The Day I Chose Safety: Living, Leaving, and Returning in a Family Touched by Bipolar Disorder | by Morami Dutta | Sep, 2025
I never thought I’d leave my own home with just a small bag and my daughter’s hand.
But one night, when my spouse’s illness surged into dangerous behaviour, I chose safety over silence.
For months before that, I had tried everything — psychiatric counselling, medication reminders, gentle encouragement — to hold things together. Yet he resisted supervision, skipped doses, and slipped into restless anger that left me helpless, searching for ways to calm the storm.
Some days felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. He seemed happy, making plans for our future, brimming with warmth and energy. Other days, storms arrived without warning — anger spilling over, words cutting deep, the air in our home heavy with tension. And on other days still, he sank into deep depression — refusing meals, neglecting hygiene, unable to face his job. That was what life with bipolar disorder often looked like in our family: unpredictable tides that swept us between joy and fear, between hope and helplessness.
When Alcohol Made Things Worse
His drinking grew heavier, and with every glass his condition worsened. In those moments, no voice could reach him. He refused to listen, refused to see the harm it was causing. One night, when the anger and chaos became unbearable, the choice was no longer mine to postpone — I had to leave. With my daughter’s small hand in mine, I stepped out of our home and into an uncertain future.
Starting Over with nothing but Hope
The first place I went was my mother’s house. For a few days, I left my daughter there, safe in her care, while I searched for a way to stand on my own. Soon, I moved into a rented room, carrying with me only a little of my past savings and a heart weighed down by constant worry for my family, the one I left two thousand kilometres away and the one who is all alone, suffering from such a complex disease. It was such a painful beginning to a journey I had never imagined, one marked by both fear and resilience.
Within weeks, I brought my daughter back, as she had already missed too much school. Alongside my M.Phil. studies, I began teaching both online and offline to earn an income. The chronic stress pressed heavily on my body and mind, so I started yoga, breathing exercises, and meditation. Prayer, journaling, walks, and supportive friends became my lifelines. I also focused on caring for my daughter, trying to reduce the trauma she carried from living through so many unexpected storms.
Choosing to Return, With Boundaries
In time, things began to shift. Left on his own, my husband realised how isolated he had become. Slowly, he committed to proper treatment and consistent medication, and the storms gave way to calmer days. Through it all, I remained in contact with him, believing that beneath his anger and illness was someone who also felt helpless, someone who carried his own apologies.
I chose to return—not because everything had magically healed, but because I saw his effort, his willingness to accept help, and the hope that our family could be rebuilt on stronger ground. This time, I came back with clear boundaries and the courage to hold them.
We are not the same people we were before. Now our home has safety rules — lines that cannot be crossed, conversations that must be heard, and systems of support that keep us steady when the waves threaten to rise again. We returned with tools, with understanding, and with the hard-won wisdom that love without safety isn’t truly love at all.
The Lessons I Carry Forward
Looking back, the hardest chapters taught me the deepest lessons. I learned that resilience is not about pretending to be unshaken — it is about finding the strength to stand again after every fall. I discovered the power of boundaries, not as walls but as safety barriers that protect the family and peace.
And I realised that no one survives such a storm alone. My friends nearby became my anchors, and my professors in the department extended kindness and understanding when I needed it most. Their presence reminded me that support systems are not luxuries; they are lifelines, extreme necessities.
Today, I carry hope — not the fragile hope that everything will always be easy, but the steady belief that with love, safety, and support, even an uncertain path can lead to healing.
Closing Reflection
This is not the story of a cure. It’s the story of continuing with compassion, boundaries, and the quiet strength that love demands.
A true story of leaving home with my daughter’s hand in mine, finding strength in support systems, and returning with boundaries, resilience, and the quiet wisdom that love without safety isn’t love at all. The journey continues.
