Why I'm Afraid to Talk to You About Mania


Why am I so afraid to talk to you about mania? It’s gotten pretty easy to be open about my constant bouts with depression. I mean who can’t relate at some point in their life? But mania? That’s when things get weird. That’s when things get “shameful.”

A month ago I had a manic episode. And not really the fun kind. I’m talking about the kind where you lose friends because of petty bullshit. The kind where you fear for your life driving because you might take some risk on the road killing everyone. I’m talking the kind where you actually understand the appeal of Trump because hey, he can do and say whatever he wants and people love him for it.

Yes, the euphoria was a relief from my seemingly endless depression but that quickly spun out of control. What started out as something I needed ended up as something I hated myself for giving in to.

And then I woke up the next morning. It was gone. It disappeared like it had grown tired of abusing me. I have zero clue how it happened. And that’s scary, not going to lie.

I often say that mania for me is believing I can overcome the disease known as society. That I’m the one whom the shackles cannot contain. And when it becomes all too apparent that I’m just some guy and I’m not immune to the disease… well, that’s when the bottom falls out and I crash right through it. And so on and so forth.

Everyone I know who identifies as bipolar wishes they could somehow manage one pole to the point where they can benefit from all its positive traits and avoid the ugliness of the opposite pole. If I ever write a memoir (don’t hold your breath) I’m going to call it “Working the Poles.”

Maybe by then I won’t be so afraid to be completely honest with you.

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Thinkstock photo via Grandfailure

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