16 YEARS OF MISDIAGNOSIS: THE WEIGHT OF LABELS AND LIFE WITHOUT THEM
What if everything you believed about yourself was never true?
By Roskamala
March 12, 2025
Introduction: The Power of a Label
After another therapy session ended, the moment was still. Everything in the room sat exactly where it belonged. Yet, in the space where my certainty had once been, a quiet fracture formed.
I had just published The Chameleon Story She Never Told two months ago, believing I had finally found my truth. Sixteen years of believing I was something I was not, gone in an instant. A diagnosis that had shaped my identity, my choices, and the rhythm of my life simply disappeared.
I could not process it. Not yet. The weight of the realization was too vast. How had this happened? What had I lost? How had I, and everyone around me, accepted a label without question?
For weeks, I sat with it. I didn’t feel the need to discuss it with anyone. I simply wrote. I let the questions come and go, resisting the urge to grasp at answers. Then, my intuition spoke:
Do nothing.
And so, I did. No second diagnosis. No desperate search for an alternative truth. I simply let it be. In that silence, clarity arrived—not in the form of explanations, but in the subtle unraveling of a belief that was never mine to carry.
Living Under a False Diagnosis
How a Label Becomes an Identity
I was twenty when the label was given to me. I had woken up crying, not from sadness, but from something undefinable, something deeper than words. A friend suggested I seek answers, so I did. I went to one of the most respected hospitals, trusting I would be met with understanding.
The session lasted no more than thirty minutes. A handful of yes-or-no questions. A brief summary of my life. When I left, I carried a piece of paper with two words:
Bipolar disorder.
No further explanation. No indication of type or severity. Just a label.
I did what any rational person would do. I studied it. I learned what it meant, how to manage it, what to expect. Slowly, the knowledge became something else. I saw myself in the symptoms, whether they truly existed or not. I absorbed the disorder into my identity.
I became it.
If I was already broken, what was the point of trying to be whole?
And so, I descended.
I made reckless choices, surrounding myself with people who mirrored my self-destruction. I convinced myself there was no future because my mind had been scripted into a story that was never mine to begin with. At the time, I couldn’t see beyond it.
How the World Saw Me
I didn’t realize at first how a definition could alter the way people saw me. But to be labeled is to be misunderstood.
The moment the word bipolar is spoken, the air shifts. People hesitate. They watch. They measure your words and actions against the stories they’ve been told—stories crafted by headlines, by misrepresentations, by fear.
I learned quickly:
You do not tell people. The stigma is stronger than their understanding.
You learn to be misunderstood. No matter how you explain, the label speaks louder.
Your mind rewires itself. The more you believe the story, the more people confirm the plot, the more you play the part.
I heard whispers that I was seeking attention. That my struggles were conveniently worse in relationships. That I was irritable.
And at some point, I stopped resisting. I had one silent voice against a sea of loud voices. If this was how the world saw me, then perhaps they were right.
And when you start to believe the world’s version of you, you lose the ability to see yourself—the you you were certain of all along.
The Moment of Clarity: Discovering the Misdiagnosis
Clarity was not sudden. It was the result of years of work, started long before I even learned of the misdiagnosis. It surfaced piece by piece as I dismantled the beliefs that had shaped me.
I worked with countless therapists and psychiatrists over the years. Sometimes yearly, sometimes quarterly, then monthly, then weekly—sometimes even three times a week depending on the weight of my inner turmoil. I peeled back the layers, stripping away assumptions, conditioned responses, and the weight of the label.
And then, I did what I once thought was impossible.
I was finally ready—carefully, and under professional supervision—to let go of medication.
The process was brutal. The body does not release something it has relied on without resistance. My mind fought against the absence of what it had known for so long. There were nights when sleep refused me, and days when the world felt too sharp, too bright. Through it all, I did everything naturally, and very few people knew what was happening.
But beneath it all, there was something new.
Stillness.
For the first time in my life, my mind was calm. No extreme highs or lows. No chaotic cycles. No patterns that fit the narrative I had been given. My thinking, my words, my actions shifted.
Is this freedom?
I could finally hear music, feel, create, think, and remember... I had begun to truly live.
And that’s when I knew:
I had never been bipolar.
What I carried was a life shaped by survival—years spent mistaking the storm for calm. A mind conditioned to find familiarity in chaos, but never a chemical imbalance. Never a disorder that needed to be tamed.
And in that realization, I was not just freed from a misdiagnosis. I was freed from the belief that I was inherently flawed.
Shedding the Label: The Mental Shift
To let go of a label is to rewrite the self.
It was not easy. Sixteen years is long enough to mold a person. But with time, a growth mindset, the right books, therapy, mindfulness, meditation, solitude, and self-compassion, along with support, patience, resilience, persistence, countless mistakes, misunderstandings, and healthier habits, I found my way back.
I returned to the girl who once believed every bird needed rescuing, and now trusts they will find their own way. The girl who once believed the world was beautiful. And in the end, it truly is.
I rebuilt from the ground up.
Each thing I let go of felt like shedding a layer of armor I had worn for too long. And beneath it all, there I was—someone I had almost forgotten.
And for the first time, I felt whole.
Conclusion: The Power of Owning Your Story
If I could speak to my younger self, I would tell her:
"It’s dark now, and the tunnel feels endless. But trust me, one day, you’ll have your own back. You’ll be your own hero. You’ll be free. And the kind of peace you’ll find? You can’t even imagine it yet.
I can’t give you all the answers because every challenge ahead is shaping you into who you’re meant to be. These hardships will build you. Believe in yourself, and hug yourself more often. You are doing the best you can with what you know, and that is enough.
You will carry things no one else can see, and still find your way. Keep going. Keep believing. Keep moving forward.
You got this."
And to anyone who has been defined by a label, I want you to know this truth:
You are enough, exactly as you are. And one day, you’ll believe it.
About the Author
Roskamala is a storyteller and artist who transforms life’s complexities into music, words, and art. Each piece offers light for those ready to receive it.
Her work spans award-winning music and reflective writing, part of a creative practice rooted in depth, intention, and a belief in the human spirit’s ability to rise.
She lives gently, creates with purpose, and gives without expectation.
