I remember the night you told me you were bipolar. You said it so casually as if you were telling me your favourite colour, and I, in my ignorance, didn’t think much of it. I had never heard the term before—not in a way that made it real. I thought it was just a word, something people used to describe moodiness or indecision. I didn’t know then that it was an actual condition, a disorder that shapes how someone thinks, feels, and interacts with the world.
Now, I wish I had listened more carefully.
I’ve been reading about bipolar disorder, and so much makes sense now. It’s funny how the issues in our relationship are only beginning to make sense years after you ended things. I spent the whole of last night educating myself on bipolar disorder and watching the unbelievable experiences of those who live with people who have bipolar disorder.
I learned that bipolar disorder is a mental health condition that causes extreme mood swings—episodes of mania where everything feels electric, like you’re invincible, followed by deep crashes into depression where even getting out of bed feels impossible. It’s not just being happy one moment and sad the next; it’s a cycle, a pendulum swinging between highs and lows that you don’t always control. And looking back, I see it now.
I see it in how you were so intensely in love with me at first, giving me your undivided attention, calling me brilliant, telling me you’d never met anyone like me. I see it in how you moved fast—too fast—planning futures, making me feel like I was the most important person in your world. And then, just like that, the switch. The distance. The coldness. The unexplained silences. I remember thinking I had done something wrong, that maybe I had said the wrong thing, or that you had just stopped loving me. But maybe it wasn’t about love at all—maybe you were just caught in a cycle that neither of us understood.
I had a meeting with your mother recently. Well, not just me—your most recent ex was there too. It was strange, the two of us sitting across from each other, women you once loved, trying to make sense of it all. Your mother, with tears in her eyes, confirmed what I had only recently started to understand: you’ve been struggling for years. She said your disorder has been at play in your relationships, that it was a factor in both of your failed marriages and that despite everything, you still refuse to seek real help.
I don’t write this to make you feel bad. If anything, I feel for you now in a way I didn’t before. I understand that your leaving wasn’t always a choice—it was a reaction, an attempt to outrun something that lived inside you. And I’m sorry I didn’t know enough then to be more patient, more informed, more understanding. But I also know now that love alone can’t fix this. You need help—the kind of help I wasn’t equipped to give.
I hope you open yourself up to receive the help you need, at least for yourself and maybe for the next person who would attempt to date/love/marry you.
Wherever you are, I hope you’re okay. I hope you find the support you need. And I hope one day, you stop running.
Your Ex-Girlfriend
- Dear Ex-Boyfriend” is a fictional relationship column written by Ese Walter, reflecting on past experiences with a fictional ex. Readers are encouraged to share their own stories by submitting letters for possible publication. Submissions can be sent to esewalter@gmail.com
