I almost didn’t make it. I almost lost my life to the wrong medications, akathisia, “treatment-resistant depression.” I almost believed the doctors who told me it’s just depression and anxiety. I almost lost my life’s purpose of understanding the universe. I was heartbroken and angry with the medical system.

None of the doctors or psychologists I saw saved me. None of the doctors I saw connected the dots that led to akathisia. None of the psychologists I saw recognised that I had autism. Even when I advocated for myself, they dismissed me.
“ You are normal. You don’t have autism,” they said. And for a time, I believed them. Because they were professionals, right? They knew what they were doing.

I had to go into the depths of my own mind to save myself. I had to spend months understanding autism and how I fit into a classic example of an autistic woman. I read research papers and books. I dug deep into the internet. I had to understand and save myself because nobody else was.

After months of research, doubts, and self-advocacy, I finally received an autism diagnosis. It felt like a win. I wanted to throw that diagnosis at every psychologist, every doctor who dismissed me. But instead, I tried to educate them so that they could help other patients. Some listened. Most of them didn’t.

I thought that now I had the diagnosis, I could get the right treatment. But none of the doctors I consulted could differentiate between depression, autistic burnout, and chemical harm caused by the medications I had been prescribed. I had to fight again, advocate again to get the right treatment.

I went deep into my patterns again. I analysed a year’s worth of symptoms and concluded that I had akathisia. What I was going through wasn’t just depression, but chemical iatrogenic harm caused by the very medications that were meant to treat me.

I was the anomaly that slipped through the cracks.

But I knew nobody was coming to save me, and I had to save myself. After a lot of trial and error, I found the right doctor and psychologist. I explained all my history to them. They didn’t dismiss me. They listened to me. They understood me, and finally, after a year of fighting, I’m on the right treatment.

I’m still not okay. Tapering the wrong medications took months. Living through the withdrawals is hard. But I’m still going. My speed may be painfully slow, but there is no stopping me.

Originally published at https://tamannakhanna.substack.com on September 17, 2026.

I Almost Didn’t Make It was originally published in Speaking Bipolar on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

My name is Emily, not Amanda the Panda. Emily is still figuring out how to reenter the job, reenter the community, reenter the grocery store, reenter the world.

I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder 2 on Sunday, August 16, 2026; I was in the ER with my husband while my children were at home together and trying to make sense of what was going on. I had spent 3 months in an undiagnosed hypomania state and had realized that something was not typical, was not sustainable, was completely exhausting my body and brain while I remained at lightning speed energy mode. And I went to the ER knowing that I had finally and completely gone insane. I had not; I needed treatment. I needed meds. I needed doctor support and a new psychiatrist and some new therapy. That is all in the works…

The clarity of the diagnosis was EVERYTHING after living with myself for 45 years. The confusion was also intense. What is my brain doing right now? What is going on up there? Will it end or is this my life now?

I am so, so fortunate to have a loving and supportive family, wonderful parents, a best, best, ride-or-die friend of 25 years, and plenty of coworkers who care for me.

And so, a few weeks later, I went to the family Labor Day picnic…

September 6, 2026 // 6:30 am // Journal Entry

It is a strange study of human behavior when you have been diagnosed with a lifelong mental illness, are in the midst of intense and prolonged hypomania symptoms, are very sleep deprived, and decide to attend the family Labor Day picnic (Saturday, September 5), to visit the family who has known you your entire life. Although I had been in touch nearly constantly with my parents and had reached out to my four siblings to share what I could comprehend about what was going on, only two relatives actually asked me about how I was doing the day of the picnic. This was not completely surprising given my history with my siblings and knowing their personalities, but it was interesting. And it’s fine, I get it, kind of…

To be fair, I was so excited to see everyone at the picnic, I was in an intense state of hypomania induced hyperness, and there was a giant yard full of athletic equipment, toys and yard games. I would not have wanted to stay still for long and chat anyway; I would not be able to sit still for an hour long family discussion about the impact of my diagnosis. I did have a giant, open backyard to get my zoomies out and plenty of willing and competitive participants.

The week before, a friend was ill and received outpatient treatment at the hospital. I checked in with her by text; I delivered the casserole. I attended a school event with her and the outpouring of care for her was so wonderful. The checking in, the attending to, the questions of support and love; maybe I was envious. Maybe I’ve just spent too much time alone, not able to work, keeping quiet on the deck from the middle of the night until someone in the house wakes up and I can talk with them for the short, short time until they resume their life. My life has paused while it moves forward at full speed. Maybe I am just craving more care, more conversation, more compassion and more connection. There are so many hours alone. You don’t get a casserole for this diagnosis. And you don’t get asked how you are doing.

I do have plenty of support; my best friend is retired and has made all of the time and space for me. My husband is a saint and loves me to the moon and back; he is overwhelmed, concerned and has to continue working to support us. My parents and I have talked more in the last month than we ever have on a regular basis. I have met people online who are or have been in the midst of hypomania and Bipolar Disorder and it is so beautifully heartwarming and life affirming.

By the end of the night of the Labor Day picnic, I was soooo very hungry; everyone was. We had been competing in the family Olympics for five hours since our grilled hamburgers had been devoured. Everyone was tired; I was beyond tired. I was completely sleep deprived. Nobody had the bandwidth to figure out how to order pizza; but my pirate mania had the power…kind of. I scurried from family member to family member; what toppings? How hungry are you? What do the kids want to eat? How soon do you want to eat? Should we pick up or get delivery? I constructed an insanely precise order and handed it to my Dad.

Over dinner, I really stopped comprehending conversation. Mission: food in belly. Mission: lay down and rest before the drive home. Mission: don’t piss anyone off before I leave, or, fall over on to the carpeted living room floor.

There is no way to explain this to people; there is no book, no podcast, no description that seems to fully encompass what is going on in my brain right now. Especially with the effects of sleep deprivation piled on top.

It’s me and the sea. And I’m just a beautiful crab; forging ahead and going with the flow of the ocean. Find food and eat food. Dig down into your safe little sand hole and sleep quickly. Don’t let any other crabs get in your way of living your best crab life.

Crabs don’t need casseroles anyway.

Pizza Party // Family Fun with my Hypomania was originally published in Speaking Bipolar on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.