As I sit down to write this, my thoughts feel scattered, caught somewhere between excitement, fear, and anger. I have music playing in the background, hoping it will help me make sense of everything I’m about to put into words. For context, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Type 1 at 20. I’m much older now. This piece isn’t just an explanation of the disorder, but a reflection on what it feels like to live through it, particularly during a manic episode in already turbulent times.
If you’re unfamiliar with Bipolar Type 1, it’s a “lovely” mix of mania and depression, with episodes that can last weeks or even months. It also comes with strict medication, something I’ve taken every single day for the past six years. In my case, mania tends to show up in the spring, while depression settles in during the fall, though it can look very different from person to person. Bipolar Type 2 follows a similar pattern, but with shorter, more frequent episodes.
There’s no easy way to say it: bipolar is exhausting. It’s mentally and physically draining in ways that are hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. One of my closest friends has lost his life to this diagnosis, which only complicates my relationship with the diagnosis. It’s something I live with, but also something I resent.
If you want a glimpse of what mania feels like, imagine being euphoric, almost as if you’re on something. It might sound appealing on the surface, but it’s anything but. Mania strips away your inhibitions. The smallest inconvenience can derail your entire day. Your temper runs high, your reactions feel outsized, and everything is heightened. Yes, it can make you feel funny, energized, creative, but that doesn’t cancel out the darker side. For me, rapid cycling means moving through intense emotions within a single day. One moment, I’m sitting with my cat, watching a comfort show. The next, I’m overwhelmed by a wave of anger so intense I can physically feel it in my chest.
There’s also the loss of control. When you’re manic, your judgment shifts. You say things you normally wouldn’t and make decisions you later have to live with. That loss of inhibition can lead to real harm, whether directly or indirectly. The people closest to me, my mom and my best friend, often recognize I’m manic long before I do. While it may seem “fun” from the outside, it’s a constant internal battle between thoughts, impulses, and behavior.
Then there’s the other side of Bipolar Type 1: depression. Strangely, I sometimes find it easier to deal with than mania, if only because it comes with less fallout. But that doesn’t make it any less brutal. When a depressive episode hits hard, I shut down completely. I disappear, turm off my phone for a month at a time, and withdraw from everything. Thankfully, that’s only happened twice in the past six years.
Depression strips away any sense of positivity. It rewires your thoughts until the worst possible version of everything feels like the truth. What I didn’t realize until I experienced it is that depression doesn’t always look like sadness. For me, it often shows up as anxiety. Imagine going to work or university and your first thoughts are, “What will people think of me?” Do I look fat? Am I annoying? They’re judging me. It’s relentless, exhausting, and not something I would wish on anyone, even my worst enemy. And bipolar, if anything, has a way of creating a few of those.
That’s the context. Now, the reality of living through a manic episode during an already overwhelming moment in time.
Mania exists on a spectrum, from hypomania to full-blown episodes. When I was first diagnosed during Covid-19, it was severe. This time, it’s more contained. Hypomania, thankfully. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. I still find myself doomscrolling, posting endlessly, getting triggered again and again. But I’m also six years older now, and that counts for something. Over time, I’ve built a strict self-care routine: journaling, drinking tea, maintaining a consistent sleep schedule, and staying sober for extended periods, now indefinitely.
What people often underestimate is the importance of stepping back, taking time alone and reducing stimulation when your mind is already overwhelmed.
I want to share something that captures the unpredictability of it all: my journal entries. Three days apart. The prompt was the same both times: What am I grateful for?
On February 27, I wrote: my mom, my dad, my siblings.
Three days later, on March 2: my sanity, my friends, and my cat (family too, of course).
The shift feels almost jarring. From something soft and wholesome to something rooted in survival. From love to stability. From warmth to grounding. Even the way the thoughts are structured feels different, more scattered, more urgent. That’s what bipolar can look like. Not always dramatic from the outside, but internally, everything is shifting.
This piece started as a way to process what I’m feeling, but it’s also about visibility. Bipolar disorder isn’t talked about nearly enough, especially in this region. If sharing my experience helps even one person feel less alone, then it’s worth it.
And finally, a quiet thank you to the people, and my cat, who keep me grounded through all of it.
