April Unscripted: Well, that escalated

April Unscripted – Issue #9 (September 2026)

A note from the editor

Every month, April invites us into her world with remarkable openness. Sometimes that's funny, sometimes hopeful, and sometimes, as in this edition, it's incredibly difficult.

This piece explores a period when April was very unwell and includes honest discussion of depression, psychosis and suicidal thoughts. Please be gentle with yourself as you read.

It's okay to pause, come back later, or stop altogether. And if it brings up difficult feelings, our peer support team is here for you online, at support groups, or through our email and callback service.

Take care,

Amy

___________

Hello wonders,

I had to skip August, unfortunately. I wasn’t coherent enough, because I’m still not well.

When I wrote in July, I shared that I was in the middle of a mixed episode. You may recall me saying “who knows how it’ll end… famously endings are the best bit, no?”

Well, the question still stands.

Things got bad, my friends. Real bad. I slipped into the most severe depression I’ve had in perhaps a decade.

A couple of people knew how bad it truly got, a handful of others knew the situation wasn’t great and were looking out for me, and the majority had no idea… by design.

Did I run out of that mixed episode before I could walk? Maybe.

I did continue to do all the ‘right’ things though! I was forcing the routine, forced myself to get up, sit at my desk, eat, walk, breathe fresh air.

Everyone thought I was back to ‘normal’, I thought I was back to ‘normal’.

My mind was mocking me though: “these things could help you, doesn’t mean they automatically will”.

Breaking news from the press conference in my mind

I don’t think we’ve touched on this, but my bipolar and its voices manifests as a press conference in my mind, eight unrelenting journalists fighting for the mic whilst I fight for my life.

I slowly lost touch with reality again and, more concerningly, lost touch with those around me.

The crying. I hate crying. I don’t believe it’s good to “let it all out”. Crying for me opens the floodgates to everything besides the moment I’m in.

But that’s all I did.

I recall, one evening I went to my bedroom to get my phone charger, it had died, and I never let my phone die. As I was walking back to the living room, my knees buckled underneath me, and I crumbled to the floor sobbing.

I felt like a boxer whose back was up against the ropes. No referee, just bipolar sucker punching me, again and again.

I’m not sure how long I laid there, but my foster kittens met me on the floor, they laid by my side, licking at my tears, nuzzling against my head. I can’t remember the last time I cried like that. Animalistic, Greek tragedy type crying.

Bipolar 1, April 0

By the third week, my bipolar toolbox was empty. I tried everything to help myself, all the tools I picked up over years of therapy, all the tricks I’d learnt from other episodes. I even let myself sleep for as long as my body wanted to. With or without night terrors. Oh man, the night terrors.

The night terrors largely consisted of intruders every night who were trying to stab me. They got so bad that I woke up to what I believed was someone in my living room speaking to someone on loudspeaker, also plotting my death. Once I came to the conclusion no one was in the apartment, I of course still had to check all the doors and rooms multiple times.

I wanted to protect myself, but I’d removed all sharp objects from the apartment because I could no longer trust myself.

There were a string of days and nights that blurred into one. I walked around the block to prove something to the press conference, but their questions only grew more abrasive.

I still forced two meals a day down me, but everything else went out the window. To cut a long story short, I turned to unhealthy coping mechanisms.

I was in the throes of a psychotic break, and yes, my ‘just in case’ letter was updated.

Finding the right words

One of the journalists even had the audacity to ask me how I would describe depression.

The irony is I’d describe depression as painfully quiet. That warped sound the main character in a film hears when they’re told some bad news. It’s like being suffocated but always given just enough space to keep breathing. The majority of the metaphors you hear about depression are accurate from my perspective, but to describe an episode like this? I’m still working on it.

One night, I decided to listen to these voices, to the journalists and started writing. Viciously writing like my life depended on it.

My whole sleep pattern was an utter mess, but within a three days I had written over 50,000 words. And in that is where the truth to this episode lies. I didn’t want to put the charity in a tricky position by laying out the whole truth (and nothing but the truth here). I will finish the book I’ve apparently started writing. Even if only I ever read it. It might well be the thing that kept me alive.

“Doc, can we talk?”

I finally caved and saw my psychiatrist. I knew I should have done this a lot sooner, but I wholeheartedly thought I could handle it… plus she’s so expensive! I always associate her with failure, which is probably the most embarrassing thing to admit in this entire article. She’s actually the only person in the world that makes me feel truly seen.

I love my psychiatrist. She confirms my ‘crazy’ in a way I need it confirmed. She never plays it down, which is a natural reaction for someone to do. She validates my mental illness, which, believe it or not, is sometimes needed. Sometimes I’d rather hear a “yeah, that’s bipolar for you” than “I’m sure many people feel that way sometimes”.

I saw her on a Sunday and the following Wednesday I christened it April Reboot™. I felt like I needed a defibrillator of self-care to get me off this damn sofa.

April Reboot™

To cut a long story short (again), the April Reboot™ looked like this:

Full body massage
Manicure
Facial
Larchmont Sandwich (if you know, you know)
Tongue piercing

I had told everyone prior to the day I would not be on my phone. No texts, calls, social media – off it all. I needed to stop vaping, reign in the drinking, and feel something – the tongue piercing seemed like a solution to all of it.

I couldn’t smoke, vape or drink for at least four weeks after getting it done.

When friends started to discover the piercing they rolled their eyes, when I told them the method to my madness, they found it very difficult not to agree with me. I don’t understand why this isn’t being promoted over nicotine patches?!?! It’s the most powerful smoking cessation method I’ve ever used.

And to be frank with you all, the tongue piercing is the only thing that had a positive effect. It was a fidget ring, but in my mouth! Everything else I did that day was ‘self-care’, made sense to do it, but if you know me, you know how I loathe the phrase ‘self-care’. Maybe I’ll rant about that once I’m out of the depths of hell.

A bipolar hat trick without the celebration dance

For a week or so after April Reboot™ I thought I had conquered this episode. And yet, I found myself doing the tango with mania. The tightrope swaying precariously under me as I try to stay upright.

You could call it a bipolar hat trick.

But today I felt deeply, deeply low. Yesterday I was so goddamn high! So, did my mix episode go into mania before depression? Did the four-week depression slip into mixed? Or am I just manic and it’s just a rogue low today?

Why has science not moved forward enough where we can have a chip installed so we know what type of episode we’re going through and can act accordingly?

A couple of months ago I said: “Sometimes you have to let bipolar win the day, so it doesn’t win the week or month.”

The irony is not lost on me that this episode has taken three of my months.

A masterclass in pretending

I’ve attempted to reflect as much as one can in the eye of the storm. The one prominent acknowledgement is how superb I am at fooling everyone, how superb I am at fooling myself.

In fact, I was at work, (on a shoot) the other day, and it naturally came up that I’m bipolar. Someone that was new to that information said, “No I don’t think so. You don’t seem bipolar. I don’t think it’s that.”

Do you know how disrespectful that is? Because why the hell would I be lying about such a niche diagnosis? But do you know how smug that made me feel? Okay, so you’re telling me I’m not giving off the type of person who couldn’t trust themselves with sharp objects two weeks ago? Talk about a humble brag.

Mum, I hope you’re not reading this

As you know by now, I purposely make light of a situation. There’s nothing light about it, don’t think I don’t know that! Don’t think I’m ever minimising what you’re going through, and how you might be suffering. Most of the time my ‘lightness’ comes from fear of a loved one reading the darkness.

I feel guilty for revealing that this episode has made me want to die when some of the people I love most are currently going through incredibly difficult times - they are the pillar of survival.

I guess that’s why these days, I try to discourage my nearest and dearest from reading my written work. My earlier stuff was for them, absolutely – but now – now it’s primarily for others, for you.

My heart goes out to my loved ones because sometimes all they have to go off is: “Hey, so my mind is trying to kill me – but I’m handling it. How are YOU?”

I vividly remember reading Terri Cheney’s memoir ‘Manic’ and applauding her honesty amongst many other qualities. I love that woman. I’ve no doubt that was an incredibly tough read for her loved ones, but for someone like me, she became another person who made me feel truly seen.

To the ones that show up

I’m so incredibly lucky to have who I have around me. without them this situation could be a lot worse.

A small insight into my troop - a friend had groceries delivered to my door, knowing I wouldn’t want to see anyone, but knowing my fridge would be empty AND knowing exactly what I would have in my fridge. That is friendship and love, and not for a moment did I take that for granted.

But how much more can my troop handle? How many more times can they ask how I’m doing when the answer is … “still not good, sorry”. I’ve started saying “I’m good” to most people, for fear of losing them altogether.

Three years of drama school has given me the ability to pretend I’m April. But surely, I will be April-April again? “I’m good” will be a truthful response. Surely? Because right now, I’m terrified I’ll never feel like myself again. I sometimes drink enough and she comes back but, in general – sober – I don’t feel her anymore.

Until next month

The question still stands: “who knows how it’ll end… famously endings are the best bit, no?”

Here’s hoping I have a more positive answer next month.

Until then, I’m going to play Spice Girls, put on Miss Congeniality, play with me togue piercing. And if my mind continues to fight against me, I will once again override it, with more 90s music, Miss Congeniality 2, and probably get another piercing.

Do your equivalent of that! You can override it, I promise you.

If I’m staying, you have to stay with me!

Lots of love,
April x