I’m Not High or Low, Just Tired: Living in the Middle Space
When people think of bipolar disorder, they usually picture the dramatic shifts—soaring highs of mania or crushing lows of depression. But what often gets missed is the “middle space.” It’s not a crisis, not a collapse, just… tired, living, existing. For me, this space feels like holding my breath. I move through daily life without depression, anger, or overwhelm—but also without the energy or spark of hypomania. It’s the version of bipolar that doesn’t get talked about much, yet it’s where I spend a surprising amount of time. For some people, this might be a medicated state, but for me, it’s where the medication “balances.”
What the Middle Space Feels Like
Living in the middle space is complicated. On the surface, it can look like stability—no extreme highs, no deep lows. And in some ways, that’s true. I can get through my day, show up for responsibilities, and function. I get things done without rushing from task to task or hiding away in bed all day. In some ways, I guess this is what life might feel like for people who don’t have bipolar disorder.
But inside, it often feels boring and slow, like I’m going through the motions without much color or energy. I’m not in pain, but I’m not fully alive either. I don’t feel like I’m accomplishing much—even though I’m checking things off my list and staying focused. My mind isn’t exploding with ideas or energy the way it does when I’m hypomanic.
For me, this space is exhausting in its own way. I feel constantly tired, even when I’ve slept enough. Simple tasks seem to take more time and effort than they should. Conversations feel harder because I don’t have the spark or drive to engage fully. I often find myself at a loss for words because I don’t have thoughts bouncing rapidly around in my head. The best way I can describe it is like walking through water—you get where you’re going, but never quickly and never without struggle. In this space, I sometimes feel disconnected not only from life, but even from the people closest to me.
Why the Middle Space Happens
The middle space isn’t often talked about in bipolar disorder, but it’s very real. Sometimes it’s the result of medication—meds are designed to prevent the extreme highs and lows, and in doing so, they can also flatten out the energy in between. For some people, this “balanced” state feels steady and freeing, but for others, it can feel dull, heavy, or even disconnected.
It can also simply be part of the natural cycle of bipolar disorder. After coming down from mania or rising out of depression, the brain may move through a period of “leveling out.” It’s not quite joy, not quite despair—just a middle ground that can feel both safe and frustrating at the same time.
What makes it tricky is that this space can look like wellness from the outside. To others, you seem stable, functioning, and “better.” But inside, it doesn’t always feel like living—it feels like existing. That disconnect between what others see and what you feel can add an extra layer of loneliness.
Another layer that isn’t always acknowledged is how this middle space can be scary. You don’t know what’s coming next. There’s no clear way to plan or predict where you’ll be emotionally or mentally in the next few days—or even in the next few hours. In reality, you might experience a depressive episode, return to the middle space, and then sink back into depression again. It isn’t always a neat up-then-down cycle. While certain events—like an anniversary, a holiday season, or a stressful trigger—can sometimes spark a shift, much of the time, it’s impossible to see what’s coming.
And because everyone experiences the middle space differently, the reactions to it vary too. Some people act on the fear, leading to outbursts of anger, anxiety, or frustration. Others withdraw completely, feeling off-balance during a time that outsiders might mistake for “balance.” For many, this part of bipolar can be one of the hardest times to manage.
Coping With the Middle Space
Living in the middle space isn’t about chasing joy or fighting despair—it’s about finding ways to keep moving, even when everything feels flat. For me, the first step is simply acknowledging it. Naming what’s happening helps me resist the urge to minimize it or tell myself I “should” feel better just because I’m not in crisis. I remind myself that I can still be me, accomplish things, and keep moving forward.
One of the biggest challenges is the constant tiredness. I’ve learned that pacing myself makes a difference. Instead of powering through everything at once, I break tasks down into smaller steps and give myself permission to rest in between. Sometimes, that means folding half the laundry now and the rest later, or setting a timer to focus on one task at a time. My to-do list becomes really important during this stage—it shows me that I’m still making progress, even if I don’t have the energy of a hypomanic state.
I also try to find small sparks that bring a sense of connection or comfort, even if they don’t feel exciting. Listening to music, cooking a simple meal, or calling a trusted friend may not “fix” the flatness, but they anchor me in daily life. Over time, those little actions remind me that I’m still here, still moving, and still capable of showing up.
Another strategy is keeping routines in place. The middle space can trick me into drifting—sleeping too much, skipping meals, or letting days blur together. That kind of drifting can spark an episode, so I’ve learned it’s crucial to monitor those habits. Medication management is also especially important here. It’s easy to think you’re “balanced” and get careless with doses, but missing medication in this stage can make things spiral quickly. Sticking to regular sleep, meals, and meds helps me feel steadier, even if it doesn’t bring back energy or joy right away.
Finally, I try to show myself compassion. The middle space may not look like suffering to the outside world, but it’s still work. It takes effort to move through the fog without giving up, and that effort matters. Reminding myself that this state is part of my bipolar—not a personal failure—helps me carry the weight a little easier.
Finding Meaning in the Middle
The middle space doesn’t get talked about as much as mania or depression, but for many of us with bipolar disorder, it’s where we spend a lot of our time. It may not come with the chaos of the highs or the pain of the lows, but it carries its own challenges—fatigue, flatness, and the uncertainty of what’s coming next.
What I’ve learned is that this space, while frustrating, doesn’t mean I’m broken or failing. It’s part of my cycle, part of how my brain works. Some days, it feels like existing instead of living, but even existing has value. By acknowledging it, keeping routines, and giving myself compassion, I can move through the middle without losing myself in it.
If you’re in this space too, know that you’re not alone. Just because it doesn’t look like crisis doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. The middle is still a place worth naming, worth honoring, and worth surviving. And sometimes, it’s in this quiet space—where we keep showing up in small ways—that true resilience is built.
