Witchcraft, Bipolar, and Battling Brain Fog.
I’ve lived the last few years with a constant whisper. If I kept myself occupied it was easy to ignore…. I was running away from it, pretending life was ok, it’s normal, it’s okay – everything’s fine. But, I was being stupid. You can’t run away from yourself.
Admitting to myself that I had to deal with the whisper was an enormous challenge. I didn’t want to be that person—I wanted it all to stop. I’d spent years getting off the meds, the thought of going back on them horrified me. But eventually, the words came out, spoken to my favourite physician: “The bipolar is out of control.” I was breaking, and it was getting worse.
And then, as if the universe had a twisted sense of humour, life threw in stress, bullying, and enough upheaval to make me question if my broomstick still worked. It felt like being handed a book I was apparently starring in but had never read.
Leaving a position that once felt like my calling – only to realise it had become a battleground – took its toll. Stress, self-doubt, and a relentless storm of anxiety swirled around me, until the inevitable crash hit. Bipolar didn’t just knock on the door; it came barrelling in, unpacking chaos, and rearranging every shelf in my mind. Months of inhumane rapid cycling took its toll, I didn’t know what I was doing from one hour to the next, locked in a twisted carousel that was perpetually spinning. Ronnie Radke might as well have been in the room screaming: “Here we go again motherfuckers!!”
Hearing the word: “hospitalisation” broke through the muddied thoughts, and I reluctantly accepted defeat (and a prescription). There’s no fucking way I’m signing up to a short break at costa-del-psychiatric.
Brain Fog: My New Coven Mate
I’m not going to sugarcoat it: the medication stabilises my brain chemistry a bit, but it leaves me wandering around the house like a witch without a cauldron, unable to remember why I came into a room. Brain fog became my new coven mate, and let me tell you, they’re as much use as a chocolate wand. Which is rather tasty, but not exactly useful.
Suddenly, the rituals that once grounded me felt out of reach. I’d forget words mid-spell, fumble with ingredients, or sit down to research something only to realise I’d zoned out entirely. It was like my connection to magic had dimmed – still there, but distant, like trying to catch moonlight in a jar.
Motionless in White puts it perfectly:
“Some days I’m narcissistic, some days I’m in my way. Some days I try to sleep with pins and needles in my brain. Some days I feel sadistic, a portrait of my pain, Some days I live in fear that I am every fucking thing I hate.”
The line between bipolar and brain fog, medication and magic, fear and frustration – it all blurred. On the worst days, I was both everything I hated and everything I wanted to escape from. The headache of it all – trying to keep my craft alive while keeping myself afloat – was enough to make me scream at the moon.
Harassing the River and Writing in the Woods
But witchcraft doesn’t abandon you, even when you feel like you’ve abandoned it. Slowly, I found small ways to reconnect. These days, I spend a lot more time in the woods – hidden in a seldom used and overgrown copse – jotting down my thoughts, I am a shadow lurking between the hawthorn. When the vice closes in around my mind, and the overwhelm grips me until I can hardly breathe, I visit the river to harass it – dipping my fingers in the cold water, asking it to take my madness downstream, and demanding it leave me with clarity in return.
- I started with grounding, tactile practices. Even if I couldn’t remember the specifics of a spell, I could still crush rosemary between my fingers or hang bundles of mugwort to dry. Magic was in the doing, not the remembering.
- When the words wouldn’t come because they’d fucked off to sunnier climes, I stopped trying to force them to come home. If I mumbled a made-up chant or swore at the moon instead, so be it. Sometimes the rawest magic comes from letting go of perfection.
- I stripped things back – lighting a candle with a thought, carrying a crystal in my pocket, or just sitting under a tree and breathing in the earth’s energy.
One small spark at a time, and it was enough to remind me: I wasn’t lost; I was just wandering. And that’s okay, just for today, that’s okay.
Lessons From the Fog
Witchcraft isn’t about having all the answers or crafting elaborate rituals every time. It’s about showing up and shutting up, even when you don’t feel like you have much to give. Magic doesn’t leave you; it waits for you – quietly, patiently, in the mess.
The woods and the river have become my coven mates now, their ancient rhythms cutting through the fog better than anything in my apothecary. And maybe that’s the lesson: nature doesn’t ask for your perfection – just your presence. Fuck knows what I’d do if I was asked to give more than that.
I’m still learning to navigate this balance, but here’s what I know now: you don’t have to be perfect to be powerful. Even when the broom feels heavy, you’re still a witch.
So here I am, brain fog and all, stumbling through spells like a tipsy hedge witch, sometimes mute, sometimes a blur of activity, sometimes I can’t reply to messages, sometimes I’m on fire and don’t shut up. But I am still standing- just slightly off kilter.
Magic isn’t about doing it perfectly; it’s about doing it anyway. And if that means my craft involves a lot more swearing and a lot less ceremony these days, then so be it. The broom might feel heavy, but I’m still flying. Just about. It’s all about having the courage to hold on.
