I have bipolar disorder, and I’m classed as having a Grade 2 psychiatric disability. I’ve been blogging for over 20 years, although my old blog is closed now.

This is actually the fourth time I’ve rewritten my introduction. Quite a lot has happened this year, and I thought it was time to have another go at explaining who I am. It’s still a bit difficult to know where to start. But I suppose I should start with my childhood.

For as far back as I can remember, I was already being abused. I was beaten until my teeth broke and I was covered in blood. Once, while I was still bleeding, I was kicked out through the front doorway and landed several metres away. Then the door was locked behind me, and I heard,

“Get out. Don’t ever come back.”

I hadn’t even started primary school yet…

My mother put me down whatever I did. I was a sickly child and spent about half of every month in bed. Even with a fever over 40 degrees, I’d be shouted at for being so much trouble, for not understanding how hard I was making her life.

I first thought about ending my life when I was in kindergarten. We lived on the fifth floor of a public housing block. I would look down from the window and think about jumping. Sometimes I actually leaned out. I don’t really know how to explain that to you. I was that young, and I already wanted to stop being here.

Things weren’t much better outside the house. At kindergarten, I was pushed into a river. On another occasion, my legs were kicked until I couldn’t stand, and I lay in the sandpit until it got dark.

There’s a dark birthmark on my left shoulder. Other children thought it was disgusting, so changing clothes or going swimming meant being picked on again. That continued through primary school. I also experienced sexual abuse. After a while, even spitting blood from a split mouth became something I was used to. I couldn’t fight back. I just waited until it was over.

The strange thing is, when I remember those years, there’s no colour. The scenes come back in grey and black. But I do remember one picture in colour. It was something I drew for an event at kindergarten. There was an enormous black fish, spewing bright red blood as it attacked smaller fish. The big one took up about a quarter of the page, and all these little fish were trying to get away. I think that was how the world felt to me then. I couldn’t have explained it like that at the time, but looking back at the picture, it makes sense to me now.

I’d been struggling with schoolwork and couldn’t do much at sport either. There had been plenty of days when I stood alone in the kitchen, thinking about hurting myself.

Things began to change in Year 5, when I met my new teacher. This teacher accepted me as I was. He also invited me to join the athletics club they ran, and I started getting stronger. My schoolwork gradually improved too. By the time I finished primary school, I was among the five fastest runners in my year. He was my teacher in Year 6 as well, so I had two years with someone looking out for me. I think that was when I started to understand what being cared for felt like. When I say that teacher saved my life, I mean it. I honestly don’t know where I’d be if we hadn’t met.

In junior high school, I became the fastest runner in my year. I could cross the finish line and raise my fist because I was happy. That might sound like a small thing, but it was quite a change from the child I’d been.

My grades were still terrible, though, so I joined a cram school. I studied until three in the morning, then got up at six for athletics training. Looking back, I was pushing myself pretty hard.
The teacher there was frightening. Whenever there was shouting, the fear from my childhood would come back and my body would freeze. But somehow I kept going. By the entrance exams, my results had improved enough to get me into an academically demanding high school.

I had friends, became a student representative, and was apparently pretty popular too. I was so caught up in athletics that I didn’t really notice that last part. That period gave me something I could hold on to. I’d seen that working hard could change things for me.

Around then, I also started wondering what kind of person I was. I found a book on Freud in the school library, became interested in psychology, and went on to study it at university. University was difficult, though. I became depressed.

In my third year, I started working as a lifeguard, and that was where I met my first partner. It was the first relationship for both of us. We ended up staying together for eight years. I trusted that person completely. After growing up the way I had, being able to do that meant a lot. I let them see me as I was, and we promised each other we’d get married. I was happy with her. I really was.

Then I was suddenly told,

“I’m marrying another man, so we’re breaking up.”

And during that breakup, I heard this:

“The reason I never introduced you to my friends was that I was too embarrassed.”

We’d been together for eight years.

There were other hurtful things said too. I know I wasn’t a perfect partner. I was immature, and I probably had an arrogant side. I can look back and admit that. But those words hurt. This was the first person I’d trusted enough to open up to, and I’d believed we were going to spend our lives together. I think part of what made it so painful was losing that feeling that I could finally be safe with someone.

I lost 15 kilograms in a month. I couldn’t sleep properly, and the despair was there all the time. I drove recklessly too, because I didn’t care much about death.

I was working in a bookshop then. One day, a customer shouted at me about my attitude, and it snapped me out of things for a moment. I looked in a mirror and saw how terrible I looked. I realised I couldn’t keep doing that job in the state I was in.

So I went back to vocational school to get a qualification and change careers. Less than a month after starting, I had a flashback on a train. I couldn’t stay on my feet, so I got off and sank to the ground. There happened to be a psychiatric clinic nearby. I saw the sign and went straight in.

The studying itself went well. I liked the subject, finished at the top of my class, and received an award from the prefecture. I qualified as a car mechanic and found work. Quite a jump from selling books, I know. But at the time, it was a way forward.

The working conditions were difficult, though. I kept becoming unwell and changing jobs. Eventually, I lost half the field of vision in my left eye and couldn’t continue. After that, I got by on temporary and part-time work.

Somewhere along the way, I went back to studying psychology and attended postgraduate lectures. I still wanted to understand why I was the way I was.

Learning about dysfunctional families helped. I have a younger sister who wasn’t abused and was treated with care. That difference had always been difficult to make sense of. Studying family relationships gave me a way to think about what had happened without assuming there must have been something wrong with me.

I also began to wonder what my parents had grown up with. My grandparents lived through the war years. Perhaps some of what happened in that generation affected the next one too. I don’t know all of their history. And understanding a possible reason doesn’t make the abuse acceptable. But it did give me something else to consider alongside the anger.

I still freeze when someone shouts or becomes furious. My mind goes blank, and I close myself off. Knowing why I might react that way doesn’t always help me stop it. Work continued to be difficult. There was prejudice and bullying, and I kept trying again, becoming unwell, and starting over.

Then, on 16 January 2026, I experienced severe verbal abuse and physical violence at work. The person running the centre was there, but I didn’t get adequate protection. Afterwards, I was left in the same space as the person who had attacked me for about two and a half hours. The meetings that followed didn’t give me a workable plan for returning safely. I was told things like, “You have to put up with it,” and, “If it were me, I’d probably quit.” Eventually, I had no choice but to leave.

For about six months afterwards, I was mostly bedridden. I lost 10 kilograms, and my bowel incontinence got so bad that I needed adult nappies.

I’d managed to get back up before, but that didn’t make it any easier this time. I couldn’t move.
That’s why I find it hard to tell someone to just keep going. I know what it’s like to want to take the next step and still be unable to do it.

On 19 October, my birthday, I started a new job. My computer skills had been recognised, and this time I could work from home. I’m glad I’ve had that chance. I don’t know yet how it’s going to turn out, but being able to try a different way of working means a lot to me.

That’s also why I wanted to rewrite this introduction. I’ve had times when working hard helped. I’ve had times when someone’s kindness helped. And I’ve had months when I could do very little at all. I wanted to leave room for all of that when I told you about myself.

If you’re going through something difficult, perhaps there’s a part of this you recognise. That’s what I hope my writing can do—give someone a moment of feeling a little less alone with what they’re carrying.

Anyway, that’s me, as things stand. I’m working from home now, and I’m writing again. When I get around to version five, I wonder what I’ll have to tell you.