Yesterday, I ventured to Worlds of Fun, embracing a day of solo adventure. While everyone else clustered, waited for friends, or debated participation, I found a surprising freedom in moving at my own pace. I don’t love rides, and swimming isn’t my strong suit, but being a cloudy day, I gravitated towards the quieter sections of the pool area.

Remember, as someone living with Bipolar Disorder (Type 2) and taking Lithium medication, I experience light sensitivity. This isn’t just discomfort; it’s a known side effect that can intensify my bipolar symptoms. Yet, spending the day on my own terms, carefully managing my sun exposure, was perfectly fine. I’ve become quite adept at entertaining myself.

My independence allowed for small victories. I did some gentle splashing in the kids’ section, alone but unconcerned, blending in without drawing odd looks. I even faced a significant personal challenge, conquering a water slide that ended in 3.5 feet of water – a considerable depth for someone who stands at 5 feet tall. I felt a surge of accomplishment.

Everything was going well until the collective insistence began. Everyone wanted to stay together and walk towards a swinging ride. Despite my deep reluctance – a tiny, baby ride – I felt compelled to save face. I’ve learned that sometimes, in a group setting, it feels like you have no choice but to participate, even when every fiber of your being screams no.

And this is where the unseen journey unfolds. The last time I was on a seemingly harmless ‘baby ride,’ I was hit with a debilitating migraine and an overwhelming sensation of wanting to escape my own skin. I was acutely aware of my fear of heights, and the ever-present shadow of suicidal ideation, a consequence of my mental health diagnoses like Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) and Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). How do you communicate such complex, triggering realities without prompting a flurry of well-meaning but ultimately unhelpful questions, or the dismissive, “Why are you even here?”

The truth is, just because I live with these challenges doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy life outside. It simply means I have to navigate it on my own terms, in my own way, for the sake of my mental health. Later, while waiting in a ridiculously long line for a water raft ride with Kharter, a minor heat rash appeared – a known side effect from my medications when exposed to sun for extended periods. No, sunscreen doesn’t magically fix this; it’s a physiological reaction specific to my body’s chemistry. I sucked it up.

But back to that swinging ride where, for a moment, I almost instantly died. The discomfort built, my eyes instinctively shut, and before I knew it, I was holding on tight to the security bar across my lap, trapped. I felt like jumping out of my skin because the uncomfortable feeling was high; the blood rush was too extreme, a known physical trigger for my anxiety. I battled my mind: “Don’t open your eyes. Don’t have an anxiety attack. Don’t let the suicidal thoughts creep in.” When someone asked if I was okay, I honestly didn’t know if I cared to answer. All I wanted was off that ride, and to never step foot on it again.

Places like these, seemingly innocent fun for many, can inadvertently trigger a cascade of intense emotional and physiological reactions for others. This experience reinforces why having a “summer pass” doesn’t mean blindly participating in everything. For me, it means knowing what activities support my well-being and which can derail it, with no questions asked or judgment passed. When I’m in a group, sometimes it just means I have to gracefully step back and prioritize what keeps me stable, even if it makes me seem like “a b*tch that doesn’t want to participate.” My wellness isn’t up for debate.