm diagnosed with. PMDD outweighs them all.

PMDD takes any and all progress I make during the other weeks and destroys it. Like an angry banshee that wasn't invited to the party. She takes the cake and eats it too. You can't live a normal life and have PMDD.

I explain myself over and over again. I try to explain that something is seriously wrong but it falls on deaf ears. 

Of course, I have heard worse than just silence. 

"It's hysteria"

"She's dramatic"

"That's not a real disorder"

"Push through it"

"Get some grit"

"Just smile"

"Drink a chill pill"

"Calm your tits"

"Get over it"

"You're just a bitch"

"You're so sensitive"

"It's just PMS"

From medical professionals to loved ones. They just don't seem to get it.

I hate my PMDD and she hates me! 

At every serious, lingering thought she has stood in the corner begging me to do it. She gives me all the wrong kinds of motivation. She's like that terrible friend who wasn't invited to the party but crashes it every time.  She shows up, drunk, disorderly and leaves a trail of havoc everywhere she goes. I didn't invite her but she's a package deal. 

And I know I'm not the only one. I am most likely suffering from PMDD because of my autism. It is one of the comorbidities, research shows that 92% of autistic women experience PMDD symptoms, compared to just 11% of non-autistic women. About 5-8% of women suffer from PMDD globally, and I'm not using "suffering" as a soft term. I mean that 72% of those people experience suicidal ideation. 40% actively prepare for an attempt. 34% attempt suicide. 51% self-harm.

 We bleed and scream and cry in agony and it's all in vain!!!

Because they still don't take us seriously.

It's like our voices don't matter. I know what it is like to scream into a void. To scream so hard and beg on bloody knees to be seen, to be heard. But the medical research is still almost nonexistent. We scream into an abyss of broken down voices.

When you are silenced enough times, you get scared to talk at all.

On bees, books and belonging.

The day was long and exhausting. I'm ready to settle in with a nice cup of warm tea, a soft blanket and a good book. I'm not sure what I'm in the mood for today. A good old fashioned classic, a heart-pounding romance, an exciting thriller, a tragic drama. There's just too much to choose from. I think I'll just decide while I go make a nice cup of tea.

I like chamomile- It relaxes me. Especially after a long day like today. I stared at a blank screen and just couldn't decide what to write. So many doubts and fears stirring, buzzing around. Would I ever be good enough? Will people even like it? I spent my time doing everything else. Chores, taxes, emails, Zoom meetings. Today was supposed to be for writing. It is my one goal in life, after all.

But I'm not going to think about that right now. All I have to do now is make my tea. I even have a favorite tea cup I like to use- a real vintage one I inherited from my grandmother's old tea set. It has the most intricate floral detail with a painted golden rim. Now I just need to get the tea. What will I add today?

Some dried lavender, cinnamon, vanilla? It doesn't matter. I just can't forget the most important part. A single teaspoon of sweet, raw honey. Just a teaspoon, no more, no less.

The honey blends with the tea so smoothly. Like honey was meant for tea. I watch the honey slowly dissolve.

You know? I once heard that it takes a single bee, its entire lifetime, to make just one teaspoon of honey. Is that true? I actually have no idea.

Wait! Let me find out.

Oh, apparently it takes 12 bees to make just one teaspoon. Twelve bees. Each one living just a few weeks. That's insane. They have to visit thousands of flowers and fly thousands of miles in their very short but complete lifespan- Just to make enough honey for a single teaspoon. The single teaspoon of honey that I just mixed into my cup of afternoon tea without a second thought.

Something quiet and heavy settles in my chest. I can't give it a name. But I take a nice, deep breath. The tea smells nice and it's warm in my hands. The tea will be gone in a few minutes but I know I'll enjoy every moment of it. Who doesn't like a warm cup of tea at the end of the day?

I'm ready to move to the living room, cup of tea in hand. I now browse the thousands of options in front of me. So many books, so many lifetimes of work, begging to be chosen. And it's so hard to find something for my exact taste.

I remember my favorite books rather fondly. I always take my time to leave a nice, detailed and positive review. I want the writer to know I appreciate their work.

But often, I do find books I don't like. I also decide whether I like it or not in just a few minutes. Then I put it down- someone's hard work- all of that work, just not for me.

Writing is a livelihood- Someone's blood, sweat and tears woven into the pages of a single book. And I get to decide whether I like it or not. I get to decide what to give a chance.

And something does catch my eye. Something that suits my need for today, comfort and stability. I take another deep breath. The tea is still warm, the blanket is soft and soothing. The book- Is just my cup of tea.

Writing like no one is watching and no one is.

If I could have a super power, I would be invisible. I don't want to be seen. I would walk through crowded rooms, cafes and bookshops like smoke in the air. I could observe quietly without anyone's eyes meeting my own. No one has to witness my being, no one has to notice me being me. Oh, how I want to be invisible.

Or I would wish to shapeshift. I could change into who people actually want to see. I could fit into every space with ease. Like a puzzle piece that can go anywhere. I could wear the right smile, be short or tall, fat or thin. Because I'm too much but not enough at the same time. Oh, how I want to be a shapeshifter.

Alternatively, I could just wish to be a witch. One with a crooked nose and big hat. One with a loud cackle and curled toes. I want to live in a cabin in the woods and live off the land. No one would dare to come near. The town would tell my ghost stories as a warning. Oh, how I want to be a witch.

I want to be so many things but I'm a writer.

I wake up in the same body, in the same room and stare at the blank page before me.

I'm a writer, that means I get to write about the invisible girl, the clever shapeshifter and scary witch. But I don't get to be them. I'm a writer and I keep writing and writing and keeping everything to myself. Because I want to be someone that I'm not.

I have tried and failed at other careers and always claimed I'll be a writer one day. One day when I can pay my bills and fill my fridge. One day, when I get better at what I do. One day when I don't want the world to swallow me whole.

My writing has always been my own. Pen to paper, just me, my thoughts, my feelings, my fantasies. And now all of that is lost. I have to start over.

I have to actually try to be a writer, a poet, an author. I have to share what I write. And that is scary, really scary.

I don't want to be perceived. Not when I'm in public or online or anywhere. I just want to hide in my room and write my little stories that no one ever has to read. One day when I die, I'll take it all with me to my grave. I will never be perceived, I will never be seen.

But

Is that what I actually want for myself? There is some part of me that wants to be successful. I want to read my books in stores with an audience waiting to get their signed copies. I want people to be excitedly waiting for my next publication. I want a fandom for my fantasy franchises. Oh, how I want to succeed.

There is some part of me that wants to be seen, to be understood. To have people in my life that know what I'm thinking by just looking at my face. I want to have midnight conversations where we laugh until our stomach hurts because we find the same things funny. Oh, how I want to be seen.

The only person standing in my way is me.

The only way to overcome my fear is to understand it. Why is being perceived so scary? I have to understand it, for me and maybe for you too.

That's my piece, if you want to follow my journey. Please consider becoming a part of it by subscribing.

My soul is at unease

Restless

Like a tide that only ever

Rolls in

Like a breath

Never exhaled

-

I feel a gentle breeze

Listless

A season shifting with the weather

Draws in

Changed unveiled

-

Metamorphosis

Revelation

Liberation

Transformation

-

An awakening- of a soul only ever rejected

An embracing- of a child that was affected

An awaiting- of soul and body reconnecting

A breath- inhaled slowly

A breeze- changing subtly

A tide- turmoil setting free

-

Embracing

Accepting

Adopting

Integrating

-

Choosing- her,to be her

Identifying- pieces I used to defer

Embracing- the girl in the mirror

-

A breath- smoothly exhaled

A breeze- the change availed

A tide- champion that prevailed

-

The girl in the mirror

She becomes clearer

She waves at me

For the first time

A wave returns

-

Like a breath

Like a breeze

Like a tide

Bring unto me your ornate chalice

For thee, I serve the finest wine

Sweet, celestial nectar, so heavenly divine

Bare unto me, thy soul naked and gritty

I will find only what is pretty

Your cup will overflow from my devotion

Overindulge on its goodness, taste the bittersweet

Watch onto me as I bleed, watch me deplete

My blood, a sacrament, a sacrifice, a cost to spare

Show me your teeth, I'll grin and bear

I pray thee, touch not the cup I hold

For me, I serve the poisoned chalice

Laced but with misery and malice

Do not choke on the blood that is spilled

Bleeding profusely from a heart unfulfilled

Mine cup never runs dry

Like a rampant river, flooding unto land

Knocking me down where I stand

From open wounds, the crimson river bleeds

Infection festers, while the poison feeds.

Unto thee? A friend

Refined

Elegant

Opulent

'Tis what I see in you

And to me? A fiend

Repellent

Repulsive

Revolting

'Tis all that I can see

Love for thee but not for me