Fola* (40) was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and depression at the age of 19 after surviving a mental breakdown due to abuse. She has spoken frustratingly about how mental illness affected her relationships, her quality of life and her ability to parent.
TW: Sexual abuse, domestic violence, self-harm.
I asked Boluwatife.
I’ve lived with bipolar disorder for 22 years, but it wasn’t always like this.
As a child, I was a normal, happy kid, playing with my siblings and staying over at my cousins’ houses during school holidays. But then my uncle started sexually abusing me, and my “normal” life came to an end.
The first time it happened was when I was 10 years old. My dad lived with my parents for a few months and would constantly touch me and my siblings. Sometimes he would even touch us. I didn’t feel like saying anything and it stopped when my family moved out of the area so I just pushed it to the back of my mind.
After 3 years my parents divorced and I had to live at my grandmother’s house.At that time my uncle was a college student and lived at my grandmother’s house when he wasn’t at school.I was in JSS3.The abuse started again and continued on and off for 3 years whenever my uncle was home for holidays.
This time, there were threats involved. He warned me that he would kill me if I told anyone. I think my mental health issues started to build from there. Whenever he was away, I would simply forget that he had abused me. Then he would come back and start abusing me again. In therapy, I realized that forgetting was my subconscious self-defense. I was just locking the memories away in my head.
In SS 3, I started having panic attacks after overhearing him tell his girlfriend that he was going to ruin Fola’s life. My heart was pounding for days and I kept thinking about death. I was preparing for my WAEC exam but couldn’t concentrate. It seemed like all the emotions I had been bottling up had finally reached their breaking point.
I remember when I finally broke down. It was the day of my WAEC Chemistry exam. As I walked into the lab, my friends waved me to come with them. I ran away. The school office staff had to call my mother to let her know that something was wrong with me. She took me home but my condition worsened. I couldn’t bathe, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t talk to anyone and I just kept crying.
My mother thought I had acute malaria which was affecting my brain and took me to the hospital. I spent about 3 months there and honestly I barely remember what happened. There were times when I lost consciousness and the doctors had to resuscitate me. When I tried to hurt myself or pull injections from the nurses, the doctors referred me to a psychiatric hospital.
It took two years of regular visits and consultations before I was officially diagnosed with bipolar disorder and depression in a psychiatric hospital and started treatment in 2001. The doctors didn’t hospitalize me, but it took a while for an official diagnosis to come because my memory was quite hazy and it took me a while to remember specific details.
I also told my mother about what my uncle had done, and the whole family was involved, begging and promising not to do it again, and the problem ended.
But the damage was already done: I was 19 years old and suddenly faced with the reality that I would have to be on medication for the rest of my life.
It took me a while to get used to it. I took my meds properly for a while but then it got tiresome and I stopped taking them anymore. I relapsed three times before I accepted I couldn’t escape the drugs.
During my relapse, I pretty much emptied my parents’ house. I got off the drugs and had a huge burst of energy, so I decided to clean and organize the house. It wasn’t dirty, but it was a mess. Aboki He then told me to pack everything, including my valuables. Luckily, my mother returned before he could take them away.
Living with bipolar disorder is one thing, being in a relationship with it is quite another. I had guys come up to me wanting to date me, but when I told them I was sick, they just stopped contacting me. It didn’t even matter that I was on medication and that I’d always been honest about my illness. They just disappeared.
Even when I decided to focus on church and take a break from relationships, the illness did not allow me to rest. I joined the choir but was unable to attend the early morning prayers and all-night vigils required as a church worker.
One of the side effects of my medication is excessive sleep. The average person sleeps only 8 hours, but I sleep 15-16 hours every day. It affected my studies at university, but luckily I was able to graduate.
I met my husband, Robert*, right after I finished my NYSC service in 2012. We met in Keke and he asked for my phone number. I remember he had a phone with a little flashlight on it. I thought, “Look at the phone this guy uses to toast women.”
Anyway, we got to talking and I immediately told him about my condition, he didn’t care, he even went so far as to declare that my uncle was now his enemy and that he would never speak to him if they met.
Robert and I were married within a year of dating, and my mother was thrilled that I had found a man who was willing to marry me despite my illness, because not many men want to have someone with bipolar disorder in their home.
In the beginning of our marriage, it wasn’t so bad. Robert understood that I was tired from the medication and always overslept, so he helped me with the housework. I wasn’t working either, so he provided the financial support. I tried to run a salon, but the stress of being on my feet for long periods of time took its toll and I had to quit.
Then Robert started hitting me. It wasn’t a regular thing, it just happened when he was frustrated that I couldn’t do certain things. He would complain about it, I would try to defend myself, and he would fight back with a slap. We moved to another state after we got married, and none of my family was close.
Every time my father hit me, he would immediately call my parents and tell them I was in the wrong. I think he was just trying to tell them before I did. He never told my parents about him hitting me, and I never said anything either.
I gave birth to my first child in 2013. I now have three children and with each pregnancy my doctor changes my medication to prevent birth defects and to ensure the trauma of childbirth and blood loss doesn’t affect my mental health.
I went from taking 4 to 8 pills daily and with each birth my energy levels dropped. I couldn’t concentrate and I couldn’t get as much done as before. In 2015, I was still able to go to the market and cook soup in bulk and store it in the freezer. Now, I only cook soup 3 times a month and I’m serious about it.
I had my last child in 2022 and my doctor told me not to have any more children unless I wanted to become completely useless.
My husband knows how much the birth affected me, but that doesn’t change the fact that most of our problems are due to my illness. I am doing my best. I run a grocery store that I started in 2023 and I try to go in the evenings if I’m feeling well. But when my husband comes home from work and asks me to make him fresh food, I can’t do it. It’s really affecting our relationship.
To be honest, he is trying his best. When he is in a good mood, he helps me and makes sure I am well. He cooks, helps take the kids to school, and supports our daily life. But when he is tired, he goes to extremes. He accuses me of faking weakness, saying things like, “What kind of wife did you marry?” How can he expect me to be happy when I am not giving enough to my kids as a wife and mother? I can’t even be a positive participant with them.
Sometimes I spend the whole day crying and asking God why this had to happen to me, but I console myself that I will not live forever, one day I will be gone and the medicine will no longer work.
I think Robert’s feelings are valid. I know my condition is not something that can be easily cured, but this is something that will last a lifetime. I wish he would be more understanding. I know he has a lot of female friends that he meets every time he gets angry and leaves the house, but I don’t care. If I’m not giving him joy, maybe it’s okay if he finds it elsewhere. There’s nothing I can do. Trying to get off the meds and feel better will only make my symptoms worse. So what’s the point?
I have tried many times to tell him how I feel. Sometimes he listens, other times he is like “please, I’m sick of this”. I am just happy he has stopped hitting me. I finally told my mom last year and she threatened to arrest him. He hasn’t hit me since.
I am thankful that I have my family to support me through all of this. Most days, I belittle myself and worry about what I can’t do. But my mom calls me every week to talk and encourage me. She was there when I first hit my lows and she always reminds me how much I’ve grown. I survived, I have a child, and my condition is manageable despite the side effects of the medication. I thank God for the small victories.
*Names have been changed to maintain anonymity.
Read next: “Don’t tell anyone” – Sexual abuse of Nigerian boys
