Poetry for Mental Health published my piece today. “How Music Helps Me Live with Bipolar Disorder.”
Writing it took weeks. Not the actual writing, that happened in bursts between studio sessions. The difficult part was deciding how much to share. Whether to use the words “bipolar disorder” publicly. Whether people would understand or reduce everything about my music to that diagnosis.
Eventually realised hiding it wasn’t protecting me. It was protecting the stigma.
Poetry for Mental Health does important work that deserves recognition. Robin Barratt founded the organisation during COVID lockdown, understanding what isolation and mental health struggles actually feel like. He’s a Mental Health First Aider who’s experienced significant mental health challenges throughout life. He knows firsthand how impossible coping can feel.
What began as a way to help people cope through lockdown by inspiring them to write poetry became something larger. Five years later, seven published books, hundreds of poets, thousands of pieces of poetry.
Their philosophy matters: “No matter what your age, background and experience, culture or identity; whether an established writer or someone who’s never written a word, we embrace, welcome and support everyone suffering from mental health challenges.”
Everyone. Everywhere. No gatekeeping. Just the belief that words and poetry can help people cope.
The platform features personal stories about depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, PTSD, eating disorders, addiction, trauma. The messy, unpolished truth. People sharing actual experiences with conditions society still prefers whispered about.
When I first discovered their site months ago, reading other people’s stories made me feel less alone. Someone described the exact texture of depressive episodes I thought only I experienced. Another articulated the chaos of elevated states I’d never found words for. Recognition creates connection.
My piece covers the Glasgow Radiohead concert that changed everything. My mother’s death and the undiagnosed years that followed. Finding music at 27. Working with Vlad through both stable and unstable phases. The myths about mania fuelling creativity that nearly kept me from treatment. How medication didn’t steal my artistry but made completing work actually possible.
I wrote about the versions of myself that didn’t survive. The photographer, the painter, the dancer, the journalist. All the scattered attempts before music became the singular focus.
The piece is long. Honest. Uncomfortable in places. Exactly what it needed to be.
Messages started arriving since publication. People recognising themselves in parts of my story. Someone at 26 scattering themselves across unfinished projects. Someone else afraid medication will erase their creativity. A parent whose daughter was recently diagnosed.
This is why organisations like Poetry for Mental Health matter. Stigma thrives in silence. Personal stories break that silence. Writing creates connection between people who thought they were alone.
Writing this wasn’t easy. Publishing it felt vulnerable. But hiding my diagnosis whilst making music about living with it created disconnect I couldn’t maintain.
Thank you to Robin for the platform, for treating these stories with respect they deserve, and for creating space where people can share without judgment.
If you’re struggling, if you’re undiagnosed, if you’re afraid treatment will change who you are fundamentally, maybe my story helps. Maybe it just shows you’re not alone.
The work continues. Studio sessions, new material, learning to live with this condition. Still adapting. Still showing up.
Read the story: https://www.poetryformentalhealth.org/anastasiia-ledovskaia
— Indie pop artist, musician Anastasiia Ledovskaia