2025-12-26

Even after drinking caffeine this morning, I’m still tired. As I sit here on my computer attempting to clack away at my keyboard, my eyes feel heavy and I’m not all the way there. If I’m being fully honest with myself, there’s an immense temptation to get my hands on a stronger stimulant so that my writing here can feel more inspired. There are a few problems with this, however. First, procuring a stronger stimulant is illegal in most cases, and my days of intentionally breaking the law are behind me. Second, stronger stimulants can increase the likelihood of going into a manic episode. That is a dangerous place for me to be, and I’d prefer not to put myself there if I don’t have to.

Mania is a strange thing. Hypomania is arguably one of the most superior states a person can be in. It’s got a similar feeling to being high on a stimulant, except the high itself is much more pure and euphoric. It makes you love life. It makes you love your life. You don’t need to sleep as much and you wake up every day feeling excited. Energy and creativity feel boundless. It’s a productive time, one that feels like it’s never going to end.

Except when it does.

For me, hypomania will last at most a week, then either goes one of two ways. It’ll either make me go higher into full-blown mania or crash down into a deep depression. Mania, compared to hypomania, is something else entirely. Instead of being immensely creative and productive, I am delusional, paranoid, disorganized, and impulsive. I will easily make horrible decisions, one after the other. At its most perilous height, I become psychotic and completely lose touch with reality. I believe that I am in hell and that I am the Antichrist. I hear whispers in a language I don’t speak and see its text hovering on the walls. At those times, I am absolutely sure that my entire life is some kind of elaborate government-sponsored psyop—that I am in a simulation where my actions don’t have consequences.

In a state of intense mania and psychosis, I am like a powerful explosive. In the past, these periods of mania were assuaged by my job as a bike messenger. The intense physicality of that job was a wonderful complement to my brain’s hardwired exuberance. Once that chapter in my life ended, though, I found out the hard way about the importance of that kind of outlet. Multiple hospitalizations were a traumatic thing to go through. My brain still feels the weight of those times every single day. Today, I think back to when I was in that state of mind and have to deal with the post-traumatic stress every single day. It’s a great tragedy I still carry.

Depression is another problem that has its own complications. Everyone gets depressed. For me, it’s chronic. Chronic depression is a beast all its own because not only can episodes last much longer, but they are also much more frequent than in a more "typical" brain. Ever since I turned 18, I’ve dealt with the fact that I get depressed and feel this way for almost half the year at times. Especially when I was younger and my bipolar was first onset, these episodes would last for months and impede so much of my life.

A horrible habit I had was that I’d be feeling stable or manic and assign myself several different obligations. When I was in college, I was not only a full-time student, but I also worked full-time and was an officer in different student organizations. Juggling all of those responsibilities was manageable when I was fueled by manic energy, but would crash and burn once I got depressed. I ended up dropping the ball on many people and instead of being more balanced with my responsibilities, I would instead treat them like a roller coaster and ride the rise and fall of my moods.

Dealing with this for so long has been something that feels hard to explain. For many, they would diagnose my life as a series of character flaws. It’s easy to look from the outside and criticize me for a lack of better judgment. I know that I feel that way about myself a lot. The last thing I’d want to do is try to justify my decisions by playing the "bipolar card," but it’s always a tough thing to discern the line between my illness and my character. I try to do what I can to hold myself accountable where it matters, but sometimes I feel like I’ve repeated the same mistakes so many times.

One day, I’ll learn from them. I have to.

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