This community will always have a free option. If you’re struggling, you’re welcome here — no questions asked. I’ve added an optional Premium membership for anyone who finds this useful and wants to support the writing. Nothing essential is locked away. There’s no pressure. No special status. It simply helps me keep building this space and writing consistently. If you’d like to upgrade: • Click your profile picture (top right) • Go to Settings • Select “The Bipolar Bear” • Choose Premium If not, stay anyway. Reading quietly counts. — Matthew

From my earliest memories, depression has been my constant companion. At four or five years old, standing in my school playground in a blue parka and corrective shoes for my club foot, I first felt it — that heavy, soggy duvet of doom settling over me. This wasn’t sadness. It was something deeper. Physical. Painful. And it never really left. I lived on the periphery. Never quite belonging anywhere. As the eldest child, I didn’t have an older sibling to smooth my way into groups. My parents didn’t have friends with kids who could say, “He’s alright, let him join in.” Even my cousins lived too far away to offer that simple lifeline. I learned early what it felt like to be outside. Because of my fused club foot — shorter than the other — I walked differently. Awkwardly. Clumsily. I felt constantly watched. Judged. Whispered about. Whether people actually were staring almost didn’t matter — it felt real. So I adapted. I became the clown. I hurt myself. Embarrassed myself. Made myself ridiculous for laughs from people I didn’t even like or respect. The deal I made was simple: Humiliation in exchange for belonging. “As long as I’m part of something,” I told myself, “the cost doesn’t matter.” Looking back, that realisation still leaves a hollow ache in my chest — what I was willing to trade just to avoid being alone. All of this played out in Ebbw Vale in the mid-80s through the 90s. A town being quietly dismantled. The mines went first. Then the steelworks — the heart of the community. With each closure, hope drained from the valley. Unemployment wasn’t a statistic. It lived in houses. In pubs. In families. Men who’d defined themselves by hard, honest labour were left purposeless. Alcohol became both the cause and the solution. The air itself felt heavy with despair. In a place like that, fitting in mattered even more. And once again, I found myself on the outside looking in. For a long time, this was just my life. I didn’t know there was another way to exist.

I didn’t build this because I have the answers. I built it because staying sober and mentally steady takes honesty, not hype. I’ve learned the hard way that pretending to be fine makes things worse. This space exists so people don’t have to do that. Over the last year — while out of work — I wrote a 30,000-word book about how I survived depression and stayed sober. Not theory. Not productivity hacks. Just lived experience. Here, I share: • One chapter each weekend • One poem midweek • Honest reflections on rebuilding, ego, failure and staying in the fight Some of it might help you. Some of it won’t. Take what works. Leave the rest. There’s no pressure to post here. Reading quietly counts. This is not therapy. I’m not a clinician, and this isn’t medical advice. This is just one person telling the truth about what kept him going. Be kind. Be respectful. Everyone here is carrying something you can’t see. If you’re here, you’re welcome. — Matthew