I am not my diagnosis of bipolar disorder
Mental Health Crisis
Suicide Ideation
Angela found herself in a season where she felt hopeless and was struggling with suicidal ideation. Read her story……
I didn’t want to live anymore. And that was a hard thing to grasp—let alone say out loud.
Even after being diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I rejected it. I didn’t want that label, didn’t want to believe it was real. I kept pushing it down, trying to convince myself I was fine. But deep down, I wasn’t okay.
There was a message at Eastside that weekend—on anxiety. It hit close to home. On the drive back, Norm and I were in the car with our kids, who were still little. I finally got up the courage to say it.
“No, I don’t think you understand. I don’t want to live anymore. I think about ending it, and I know that’s not okay.”
I had been prescribed medication to help me sleep, but the side effects were unbearable. Suicidal thoughts flooded my mind—constantly. I couldn’t shut them off. That same day, we called 9-1-1.
At the hospital, Norm was still in shock, trying to process everything I had just shared. The doctor sat down with both of us and explained that I was “high functioning.” On the outside, I looked capable—put together. But inside, I was barely hanging on.
That phrase—high functioning—hit me hard. It made sense. I’m good at faking it. Good at smiling through pain. Good at pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.
From there, they transported me to a psychiatric hospital by ambulance. I’ll be honest—it was humiliating. I wore a hoodie and kept it pulled over my head the whole time. I was ashamed. But during that ride, something surprising happened.
The EMT looked familiar. Turns out, they attend Eastside. I panicked. I begged them not to tell anyone. I didn’t want anyone to know.
But instead of judgment, I got compassion.
They gently reminded me, “You’re not alone.”
My first night in the hospital, I was assigned a roommate. When I walked into the room, she placed her hand on my back and simply said, “It’s going to be okay.”
That small act—it felt like God Himself was using her to comfort me in my rock bottom moment. Then I noticed the tattoo on her leg. It read:
“She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she can laugh at the days to come.”
Straight from Proverbs 31. A promise I desperately needed.
You are not your diagnosis
During my stay, something began to shift. Slowly, I started to heal. It wasn’t until that moment—broken and in a place I never wanted to be—that I actually accepted God’s forgiveness for me.
For any couple walking through mental health struggles, I want to say this: remind each other you’re not going anywhere. Stay in it. Talk—about the hard stuff. And be honest. Really honest.
But above all: you are not your diagnosis.
That truth changed everything for me. I had believed so many lies—that I was broken, unworthy, unlovable. But God started rewriting that narrative.
RECLAIMING IDENTITY AND FREEDOM
I found freedom in christ
There’s a verse and a song I held onto:
“Who the Son sets free is free indeed.”
And for the first time, I believed it. The lies, the dark thoughts, the shame—they didn’t define me anymore. They didn’t hold me captive. I was free.
After leaving the hospital, I got a tattoo that says free indeed with a heart around it. It’s my daily reminder—when the enemy whispers that I’m not enough—that I’m a child of God. A daughter of the King. I have value. I have worth. And my story isn’t over.
God has forgiven me—completely.
He’s healing me—daily.
And He’s using even this part of my story for something good.