Should you say “I’m autistic” or “I have autism spectrum disorder”? And should you say “I’m bipolar” or “I have bipolar disorder”? These questions regularly spark debate. Yet over the years, the way I talk about both has changed completely. It evolved alongside the way I came to see them. For years, I said I was bipolar. Today, I say I have bipolar disorder. A subtle but important difference. Likewise, I rarely say I have autism spectrum disorder (ASD). I’m autistic. Another subtle distinction. Behind these different ways of speaking lies a fundamentally different way of viewing two realities: a psychiatric illness and a neurodevelopmental condition. For me, this shift happened gradually and almost naturally.

That said, I don’t believe there’s a right or wrong way to talk about it. Some people prefer to say “I’m autistic,” while others say “I have autism spectrum disorder.” Likewise, some say “I’m bipolar,” whereas others prefer “I have bipolar disorder.” This article simply explains why, over time, I came to adopt these particular ways of describing myself.

Why I Now Say “I Have Bipolar Disorder”

If you had asked me about bipolar disorder five years ago, I would almost certainly have said that I was bipolar. I spoke about it as part of my identity. In his book, French journalist Nicolas Demorand is unequivocal on this point. From the very first pages, he dismisses the debate over whether one should say I am bipolar or I have bipolar disorder. He defines himself through his illness because it turns his life upside down every single day. It never gives him a moment’s peace. Five years ago, I would have agreed with him.

“I’m Bipolar”

Bipolar disorder dictated my life almost every day. At the time, I was believed to have rapid cycling bipolar disorder, which meant I was probably either hypomanic or depressed for most of the year. Bipolar disorder had transformed my life so profoundly, undermined my chances of succeeding at university, and fueled bursts of extraordinary productivity in my software projects that I came to see it as part of who I was.

I had almost forgotten what it felt like to live without bipolar disorder. That memory had become blurry. My “normal” life had effectively ended in 2012, when I was sixteen and experienced the first manic episode in what would become a long series.

Bipolar Disorder as Part of My Identity

To me, there was no debate: I was bipolar. Bipolar disorder was as much a part of my identity as the little rituals and quirks that could either amuse or frustrate the people around me. Sometimes people would tell me that I wasn’t my illness, that it didn’t define me, or offer similar reassurances—but those words went in one ear and out the other.

My hypomanic episodes were probably responsible for the few truly exceptional achievements I had during higher education—limited to the subjects I was genuinely passionate about—thanks to the intense productivity they brought. That was what I had become known for. So calling myself bipolar felt obvious.

It’s also worth remembering that I had only recently started treatment, and my doctors were still struggling to stabilize me. Despite the medication, which only worked partially, bipolar disorder continued to dictate my life almost every day.

“I Have Bipolar Disorder”

Then time passed. The years went by. The treatments first slowed my episodes. Then they reduced them. I went from experiencing multiple depressive episodes each year to just one. My hypomanic episodes were reduced to a few short-lived, manageable euphoric episodes. The treatments were finally starting to work. Then came the treatment that truly changed everything: an antipsychotic that would effectively short-circuit my risk of developing a manic episode, while lithium kept my depressive episodes at bay. I had found a stable life again. It didn’t last forever—it lasted almost three years before another severe manic episode. But they were three years of near stability.

I no longer defined myself as bipolar. I had bipolar disorder.
The illness was still there. Only my words had changed.

The change happened gradually: I first noticed it in my conversations on Reddit, then in the way I spoke about it with other people. “I have bipolar disorder,” I would say. No longer, “I’m bipolar.”

Eventually, I realized that this illness, which I had been convinced defined me, was only a shadow of who I was. It was no longer part of my identity. In truth, it never had been. It had simply shaken my life so profoundly that it had clouded my ability to see myself clearly. Even today, I still occasionally describe myself as “bipolar” for the sake of simplicity, but that’s merely a matter of readability or effective communication (as I sometimes do on this blog).

If I’m talking to someone about my condition, if I’m telling them about my diagnosis, I simply say, “I have bipolar disorder,” sometimes adding “Type I” depending on who I’m talking to and how familiar they are with the condition.

Why I Prefer to Say “I’m Autistic”

Or rather, it’s a different situation. I often hear or read people saying, “I have ASD” on social media. I do use ASD and autism interchangeably in everyday conversation. But when I talk about my own story, that’s not how I describe it.

“I’m Autistic” Almost Immediately

At first (shame on me), I used the terms Asperger’s (and later aspie), back when I wasn’t aware of the controversy surrounding Hans Asperger and the terminology derived from his name. I quickly switched to simply saying, “I’m autistic.” Or, when I’m talking to people who are less familiar with the subject, “I’ve been diagnosed as autistic.” In fact, I adopted the term surprisingly quickly. Which is ironic, considering it still took me four years to fully accept my diagnosis.

More Than a Diagnosis: An Identity

Unlike bipolar disorder, I immediately saw autism in what I believe is the most accurate way: as part of my identity, just as much as the fact that I’m human. To me, the two were complementary. Being human explained my… human behaviors, while being autistic explained a huge part of how I perceive the world.

That “everything else” was so significant, affecting so many aspects of my life, that it became obvious to me that autism was the missing piece of my identity I had finally uncovered. “I’m autistic” naturally became part of my vocabulary, despite my reluctance to accept the diagnosis—a topic I’ll discuss in another article. If I don’t personally identify with the debate between “having ASD” and “being autistic,” why bring it up at all? Simply because, even if I don’t experience that dilemma myself, I constantly hear the debate around me.

“I Have ASD”

Around me, I know people who struggle to embrace the word autistic. For various reasons: difficulty seeing themselves in the diagnosis because they compare themselves to autistic people with more visible support needs, difficulty identifying with a word that still feels abstract, or difficulty accepting the diagnosis itself.

As a side note, that last point often stems from the fact that an autism diagnosis is based on an extensive battery of assessments rather than something more tangible, such as a genetic test or another kind of medical test. Even though these assessments are highly sophisticated and scientifically validated, they can still leave some people feeling uncertain. And of course, they are entirely free to use that terminology, which is the official scientific one. Technically speaking, if you’re autistic, you have autism spectrum disorder. Choosing one wording over the other is therefore a personal decision.

“I’m Autistic”

To me, this wording carries the strongest meaning because it presents the diagnosis as something that is part of the person. It doesn’t feel like a distant medical label simply attached to a collection of traits.

Being autistic means acknowledging that part of my identity is both explained by—and shared with—a community that is far from insignificant (current estimates suggest that around 1 in 31 children in the United States is autistic). It’s almost political. But above all, it’s about identity. To me, bipolar disorder is an illness that affects me, whereas autism has shaped the way I function since birth, influencing every aspect of my life: socially, sensorily, emotionally, cognitively, physically, and even professionally.

A Debate That Eventually Caught Up with Me

It was only afterwards that I realized this way of speaking reflected a well-known debate in the English-speaking world. English speakers often contrast identity-first language (“I’m autistic”) with person-first language (“I have a disorder”). Without even knowing these terms at the time, I had naturally adopted one for autism and the other for bipolar disorder.

Even though saying “I’m autistic” can still expose me to prejudice—or to the classic “Well, everyone’s a little autistic, aren’t they?”—I continue to use it, despite the fact that it can sound almost like a bombshell to someone who knows little about autism. It’s simply the wording that feels most true to who I am.

Naturally, I have many memories connected to my bipolar disorder, but they represent only a small fraction of my life. Every single one of my memories, on the other hand, is marked in some way by a small piece of my autism.

It’s simply how I define myself today.
I’m autistic.
And I have bipolar disorder.
And I’m perfectly comfortable saying so.

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