Category: Life

As the flames rose, the rational voice in my head told me that it was getting late and I should go inside. The louder voice in my head kept whispering, “But I don’t want to go inside. It’s still early, and I just want to sit here and read my book by the fire.”

All the windows around my yard had gone dark, and yet I still felt exposed. But I didn’t care. All I knew was that I didn’t want to go inside, and there was nowhere else to go because my safe escapes were all closed due to the pandemic.

I ran out of firewood a couple of hours into my Saturday night plans of sitting in my yard, having a whiskey drink, and reading my book. Instead of just enjoying my book in the soft breeze of the night, a voice in my head kept yelling that it didn’t feel right without a fire going. I needed the fire. But I’d been drinking, so I couldn’t drive to get more firewood.

Then I remembered the pallets against the side of the house. The massive, imposing pallets that were twice the size of my fire pit.

As if I was just grabbing a small piece of wood to throw into the fire, I walked over and grabbed one of the pallets and calmly walked it over to my firepit, putting it on top, with its sides hanging off the edge of the pit. 

I threw a little starter brick into the middle of it.

A couple of small flames began to take form under the pallet in my fire pit. In my head, it made perfect sense. I went back to my drink and my book.

About an hour later, as the flames got going, the wind started picking up. It was a soft breeze at first. 

It was only 1 AM, it was a Saturday, and I wasn’t listening to any music or anything, just sitting quietly in my yard.

My rational voice started to speak up, but there was no way I could go back to the house. Not yet. I couldn’t do it.

The flames got higher as the wind picked up. A light went on in one of the apartments around my yard. My neighbor walked out of his house. Asked me what I was doing. I looked up and noticed that the smoke had started making its way to their third-story window.

Without saying a word, I stood up, grabbed the hose, and watered down the flames that had engulfed the pallet. My fire pit was deformed. The pallet was more than half gone. I went inside my apartment and waited an hour, holding my breath the entire time. Then I went outside, grabbed the remnants of the pallet, put them against the side of my house, moving my fire pit back to its place, and making sure my yard was empty. I didn’t leave my house for two days after that. 

I didn’t know it at the time, but that was my most severe hypomanic episode, followed by a depressive one. 

The following Monday, I talked my therapist through what happened, and that was the session where I finally suggested that it might be time for me to do a psych evaluation. 

It took me four months after that to schedule my psychological evaluation. It was supposed to take 90 minutes. The doctor had me diagnosed in 30 minutes flat. 

In addition to Generalized Anxiety Disorder, I also have Bipolar II Disorder. 

At the end of the diagnosis, she asked me if I was interested in treatment options. 

“Of course,” I replied, surprised. It turns out that a lot of people who get the diagnosis aren’t ready to tackle it.

I wasn’t surprised at the diagnosis. I was surprised at how emotional and relieved and overwhelmed I felt once there was a name to everything, but that also meant that I would need to go back through memorable points in my life and evaluate what my diagnosis meant.

Bipolar II vs. Bipolar I

When people hear “Bipolar Disorder,” they usually think of Bipolar I. Think Claire Danes from Homeland or Ian Gallagher from Shameless. Part of the reason why Bipolar never occurred to me is for that same reason. Sure, I’ve suffered from insomnia and depression and made some reckless decisions, but I’ve never had extreme manic episodes. 

A few years ago, I had a psychiatrist as a client and wrote copy for his webpage around depression and bipolar disorder, but I didn’t dive too much into Bipolar 2 during that project. 

After I got off the phone following my diagnosis, in tears, I looked up Bipolar 2. I found a chart outlining the symptoms of depression and hypomania associated with it, took a screenshot, and sent it to one of my best friends.

“This is literally me.”

Here are the symptoms of hypomania that I can map to precise moments in my life: 

Having higher-than-normal energy levels, being restless or unable to sit still, having a decreased need for sleep, having increased self-esteem or confidence, or grandiosity, being extremely talkative, having a racing mind, or having lots of new ideas and plans, being easily distracted, taking on multiple projects with no way of finishing them, having decreased inhibitions, having increased sexual desire, engaging in risky behavior, such as having impulsive sex, gambling with life savings, or going on big spending sprees.

OH, OK. I THOUGHT I WAS JUST A CREATIVE, RECKLESS FAILURE OF A PERSON FOR MOST OF MY LIFE.

Hypomania differs from full manic episodes because they don’t include hallucinations, paranoia, or delusional thoughts. 

The depression is pretty much the same.

What’s next for me

I’ve checked off the most difficult steps: Getting diagnosed, beginning treatment, and talking to my brother and dad about it. 

But the diagnosis is just the beginning.

I can’t just write off responsibility for 20 years of decisions. 

Yes, the average age-of-onset of Bipolar Disorder is about 25, but that doesn’t mean every reckless decision I made in my 20s (and OK, early 30s) was because of my disorder. Without a doubt, it probably increased the severity of everything, but what does that look like?

And more importantly, can I begin to forgive myself without holding on to the “What ifs” of my past?

Would I have finished getting my degree? Would I have drunk less? Would I have been more successful in my career? Would my finances be in better shape if I didn’t ruin my credit in my 20s?

WOULD I HAVE SLEPT MORE, MAYBE?

I don’t know. Possibly. 

All I know is that I’m not scared of my brain as much as I used to be.

I have a road map. 

There are signs to recognize.

And there is so much more to understand about my disorder, my own brain, and what this means for my future as a creative professional.

As I do with everything in my life, I will be sharing this journey as it makes sense for me. I’m not sure what that will look like just yet, but if you follow me on Twitter or Instagram, I imagine I’ll be sharing more frequently on there and when it makes sense, share longer posts on here.

I also have to reflect and come to terms with what this means for my professional past and future, so if you’re at all interested, that post will be over on my Substack.

One thing is for sure: I have felt so fucking lonely and lost in my mind for 30 years, and if I can help one person feel a little less alone in their journey by sharing mine, it will be worth it. 

As with everything in my life, there will probably be memes and jokes, and I am always open to talk about it. But it is a heavy lift for my emotional state, so if you ever reach out to me and I don’t respond right away, give me space and time to get back to you.

I will leave you with this one distinction: When it comes to the language around bipolar disorder, there is no consensus around whether or not you should say someone is bipolar or has bipolar disorder.

My personal preference is that I have or suffer from bipolar disorder.

If you want to learn more about bipolar disorder, NAMI is always a great resource to start, but I also really like this breakdown by healthline.

*Title song lyric from “Take It Easy” on me by Beth Hart

I was supposed to be in Seattle for Thanksgiving. I wanted to be in Seattle the day after I called off my engagement. But instead, I lived in the same apartment with my ex for 10 months after breaking things off because I was financially unable to leave. The situation kept getting toxic but I did my best to make every day livable as I kept making my plans to move cross country. To the outside world, we were just taking a break from wedding planning while I navigated my new career path as a freelancer, but in reality, I needed to save money. I needed to somehow get a new car. I needed to secure some freelance contracts. I needed to stay awake so that I wouldn’t be startled out of sleep when he slammed the front door when he walked in drunk in the middle of the night. I needed to keep it together for the days he broke down in tears, begging me to stay and make it work while flipping the switch 5 minutes later to call me an ungrateful bitch who just used him for money. I needed to remember to lock the bedroom door so he wouldn’t try to crawl into bed with me while I was sleeping. I needed to survive one more day. One more day. Until I could finally leave.

Then the day came and I finally got in my car and began the drive to Seattle. It took me 3.5 days in December to go from DC to Seattle. Every time I stopped the car long enough to nap, I worried that I would wake up back in that bed in DC. I made it to Seattle but I couldn’t cut ties with him. He called and texted every day, using the excuse that he was taking care of my cat. He promised he would give her back to me once I got settled. He screamed at me. He cried and told me he didn’t know how he could survive. He continued to hack into my emails. He catfished my friends, who all turned their backs on me, leaving me completely alone in a new city. He stalked me. He threatened me. He never gave my cat back. He told lies to his family about me, who ignored my pleas to take care of him because he wasn’t OK. He put my life in danger from 3000 miles away.

I kept moving forward, trying to make a life for myself in this new city. I came within 48 hours of being evicted from my apartment. I lashed out at my family. I found myself at the bottom of the bottle whenever I could afford it while writing for content mills for a penny a word to keep my head above water. I changed my password a million times. I slept with a knife under my pillow when I did sleep.

I never told anyone what I was dealing with every day.

I got a job. I got more clients. I met people who relentlessly pushed through my walls to make me feel safe even when they didn’t know just how much scar tissue had been building up for years.

I moved, two steps forward three steps back. Or is it the other way around? I can’t tell most days.

I survived. Somehow. Barely.

I made it one year. Two years. Created new traditions. Constantly ran away from Seattle because I didn’t think I could call it home. Setting down real roots in this place meant that they would probably get ripped out.

But slowly, I found my people. I found a glimmer of light in myself. I pushed. I slept sometimes. I grew a lot (I think). I gave my heart to others. I gave all the pieces of myself to the universe. The pieces came back jagged, cutting into my scars, yet I keep moving forward somehow.

But here’s the thing.

All I want to do most days is scream.

I still have vivid nightmares where I wake up and I’m back in my bed in DC, stuck in a loop, feeling a prisoner in my own life.

So I don’t sleep.

Heartbreak after heartbreak, resentment has been building up and I don’t know how to release it other than to push people away because I want to just scream at them for not just getting all of who I am right away when I don’t even know who I am today.

Who am I now that I’ve realized I can stop running, that I can forgive and begin to heal?

Who do I deserve?

What do I deserve?

What kind of love will accept me not just with my scars but with the uncertainties of who I will continue to evolve into?

I say that it feels like I’ve lived lifetimes since I moved to Seattle but the truth is that I relive the events that led to the move and the following few years where trauma after trauma hit me on a constant loop. I say that I’ve grown and healed and while that may be partially true, the fact is I am still holding on to who I was then as a way to keep people away.

I don’t know how to share who I am today without the postscripts and the post-postscripts and the context and the prologues and and and

Happy anniversary, Seattle.

It’s been 7 years.

Maybe next year the healing will be a little less messy.

I guess that means I need to actually begin to forgive myself for wanting to move on.

(Updated in Nov 2022) 

So, there’s this funny thing that happens when you’ve spent 20 years talking to people on the internet, sharing both your personal and professional journey.

You wake up one morning, 34-years-old, with the realization that a majority of the people who have “met” you over the past 5 years only know you in your professional capacity, while you have your high school friends, your blogger friends, and then your girlfriends who aren’t bloggers but still like reading your writing (you assume).

What follows is a bit of an identity crisis.

I had this little crisis a few years ago when I was meeting a lot of people at conferences and even attempted to “segment” my posts on Facebook for the different audiences I had.

Needless to say, that fell apart pretty quickly.

Then there’s the whole thing where I decided to build a business on my own strengths, without separating the business from who I am, and so my Twitter & Instagram feeds have become a mix of both personal observations and professional insights. Oh, and then I decided to go in house at an agency after being a freelance consultant for a decade, so that’s been a fun transition.

While all of this has been happening over the course of the past few years, I’ve also lost ownership of my own narrative. The most basic truth about human nature is that we all only share parts of our stories to certain audiences. We package up our life to serve the anticipated expectations of the people we encounter. Before the internet, this was limited to our families, our friends, and coworkers that were physically present in our daily lives.

With the growth of our perceived audience, the anticipated expectations of people have grown exponentially.

For me, the consequence of that was being so afraid to share my narrative to my segmented audiences that I just stopped sharing, not only with the world but with myself.

I lost touch with my own healing process—I stopped writing.

I began censoring myself.

I tried to fit the mold of so-called “best practices” not only in my professional journey but my personal life too.

My depression and anxiety began taking over my inner monologue, making it even more difficult to express myself to the outside world.

I became lost in a sea of expectations, seeking validation from people who don’t even know how to accept themselves.

I began to shrink.

Then I had an epiphany.

The most radical act of self-care is reclaiming the narrative.

So, I’d like to take a moment to introduce myself and tell you a little bit about who I am today.

I’m Berrak Sarikaya, a 37-year-old April Fool Baby who is Aries AF, and feels no shame about it. According to the Enneagram Institute, I am Type 2: The Helper.

I am an immigrant and proud of it.

I’m multipassionate, and no, I do not want to monetize every single hobby that I have because I want to just enjoy things without feeling judged.

Hello. Hi. Do you have a hobby you’re passionate about?

May I suggest something radical?

You DON’T have to turn it into a business.

Thank you for your time.

— Berrak Sarikaya | Content Strategist | Speaker (@BerrakBiz) March 21, 2019

Being multipassionate also means that if you’re following me on social media, you will see me go from geeking out about the latest Doctor Who episode to talking about politics (both in the US and Turkey) to sharing memes to sharing marketing tips to amplifying job postings to connect people to…whatever it is that’s on my mind that day.

Life is too short and I am too busy living to have a curated persona for your benefit.

I’m a writer, first and foremost, but I’ve also worked my ass off over the past decade to curate a career that combines a few of my different passions.

While I am growing as an integrated marketing strategist, I’ve also got a soft spot in my heart for small businesses, content marketing, and freelancers/solopreneurs.

I am not an expert in anything, but I do have a lot of experience.

I am curious as fuck, and I will ask questions. If you have the answers or an opinion, I want you to answer those questions.

In case you haven’t noticed, I am expressive. I am easily excitable.

I take big leaps. I am more scared of being successful than failing. I make mistakes. Lots of them. I let people down.

I make snap judgments. I let my insecurities take control.

I wear my soul and scars out in the open.

I am thirsty for knowledge. I am overwhelmed.

I am a survivor.

I’m living with bipolar 2.

I am evolving.

So, welcome to my life. If you’d like to be a part of it daily, here’s a little cheat sheet to connect with me.

• The B-Roll: A weekly letter from me to you about what’s on my mind, what’s caught my eye, plus a Language & Culture Corner where I will begin sharing pieces of my Turkish culture. Plus the best way to stay updated on my creative projects.
• Instagram (@BerrakBiz) (personal): This is where my biggest identity crisis is happening and things are shifting. I wanted it to be a curated experience as a small biz owner, but I’m shifting back to it just being me. I use the stories a lot, and I’ve begun posting a little bit more to just share daily thoughts, books I’m reading, etc.
• LinkedIn: This is where I’m professional AF. Obviously. I’m pretty selective about who I connect with on here but if you want to connect, be sure to send me a note with your request.
• Twitter (@BerrakBiz): This is my favorite platform. You can engage with me daily on here for random thoughts, industry insights, cat pictures, random observations about Seattle life, and generally geeking out. (It’s now November, 2022 and with what’s going on at Twitter, it’s best if you also connect with me on Mastodon)

Now, I’d love to meet you. Tell me something you discovered yourself in the past year. 

“I’m going through a rough patch,” I told one of my best friends last night as we sipped our nightcaps after a great meal and a show at one of our favorite venues.

She looked at me straight in the eyes and said “a rough patch where you have a roof over your head, a job you love, and pretty solid life. You’ve been through worse.”

She’s right, of course. I have been. In fact, earlier that night, I had given her a highlight reel of one of the toughest periods of my life. I met her right at the tail end of it, when I was still healing and wasn’t really talking about the details.

There’s so much of my story I haven’t shared with even my closest confidantes because I met them after I had come out of the fire. It’s never about “hiding” my past but choosing to only share the details as they become relevant to today.

And sometimes, honestly, because I’m so open with them, I just assume that I’ve already told them everything, even though I’ve lived lifetimes before our paths even crossed.

So this is 34. It’s no longer about just moving forward and just surviving and thriving in small, present moments but owning my full story.

It’s going back to my roots of sharing my pain, my flaws, my weaknesses, and the lessons I’ve learned, not only to begin healing but to help others understand my story.

This is 34.

It’s owning my anxiety and my bad days and being honest about how much I’m struggling.

It’s reminding myself that I am allowed to cry it the fuck out when my heart is broken into pieces.

No one:

My anxiety: pic.twitter.com/Vz7KSdAm1a

— Berrak "Sparkling Consequences" Sarıkaya (@BerrakBiz) April 9, 2019

This is 34.

It’s being selective with how I choose to spend my limited energy, and not feeling guilty about leaving people behind when they’re no longer a good fit for who I am becoming.

It’s about not only growing out of my own comfort zone, and remembering that I will grow out of other people’s comfort zones. It’s knowing that I do not have to apologize for either.

This is 34.

It’s being able to stop saying “I’m too much” and instead, pivoting to proudly owning my personality without feeling the need to shrink to fit into anyone’s expectations.

It’s loving things and people passionately and enthusiastically without justifying my feelings.

*When people hurt me*

24-year-old Berrak: Blames self, apologizes profusely even though she did nothing wrong, beats herself up for weeks.

34-year-old Berrak: Goes over the events, cries it the fuck out for a night, learns her lesson, moves on with her life.

— Berrak "Sparkling Consequences" Sarıkaya (@BerrakBiz) April 11, 2019

Oh, and I guess it’s safe to say that this space is going to get a little busy again.

I’ve missed writing. I’ve missed sharing. I’ve missed my community.

So, if you’re new or if you’ve been around for a while, I hope you’ll stick around.

Because this is 34, and y’all, I have a lifetime’s worth of stories to share.