[Author’s Note: As part of the #BareYourMind campaign, here’s a story of my experience being bipolar. If you struggle with mental illness, I encourage you to share your stories as well. Let’s work together to de-stigmatize mental health in our society by giving it a human face.]
Continued from Part 1…
So there I was, playing spontaneous hooky from work, set loose on an unsuspecting City of Brotherly Love. The electricity coursing through my limbs had switched to fire. I burned white hot. If I trailed my fingers along the sides of the buildings I passed, I knew I’d leave scorch marks. It was a marvel my feet weren’t melting into the concrete and blacktop beneath me.
But then again, my feet barely touched the ground. I sauntered on particles of air with a strong, wide gait that made my pant legs snap with every step. I believed everyone looking at me was doing so out of admiration. As the old saying goes, women wanted me and men wanted to be me. Or so I believed.
People glanced at me then quickly looked away. Who could blame them? Who in their right mind would meet the eyes of someone so alive, right? The fire that consumed my brain was surely beaming from my eyes like the heat of a blast furnace. It would be like staring down the barrel of a flame thrower. No, they weren’t avoiding my gaze because I appeared out of my mind. They just didn’t want to spontaneously combust like the Nazis at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Even though I was indeed enjoying a burst of euphoria, it was as temporary and empty as an eight ball of heroin.
For anyone who might be thinking all of the above doesn’t sound so bad, let’s put things into perspective. There’s always the possibility someone might read about this manic episode of mine and think, “It sounds like you were just really enjoying life that day. It actually seems like fun, to be so high on life.”
Yeah, I was high alright, but not on life. I was in the throes of a manic episode, which isn’t real happiness. It’s a façade of sick self-centeredness masquerading as happiness. I wasn’t just having a “really good day.” Imagine a good day on steroids, with all the harmful side effects thrown in simultaneously. Yes, as I was going through this episode my mind was developing the psychic equivalent of back acne, man-boobs, and shrinking testicles.
In other words, I was becoming habituated to a state of severe mental and emotional imbalance. That’s a steep price to pay for the fleeting high of mania. Just like drugs, the return on investment over time is a losing proposition.
So no, this wasn’t just me feeling a fit of “Spring fever.” This was not me consciously deciding I needed to step out of the usual routine and mindfully appreciate the beauty of life. This was a compulsion, as involuntary and insidious as a junkie’s need for a fix. Even though I was indeed enjoying a burst of euphoria, it was as temporary and empty as an eight ball of heroin.
While I wasn’t shouting out the contents of my swirling thoughts and illness-fueled imaginings, I was surely anomalous when it came to my movements and the expressions on my face. No wonder outside observers gave me a wide berth; it would have been crystal clear to anyone who saw me that there was something wrong.
…as I was going through this episode my mind was developing the psychic equivalent of back acne, man-boobs, and shrinking testicles.
It was therefore no coincidence that the only person who met and held my gaze on my mania-stroll was a homeless man who clearly had mental struggles of his own. He wore a filth, threadbare coat and jeans as he lurched toward me at an intersection. His own eyes were wide and glaring. He locked eyes with me and, perhaps, recognized a kindred spirit.
“You have a kind face,” the ragged man bellowed at me at the top of his lungs.
I just grinned and nodded at him. Here was a guy who knew what was up. I thanked him for the compliment, and continued my jaunty walk until I came to my destination: the subway. I hopped down the steps to the platform and fidgeted while I waited for the next train back to South Jersey.
Manic-me on a cramped train with lots of other people? What could go wrong, right?
Continued in Part 3…
_
Image: Pixabay
_