The prequel to mania is fucking terrifying

Turns out it’s much easier to write from experience, so I’m gonna stick with speaking from the heart. Sorry mom. Overshare, probably (see symptoms)… might delete later.

My bipolar diagnosis has, in many respects, been life changing. For the most part in the good sense. Something that I wasn’t ready for is the period before a manic episode. I’ve said it before: mania is fucking great until it’s not. (Hypo)mania – mania-lite is is also great – until it’s not.

I’m pretty lucky that my cycles are pretty consistent: two weeks up, 5-ish days down and bored in-between. This helps tremendously with recognizing the signs to pull the handbrake and action the suppression protocol (spoiler: Rivitrol).

Yet while the cycles are usually consistent the severity of the episode to come is a mystery – and fear of the unknown is fucking terrifying.

Remember, most everyone bipolar chases that happy place where they’re ‘on the cusp’ and, like an addict, try to ride it out for as long as possible. Some even switch up their meds, take less of the anti-psychtoic here and dabble in a little drink or upper there. So now you’ve embraced all the great qualities of hypomania and before long, even subconsciously, you admit that the suppression protocol was actioned too late and on purpose.

This is when it hits, hard and the vortex of quicksand quickly gains velocity.

Anxiety grips you with its long and suffocating tentacles.

The paranoia is a killer.

You’ve been here before and you’re terrified.

Before long you’re pretty sure the neighbors heard you butchering Regina Spektor and put it on Facebook. You’re convinced your work colleagues have known this whole time you were hurtling down the track destined for an almighty crash.

I’ve been pretty forthright here about some of the things I’ve done while manic. There’s a whole lot more I’ll never share for sake of my reputation and out of respect for the people that were caught in the crossfire. While I’m spilling these beans I’m acutely aware that an unaffected reader will never really fully comprehend the extent of shame and humiliation that follows a bout of the best summer the affected has had, ever.

It’s all fun and games for a while though. You’re energetic, but not so energetic people think you’re on tik. You’re happy, but not so happy people think you’re up to your eyeballs in blow. You’ve got a spring in your step, you’re confident and humming as you walk.

The devil lies beneath.

Around the next corner lies the beginning of the one of the most destructive times of your life. You pass a tennis court and quietly think to yourself, “I could be great at tennis!”. You’ve changed your Spotify playlist to something a little more up beat, you know the words to every song that follows and you’ve no issue belting it out. The tennis players gawk at your vocal prowess.

Actually, cut that. Tennis is a waste of your talents and getting signed gets tossed to the too hard basket. You’re destined for greater things anyway. Did you know Churchill was Bipolar? Fuck everything actually, I’m on the precipice of one of the greatest periods of modern history – and it’ll be all thanks to ME!

You quickly buy BipolarMeForPresident.org before anyone else gets their cotton picking hands on it. Tonight you start building a kickass campaign page. Or at least the ‘beginnings’ of the greatest campaign site in the history of campaign sites. Truth be told you’re so out of your depth said site ends up looking like the infamous Freestate Government wordpress site.

You’ve worked hard, perhaps you should go out for a wee drink down the pub. You fire off a broadcast message to people you’ve not spoken to in several months, some of whom have moved or had decided to ghost you hard after the last time you were “down the pub”.

Thankfully a brave soul takes you up on your offer and rolls in while you’re on your third Tequila shot. Before long your face hurts so much – everyone in this pub is laughing their heads off, you’re a comedic genius! They’re laughing at you… not with you.

A little later your friend has left you perched, alone on a bar stool while the staff clean up around you. You’ve quietened down though and are in a deep trance with your phone.

Meanwhile, heavy artillery enters stage right.

Having a healthy sex drive is a good thing – and you were looking particularly good earlier. Wasting no time you change the ‘about me’ section on every dating app with something quirky AF and are a bit irritated that your profile picture isn’t getting approved.

Wow, the people in this town are all so attractive! They’d definitely all be interested to get down. You bang out a message, taking care to copy the text so you can paste the same message to every profile to follow. It’s about efficiency.

Quite how you got home you won’t remember in the morning (or the morning after the night you decided to call it and close your eyes eventually). It’s 2:30 AM and it’s clear no one is awake and if they are there’s no way they’d come close to satisfying your sexual aspirations and proclivities; so instead you fire up Amazon.

By god! Literally everything you’ve ever wanted to try is on this thing. Before long you’re buying a do-it-yourself ship in a bottle, you’ve applied for extra credit and made inquiries about cars you’re interested in.

Still riding the wave from the night before and having not slept a wink you to hit that broadcast list again to alert everyone that you’ve got new wheels and that they should join you on a ride to the beach.

No one replies.

What a fucking liberty. There you were offering your friends a super day at the beach arriving in style and they just throw it in your face, some didn’t even have the dignity to turn down your offer to your virtual face. Ghosted.

You’re in your new car, it’s a Monday morning and you’re en route to the beach and arrive quicker than you should – probably quick enougANyh to get your car impounded.

It’s a lush day. Those assholes are missing out. Instagram likes start flowing in (like, 5) on your super creative and quirky post. That’ll show them. Knobs. Especially that friend that joined you at the pub, in a flash you’ve sent them a text severely reprimanding them for abandoning you. Fuck that seagull also.

You’ve lost the only friend you had left and have no idea how to make things right again. Your credit card repayments at month end are diabolical, you think to yourself “how did it get this bad?”. A ship in a bottle kit arrives. You’re not sinking, you’re sunk – you’re penniless, alone and missed 3 days of work. Paranoia that you were drugged at the pub kicks in and shortly after you’ve convinced yourself you’re having a heart attack. Anyone that asks if you’re doing okay gets an unceremonious snot-klap.

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun

Depression will soon descend. You ain’t scared. “I need the downtime” you say, justifying the days in bed to come. At least no one sees you when you’re depressed, but while you were manic? Different story.

That’s why I’m on the cusp of a panic attack when I realize I’m past the hypo-manic point of no return.

I’m fucking terrified of mania.