I don’t like evenings. I almost typed “I hate evenings,” but hate is such a strong word, isn’t it? So, okay—let’s not use the word hate. Still, if I’m being honest, I’ve never really liked evenings. It means another night of forcing myself to sleep, even when I’m not sleepy.
Even though I’m mostly awake at night—working, thinking, or finally catching a fragile moment of peace when the world goes quiet—the darkness has never felt like a friend. People assume I’m a night person just because I’m not a morning one. But then why do I struggle to get out of bed on a regular day? I wake up early sometimes, sure—when I absolutely have to. Early flights. Early call times. Deadlines. But it’s never after a full night of rest. Because the truth is, I don’t have the energy in the morning… I used it all fighting battles in the dark.
People often call me a “night owl.” They say it like it’s quirky or endearing, because I’m the one replying to messages at 2 AM, catching up on conversations once everyone else has wrapped up their day. But for me, being up at night isn’t just about productivity or preference. It’s some form of survival.
I don’t rest when I lie in bed—I fight. I fight to quiet my mind. I fight to fall asleep. I use all of my remaining energy to stop the endless spiral of racing thoughts. And some nights, it’s not just overthinking. It’s darker than that. It’s the kind of darkness that creeps in without warning and whispers things you don’t want to hear.
SHORT BACK STORY OF HOW IT STARTED
For those of you who are new to this blog, Hello! I’m Bobbie and Welcome to Wanderbites by Bobbie! I’ve been on this platform since 2016, sharing travel stories, food chronicles, and my mental health journey. For context, here’s a little backstory.
Back in 2019, while I was living in Australia, I was first diagnosed with Severe Anxiety with Acute Depression. At the time, I was also suicidal. I was living alone, juggling school and work while completing training hours for my Hospitality and Entrepreneurship course. My schedule was brutal—my work hours and school hours often overlapped, so I had to adopt a “sleep when you can” lifestyle. Most of the time, I was just… drained.
On top of that, I was dealing with a lot: relationship struggles, financial problems, moving schools, moving houses, moving cities, and the constant weight of being alone far from home, in a country that didn’t feel like mine. Thankfully, Australia has strong mental health awareness, and that pushed me to finally seek help. That openness—and honestly, a sense of desperation—pushed me to make a life-changing decision.
I left everything I had built in Sydney: the peak of my pastry chef career, my third diploma, my apartment by the beach, everything that I ever dreamed of in Sydney… all of it. I flew back to the Philippines to be with my family. I followed through with my treatment and took the medications prescribed for depression. But instead of getting better, I got worse. I spiraled from deep depression into manic episodes. I maxed out my credit cards on things I didn’t need—three ukuleles, gym clothes worth ₱7,000 (and I don’t even go to the gym at that time), full sets of hotpot sauces I wouldn’t eat unless I had all of them, every flavor of Tim Tams and KitKats that I wouldn’t touch—I’d just stare at them. I bought coloring pens and pencils because I needed everything in my room to be as bright and colorful as possible. It didn’t stop there. I had been prescribed black-label medications in Australia, so when I needed a refill back home, I was told to see a local psychiatrist.
That’s when I met Dra. Belle, my current psychiatrist at Medical City. She ran a series of tests—an MRI, hormonal workups, written assessments—and finally gave me the correct diagnosis: Bipolar Disorder 2.
It turns out, I had been misdiagnosed in Australia and had been given the wrong medications. And here’s something important: you should never give antidepressants to someone with Bipolar Disorder—it can trigger manic episodes. That’s exactly what happened to me. That’s why I kept on buying thing I never needed. It was Mania kicking in like a spell, and I’d wake up from the spell and be like… “WTF just happened?”
Over the next three years, I went through Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), which eventually helped me overcome my severe anxiety. And when I say severe, I mean it—things like the sound of an ambulance or a fire truck would instantly send me into a panic attack. I was terrified of people. I’d wear hoodies or baseball caps just to avoid making eye contact with anyone.
But over time—and with the right diagnosis, therapy, and medication—I started to get better.
Now, I look “normal.” High-functioning, even. But here’s the truth: there is no such thing as remission when you have Bipolar Disorder. You don’t get to just “get over it.” You manage it. You ride the waves. You hold on through the episodes and hope they pass.
If you wanna read more about my diagnosis, I wrote about this way back 2019: Here’s a link to the blog post. My Real Diagnosis: It’s NOT Depression and Anxiety
WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU TANGERINES
Over the holidays, I binge-watched the Korean drama When Life Gives You Tangerines. It’s a story about a family thrown into wave after wave of unexpected problems—and somehow, they still manage to bounce back. I had mentally and emotionally prepared myself from the get-go. I knew it was going to be heavy and heartbreaking. But come on… IU and Park Bo Gum in one screen? No way I was skipping that.
As expected, right after the drama ended, my brain went off the rails. I spiraled. I wasn’t depressed because of the drama—not in a “I related too hard” kind of way. It was something else. Something deeper. Something harder to explain. This is why my psychiatrist advised me not to watch the news, or watch anything depressing, or read anything that can be a trigger. But that was years ago. I’m a brave girl now. I still do these things, and sometimes come out stronger, unscathed!
It’s normal to go on an emotional roller coaster when watching a drama. What’s not normal is being depressed long after it’s over—while you’re at a BBQ by the pool, while you’re getting good news about your soap business, while your car’s finally fixed after breaking down, or right after a client compares you positively to a pro-level photographer and stylist.
And you’re still depressed?
Now that’s not normal.
But then again… who ever said I was?
Like I’ve said, I’ve been in therapy for nearly three years for Bipolar Disorder. My depression doesn’t always come with a clear trigger. Sometimes I jokingly blame the full moon for it. But in reality? There are days where I cry myself to sleep and have no idea why.
Or maybe I do—maybe my brain gives me too many reasons. Too many dark ones.
I’ve gone through this cycle so many times, but no matter how familiar it is, when an episode hits, it still feels like a blackout. Like nothingness. Like your body is moving, but you’re not in it. You could be doing something fun, even surrounded by people—but the depression creeps in and drains everything. You don’t want to move. You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to be anywhere. You just want to be still. Like a twilight zone.
It’s like a dementor. Yeah. That kind of dark. It sucks the life out of you, and you can’t stop it. Deep inside, you try to “Expecto Patronum” your way out of it. Wand raised. Voice trembling. But nothing comes out. Not even a whisper. No glowing silver light of your Patronus Charm. Just… silence. That’s how visual my depression gets sometimes. EVEN HARRY POTTER CAN NEVER! LOL.
THE SILENT BATTLE
I used to think: If I wasn’t Bipolar, I’d be so much better off. Maybe I’d be an Australian citizen by now. Maybe I’d still be at the peak of my pastry career—head pastry chef at a fine Italian resto, or a charming little French boulangerie by the beach back in Bondi Junction. I was already there at both jobs. I used to feel like my life crashed.
But if I hadn’t come home, I wouldn’t have the people I have now. And honestly? That’s what keeps me going. I’m blessed with a rock-solid support system—people who make living with this disorder bearable. My family? Always there. They know how to ground me and pull me out of the darkness, even in the smallest ways. Simple things—ice cream runs, sending me endless monkey and puppy videos, or letting me play Sims 4 for hours so I can escape to Sulani Island (where my mermaid sims live) and not whatever dark place my brain dragged me into.
Sure, my husband sometimes scolds me—there are moments when he just doesn’t fully get it, really. But he tries. And my mom? She’s grown with me through the years. Back then, whenever I cried, she would panic. Now, when I’m wrecked in the middle of a breakdown, she stays calm—almost serene, like she knows the storm will pass.
When I’m down, the whole house feels it. I’m usually the disco ball of the family. So when my lights go out, everything turns dim. The vibe shifts. It gets weirdly quiet—like you can hear every sneeze, every tiny dog paw tapping on the floor. Yep! That’s my senior dog, Dewey, watching me get depressed over nothing.
Yesterday, I was spiraling hard. My world felt like it was crashing. I was dissociating again—drifting far away from reality, already halfway through that dark tunnel. It was eating me alive again. And then my husband did something small but powerful. He brought me to the Korean grocery store. He knows I need to do something with my hands when I’m spiraling—something focused. Measured. Familiar. Chopping vegetables. Measuring sugar. Cooking. Being in the kitchen brings me back. At the store, he told me, “Get anything that will make you happy.” At first, I didn’t even know what I wanted. Was it ice cream? I was already so far gone. But I saw his effort. I saw how hard he was trying to help me snap out of it. And I didn’t want that to go to waste.
So I grabbed the ingredients, and on this very hot summer night, I made Sundubu Jjigae—Korean Tofu Stew (usually a winter soup). And not just that—Bibimbap, Jajangmyeon, and a side of Samgyupsal with lettuce wraps. Sometimes, saving yourself looks like a fancy Korean meal made at 10:00 PM. Sometimes, it looks like love in the form of tofu and gochujang. And sometimes, that tiny flicker of joy in the kitchen is the most magical thing in the world.
NOT ALWAYS OK, BUT ALWAYS HELD—By Organic Soaps and God’s Grace
But you know what? That’s the thing about depression—it makes even magic feel useless.
And yet, somehow, I’m still here. There’s a strange kind of strength in that. Even when my mind feels like a war zone, even when I feel like a ghost inside my own body—I still show up. I still try. I shower (sometimes more than once, because yes, I genuinely love the scent of my soaps), even on days when blinking my eyes feels like the most effort I can give.
I still meet deadlines (something I’m weirdly proud of, by the way—I’m never late on deadlines. This is something I’m always good at. I always show up, even if I’m crying two minutes before. Yey! Go me!). I still find ways to laugh—sometimes even in the middle of a breakdown. Because sometimes, laughing isn’t about denying the pain. It’s about reminding yourself you’re still here. Still human. Still trying.
It’s about collecting small wins on the days when everything feels impossible—like replying to a client’s message when you’d rather disappear, or eating real food that didn’t come from a packet (like munching on cucumbers instead of chips. Yey! Conscious eating!), or going on small walks or a swim even when it feels like lifting your arms feels like a full-body workout.
It’s also about recognizing the patterns—like when you suddenly want to buy ₱5,000 worth of scented candles or feel an overwhelming need to rearrange your entire life at 3 AM. (The opposite of my Bipolar Depression is Mania. Another blog post to talk about some other time). Knowing that it’s not just a mood—that it might be a sign. A shift. A signal to pause and check in.
These aren’t small things. For someone living with Bipolar Disorder, these moments—these choices—are survival in motion.
And, for me, those choices are more than just about getting through the day—they’re about building something that reflects how I care for myself. That’s why I started my soap business. It’s not just a business; it’s my dream—a way to focus on self-care and mental health awareness. It’s about helping others see the value in taking a moment for themselves, just like I do. I shower more than once a day because I believe in supporting my own well-being—and I want others to feel that same care through what I create. Because, if I can’t take care of myself, how can I show others how important it is?
I’m high functioning, but I’m not always okay. But I’ve gotten better at spotting my warning signs. I’ve built tools and support systems. I’ve learned that asking for help is a strength, not a weakness. Throughout this depression, I’ve learned a lot about myself—things I probably wouldn’t have discovered if life had stayed easy.
I’ve learned that I get clingy like a koala when I’m not okay. I didn’t know that about myself before. Back when I was alone, surviving in Australia, I didn’t have anyone to cling to. It was just me, pushing through school, work, and training, pretending I was fine. But now, with people around me—people who actually notice when my light dims—I’ve realized how much I crave comfort and safety when I start to spiral.
I’ve also learned to be grateful for the small things. Back then, I was chasing diplomas, job titles, and everything I thought success looked like. And don’t get me wrong, those were big things. But I missed the quiet miracles—the small wins. Like eating something green on purpose. Like laughing at a meme in the middle of a depressive fog. Like a warm shower that feels like a reset button.
I’ve learned that healing isn’t always loud or life-changing in the big, dramatic sense. Sometimes it looks like getting out of bed when you don’t want to. These lessons didn’t come easy—but they came. And I carry them with me now, little pieces of blessings tucked in between the hard days.
And I’ve survived every episode so far. That’s not just luck or stubbornness. That’s resilience. That’s work. That’s God’s grace, in its rawest form. Through the darkness, He’s been my strength, guiding me through every high and low. His grace is what has carried me when I thought I couldn’t take another step. And that’s not something I take lightly.
So if you’re like me—if you’re somewhere in the middle of your own chaos—know this:
You’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re just living with something real and complex.
And the fact that you’re still here? You’re held. You’re loved. And God’s grace is enough to carry you through it all.
2 Corinthians 12:9 “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
Deuteronomy 31:6 “The Lord your God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you.”
Psalm 34:18 “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
