I was diagnosed with Bipolar Type II more than seven years ago.
The moment the medication kicked in, my world collapsed. It felt like a dark elephant—five hundred pounds of pure weight—had pinned me to the bed. Memory, energy, how I talked, how I moved, my personality, even the sharpness of my mind… everything vanished.
I became a comatose patient in my own body, staring at the ceiling, taking an hour to get up from the bed to reach the washroom, wondering if this was the new normal.
Seven years later, the same doctor looked at me and quietly said it had all been a misdiagnosis. What I’d lived through wasn’t Bipolar at all—just an unfortunate cocktail of crushing fatigue, sky-high stress, and no healthy outlet for the ridiculous amounts of energy I was carrying at the time.
He hinted that he’d be fine calling it a mistake, as long as I didn’t hold him responsible for it. I was just happy to be free of the meds that were making me feel brain-dead, so I reassured him. I told him my family had come to him painting a picture of me as if I was on a murderous rage path, so he wasn’t entirely to blame — my parents carried more of that weight.
After all, as a psychiatrist, his job is to prescribe medication, not recommend yoga or meditation or actual solutions. Still, I do hold him accountable for diagnosing me almost entirely based on my family’s narration because he failed to ask me a single question till well into 3-4 months of my “treatment”.
Although, if we’re being honest, if you trusted their version of events… well, they’ve jumped up more than once at their own shadow thinking it was out to get them. And both of them have had panic attacks, leading to serious medical interventions on multiple occasions. So really, who’s the stupid one here for taking them at face value?
Still, those seven years, though, weren’t all wasted. On paper, I kept an almost stable, healthy career moving forward. But underneath that ordinary life, I was living an entirely parallel one—quietly, obsessively studying neurosis, psychology, the brain, the medicines, and myself.
I read, I journaled, I connected dots most people never even notice. At times it felt like I’d accidentally completed a doctorate in understanding my own mind. Today I look back and realise I don’t just have a story—I have a treasure trove. A library built from the inside out, from the darkest days to the reclaimed ones and a map for anyone else lost in the dark.
I’d love to share the in-depth insights, the raw experiences, and the hard-won knowledge with anyone who wants to learn more.
Here’s what the physical side of the journey looked like, tracked honestly on a bathroom scale:
https://pulkitsaraf.com/2026/03/24/reclaiming-lost-health-my-weight-loss-journey-of-30-kg/
And here’s a small, unfiltered glimpse of the thoughts that poured out during those deep-dive years:
https://x.com/Pulkit_Saraf/status/1955100401348268136?s=20
If any of this resonates, I’m here. Happy to talk, answer questions, or simply hand over the notes from the parallel life I never planned to live.
Pulkit Saraf 