Trigger Warning: This story has mentions of mental illness, suicidal thoughts, and emotional trauma.
“Death may be comforting, but the courage lies in living and choosing life over anything else.”
When Manvi Mehta says these words, her voice doesn’t waver. It holds the weight of a 16-year-long struggle with Bipolar Affective Disorder (BPAD), yet it rings with a quiet strength. Today, at 32, Manvi is a published poet, a professor, a mental health advocate — a woman who has walked through darkness and emerged bearing light, not just for herself, but for others.
But her journey, like many, began in silence and confusion.
When the brightest student couldn’t add two numbers
It was 5th September — ironically, Teachers’ Day — when Manvi first realised something was wrong. Then a top-performing student in Noida, she had just scored 94 percent in her board exams, topping in mathematics. But that morning, she couldn’t solve even a basic equation.
“I remember crying before school,” she recalls. “Maths had always been my favourite subject, but suddenly I just… couldn’t. I didn’t recognise myself. I was withdrawing from everything I loved.”
Her family cycled through every explanation — stress, nazar, upar ki hawa (misfortune believed to be caused by evil eye). But the change in their daughter was too stark, too relentless. It was her grandmother who finally said the unspeakable: “Let’s go see a doctor.”
That decision changed everything.
The diagnosis that unravelled and clarified
Doctors initially suspected schizoaffective disorder. But after more tests and deeper observation, the final diagnosis emerged: Bipolar Affective Disorder.
For many families, a diagnosis brings clarity. For Manvi, it brought rupture.
“I didn’t know what bipolar meant,” she says. “All I knew was that it sounded… final. Scary. Like something that would follow me forever.”
Dr Vishal Chhabra, Head of Mental Health at Fortis Hospital Shalimar Bagh, explains, “When someone hears they have BPAD, their sense of self cracks open. You don’t just question your future — you question your past. Every mood, every decision starts to feel suspect.”
BPAD isn’t just mood swings. It’s a chronic disorder marked by extreme shifts in mood, energy, and functioning — oscillating between depressive lows and manic highs. It began to reshape every part of Manvi’s reality.
“When I’m depressed, it’s not sadness. It’s numbness. A fog. You lose all desire to live. You become hollow. And then, without warning, you swing to mania.”
During those manic phases, she’d sleep only three hours, post obsessively on social media, talk to strangers, even believe she could become Prime Minister. “It felt exciting,” she says. “But it wasn’t real. It was terrifying.”
A friendship that grew in the shadow of illness
Even as she battled these extremes, life moved forward. Manvi joined college, entered debates, ran social campaigns. That’s where she met Kajal.
“She was confident, funny, driven,” Kajal remembers. “We hit it off instantly. I had no idea she was living with something so complex.”
Manvi kept her illness hidden for five years. But Kajal began noticing patterns: weeks of hyperactivity followed by complete withdrawal — missed calls, deleted social media, silence.
“I didn’t understand it,” Kajal says, “but I felt it.”
Eventually, Manvi opened up, terrified of losing her friend. Kajal didn’t flinch. She listened — and she stayed. Their friendship changed overnight. Kajal became Manvi’s safe harbour.
“There are days she calls me crying, unable to breathe,” Kajal says. “And I answer, always. I might be overwhelmed too, but I don’t let her know. I help her ride out the storm.”
Living with a mind that doesn’t always obey
Manvi has been on medication for 16 years — mood stabilisers, antidepressants, anti-anxiety pills. Some days, she takes 10 just to feel like herself.
“They help me live,” she says. “But they come with a cost — weight gain, memory loss, insomnia. Still, without them, I fall apart.”
Her episodes haven’t disappeared, but she’s more prepared. She tracks her mood, notices triggers, and surrounds herself with support.
Kajal has learned to spot the signs, too. “If she posts too much online or speaks unusually fast, I know mania is coming. And when she disappears, I know the depression is back.”
Support, they both agree, is everything. And Manvi has plenty. “My parents were never orthodox,” she says. “My mother’s a teacher and radio jockey, my father’s an engineer. My grandmother reads spiritual books and supports me unconditionally. I never had to fight for their love.”
Dr Chhabra emphasises this: “Family acceptance and consistent social support are the strongest protectors against relapse. When people with BPAD are believed and supported, their outcomes improve dramatically.”
Choosing peace over poetry
Through all this, Manvi’s creativity endured. During manic episodes, her mind raced with ideas. Her first poetry book was written in one such phase. “I’d write for hours without eating or sleeping. It felt like I was channelling something bigger than me.”
But she’s clear now: “I don’t romanticise mania anymore. Yes, it fuels creation. But it also burns you out. I don’t want to stay manic for art. I want peace.”
Writing became her anchor — a way to process trauma, track episodes, and connect with others.
Dr Chhabra notes, “Some of the most emotionally intelligent and artistically gifted people live with BPAD. Therapy helps them create from stability, not chaos.”
Manvi now runs a blog, podcast (Poetry by a Bipolar Person), and Instagram account to talk about mental health with raw honesty. “Not for sympathy,” she says. “I do it so someone else doesn’t feel as alone as I once did.”
What suicide once whispered — and what stopped her from listening
In 2018, before her diagnosis, Manvi’s world grew unbearably heavy. “I remember Googling painless ways to die,” she says. Her manic highs and depressive lows had been met with confusion and fear — even cruelty.
“I didn’t want to die,” she reflects. “I just wanted the pain to stop.”
There was no grand turning point. Just a decision to try therapy again, this time with commitment. “It wasn’t magic,” she says. “But it was the first time I considered staying alive for myself.”
Recovery was not a straight line
Healing was slow. There were relapses, rage, and days when she couldn’t get out of bed. At one point, she was on five different medications and hated how they made her feel.
“I remember thinking, ‘Is this the best it gets?’” But she held on — for herself, and for her parents, who were still learning how to support her without fear or frustration.
Eventually, she realised recovery wasn’t about returning to who she was before BPAD. “That person doesn’t exist anymore. And that’s okay.”
Recovery became about coexistence. About recognising that setbacks didn’t erase progress. “You can be okay and not okay at the same time,” she says.
A diagnosis didn’t break her — it gave her a language
For years, Manvi had been mislabelled — too sensitive, too lazy, too dramatic. BPAD gave her an explanation. “I finally had words for the chaos,” she says. It helped her explain the swings between hyper-productivity and total inertia.
But BPAD remains widely misunderstood. “People think it’s just mood swings or drama,” she says. “They don’t see how it affects your sleep, your memory — even your ability to speak.”
Today, Manvi champions nuance. “I’m not a tragic story or a recovery success case. I’m a person with an illness. And I manage it — one day at a time.”
The courage to speak up, even when silence felt safer
Manvi could have stayed quiet. It would’ve been easier. But when she began sharing her story online — about BPAD, therapy, and grief — strangers began reaching out.
“Some just said thank you. Others asked how to find a therapist. One said they went to therapy because of my post.” Not all responses were kind. “People warned me — ‘This will be online forever,’ ‘What if it affects your job?’” But she made peace with that.
“If it helps even one person feel less alone, I’m okay with the judgement.”
Living with BPAD doesn’t mean giving up on dreams
Manvi isn’t “cured.” She doesn’t pretend to be. But today, her life has structure, creativity, and deep self-awareness. She works as a freelance writer and editor, builds mental health resources, and fosters a community where people feel safe saying, “I’m not okay.”
She still has episodes. Still forgets medication. But now, she responds differently. “I’ve learnt to apologise to myself instead of punishing myself. I tell myself: You’re not a failure. You’re just a person who needs help today.”
There is light, even when you don’t see it
If there’s one message Manvi hopes her story offers, it’s this: “You are not broken. You are not weak. You are not alone.”
Living with BPAD hasn’t been easy. There are days when the storm returns. But today, she has therapy, medication, community — and hope. She remembers the girl who once searched for ways to disappear. She holds her gently in memory.
“I’m still here,” she says. “And that’s something.”
For those silently suffering, Manvi leaves the same tether that once saved her: “Hold on. Help exists. And so does joy.”
If you wish to get in touch with Manvi, she can be reached at @bymanvimehta on Instagram.
If you or someone you know is struggling, please seek professional help or contact a mental health helpline.
Here’s a list of helplines:
AASRA-Suicide Prevention Helpline Directory (India): 022 2754 6669
National Institute of Mental Health: Call or text at 988
National Tele Mental Health Programme of India: 14416
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