I am, I have.

Bipolar Blog Posts, Bipolar Disorder, Blog, Mental Health, Personal reflection /

Do you say I am bipolar, or I have bipolar.

How often do you have to say this? I don’t find that it comes up often enough to worry about it much. Unless we are talking about how we internally think about our disorder, in which case, I think about it constantly. I understand the comparison: people don’t say “I am diabetes,” but they do say “I am diabetic”; they don’t say “I am a broken arm,” but they might say “I have a broken arm.” Yet, just as likely, they may say “I am injured.” Would we stop them and say, “You’re not injured, you have an injury”? If we believe it is a lifetime chronic illness, then once we experience the symptoms, get diagnosed, and accept that we have to manage it for the rest of our lives, it becomes a part of us. I don’t think that whether you say “I am bipolar” or “I have bipolar” affects the person you are telling. How they handle that information is based on their attitude toward mental health. If we are saying it a certain way to reframe it in our own minds, is the reframing to remind ourselves that it wasn’t our fault? Is it because we have a stigma about it? A person might say, “I have HIV,” or “I am HIV-positive”; either way doesn’t lessen the severity of that statement for either the speaker or the listener. I know that a person with cancer doesn’t say “I am cancer,” but when they beat it, they say “I am a survivor.” Which is what you are. You are/have bipolar, and you’re a survivor. Ultimately, since it is your illness, your responsibility, and perhaps even your gift, call it whatever makes you happy.

Your Manic Depressive Friend,

Conrad

When Mania Hijacked My Dream: A Journey Through My First Bipolar Episode

Bipolar Blog Posts, Bipolar Disorder, Blog, Mental Health, Personal Journey, Personal reflection, Podcasting /

For 15 years, I’d been chasing a podcast dream. My friends, my second cousin, and I had been creating comedy shows, pouring our hearts into something we believed was special. We might not have found mainstream success, but we had passion. Then came the Okay Taco Company – our attempt to merge our podcast with a business venture.

March and April of 2023 changed everything.

It started on Groundhog Day, when we opened our Route 66 taco shop. That second night, something fundamental shifted inside me. I describe it like being hit by lightning – a moment where my brain’s circuit breakers blew, and I felt like I’d died and been reborn.

The mania crept in slowly, then consumed me entirely.

I started exercising obsessively. Not just regular workouts, but extreme, punishing routines. Running stadium stairs with my eyes closed. Sprinting miles on railroad tracks. Pushing my body to impossible limits, feeling like I was battling some internal demon.

My mind became a kaleidoscope of delusions. I believed I was a reincarnated Native American warrior with a cosmic mission. Every coincidence felt significant. The triangular shape of our property, the town’s devil mascot, even the songs on my AirPods – everything seemed like a message from the universe.

One morning, dressed in a Spider-Man hoodie, I ran to my children’s school. I kicked a ball over the fence, danced on the school’s devil mascot statue, and felt like I was fighting unseen spiritual battles. When police stopped me, I was convinced I was facing a life-or-death spiritual test.

Our taco shop dream ended. But my podcast dream? That survived.

I was diagnosed with bipolar 1 in April 2024, understanding retroactively what had happened to me. Now, I’m sharing my story – still creating, still connecting, still chasing that podcast dream that has always been my true passion.

This podcast is my way of turning a challenging experience into something meaningful. A way to connect, to understand, and hopefully help others who might be going through similar struggles.

My journey isn’t about the destination. It’s about keeping the dream alive, no matter what obstacles appear.

Saved Through the Storm: Rediscovering Faith After My Bipolar Diagnosis

Bipolar Blog Posts, Bipolar Disorder, Faith, Mental Health, Personal Journey /

It was the second day at an inpatient facility when I became certain the other patients were plotting to assault me and ultimately murder me. A couple of days earlier, I had been taken to the ER because I couldn’t bring myself to a place of calmness or clarity. I was a danger to myself. My mind was stuck in a relentless loop of failure, and I couldn’t see a way forward—a way where everyone wouldn’t be better off without me.

This was a new and terrifying experience. I had never felt this intense, nonstop sense of failure and worthlessness before. A voice inside me told me I didn’t matter, that I had screwed everything up, and that I was a burden. I was coming down from a year-long hypomanic phase, punctuated by a couple of periods of complete mania. I had recently been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and had only just begun to understand what those terms meant.

At this point, I had been prescribed several different medications and had been abruptly switched or pulled off others due to my reactions. Looking back, I’m unsure whether the thoughts I was having or the state I was in were entirely my own or if the medications were contributing to the confusion and mixed state I found myself in.

To say I wasn’t myself was an understatement. But because I was reeling from the whirlwind of transitioning from mania to depression—and grappling with the lifelong label of bipolar disorder—I wasn’t sure who I was anymore anyway. I was stuck reliving my manic moments, consumed by shame and guilt, knowing that my wild behavior didn’t reflect who I truly wanted to be. I had to remember every person I had come in contact with over the past year during those manic states.

By the time I was at the facility, I had wrapped myself so tightly within my own mind that I believed I was there to pay for my mistakes. In my mind, the reason I had been taken there was for retribution. I thought the patients were actors, pretending to be patients, all of whom had heard my story and been hired to make me pay for my sins. I believed the staff would turn a blind eye and allow the patients to have their way with me.

On the first night, I managed to survive, but on the second night, I froze. I was certain that if I fell asleep, the ex-military operatives posing as patients would dismember me as punishment. I stayed awake the entire night, sitting on the edge of my bed, terrified that any movement or rest would trigger their attack. I heard them murmuring through the halls, banging on walls, and whispering details of my manic episodes that only my family could have told them.

Panic consumed me as I rocked back and forth, convinced of my impending fate. The staff checked on me every 15 minutes, as they did for everyone, but I saw their check-ins as mockery. I believed they were reporting back to the others, orchestrating when to attack.

Finally, exhausted and desperate, I gave up. To find rest, I decided to accept my fate. I confessed. I repented. I told God everything I was remorseful for. I thought of every mistake, every regret, and every sin throughout my life. I prayed with all my heart for the fear to stop. I begged for peace.

And then, suddenly, the fear was gone.

I didn’t know in that moment if I had been forgiven or if I was simply ready to let the patients do what they wanted to me. But the thing that actually happened was far more profound: I was snapped back to reality. My hallucination ended. I saw everything as it truly was. The other patients weren’t actors; they were just patients. The staff wasn’t conspiring against me; they were there to help. There was no plot to harm me. Everything I had feared was a creation of my mind, but it had felt so real.

Before that night, I had been afraid to pray. During my manic phase, I had become deeply involved in religion, to the point of believing I was some sort of prophet. When I came crashing down into this mixed state, I wasn’t sure what to think about God or religion anymore. Yet, when I finally prayed and asked for the fear to stop, it did.

That night marked the beginning of a new relationship with God and with myself. It’s a relationship that is still confusing but has become more and more rewarding. Now, I have a connection with a higher power where I am not in charge, I am not in control, and I can ask for all the help I need without fear of judgment. The judgment was over. I had confessed, and I was ready to start discovering who I was and who I am meant to become.

In many ways, I felt saved. Even though I had endured a horrible experience and received a life-changing diagnosis, I knew I could step forward into the unknown. My path was just beginning and continues to evolve daily, but it is faith that keeps me determined to stay well. Faith that God has a plan. Faith that God has provided the right medication and therapy. Faith that there is a reason I had to go through this experience. I don’t know that reason yet, but I’m determined to make the best of it.

Chasing Dreams: Overcoming Obstacles in Pursuit of Passion

Bipolar Blog Posts, Bipolar Disorder, Mental Health, Personal Journey, Personal reflection, Podcasting, Uncategorized /

I know we have to put in the work. I’ve heard all the sayings, and I’ve bought into the notions. I’ve put my head down and plowed ahead, dreamed big and kept it to myself. I’ve dreamed big and told everyone. I don’t know if there’s a secret to success, but I do know how to blow up a project—my last attempt at pursuing my passion proved that.

I thought that if I created something familiar, like a restaurant, I could embed my passion within it and gain an audience that way. Turns out, that’s a lot of work just to get someone to listen to your podcast. By the way, when people go to eat a taco, they don’t go to listen to a podcast.

I’ve been putting myself out there for years, trying every tip and trick in the book. And yet, here I am, still searching for an answer to the question: What do you want to do for a living?

I want to do a podcast. I want to do a blog. I want to express myself.

But then there’s that voice: Yeah, but no one cares what you have to say.
That’s a tough way to make a living. You’ll never make it. No one will pay to hear you.

I’ve heard it. I’ve felt it. For 15 years, the naysayers have been right. My last attempt ended in a chaotic manic episode and a bipolar diagnosis. So, should I even be trying again?

If this is what I’ve always wanted to do, how can I stop? The truth is, I can’t stop trying.

I want to live up to the idea that if you work hard and don’t quit, it will all work out. I want to show my children that persistence pays off, that they can be whatever they want to be—not that their dad is a crazy bipolar madman who tried, lost his mind, and quit when things got tough.

That doesn’t have to be my story. I get to choose how I continue after a manic break. I get to try again. I get to believe—despite all evidence to the contrary—that if you want something bad enough and don’t quit, things will work out.

The quitting monster already tried to get me. Falling into a bipolar depression after my manic episode took me deep into suicidal ideation—the phase so many of us with this disorder fight. It took me to the psych ward. It took me to a place of embarrassment and shame where I didn’t want to get out of bed, let alone get behind a microphone and talk about what I know.

But I don’t want to let that define me.

I am here for a reason.

The voice inside me keeps pushing me to get up, keep going, trust myself, and believe in my purpose.

The Best Decision, in My Worst Year

Mental Health, Personal Journey, Personal reflection /

What positive events have taken place in your life over the past year?

In an attempt to focus on the positive during a year full of challenges, I’d have to say that the best thing I accomplished was quitting drinking. I was a daily drinker for many years, with vodka being my drink of choice in the evenings. After being diagnosed with bipolar disorder following a year full of manic episodes, I realized I couldn’t handle this new mental health challenge alongside a daily drinking habit.

So, I quit in June. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that difficult—maybe because my entire identity was already falling apart. I knew I had to change and rebuild myself somehow, and giving up drinking for the sake of my “new self” seemed like the only logical choice. At a time when I wasn’t making very logical decisions, this was a good one.

What’s strange is how my life now feels like two entirely different existences: before the diagnosis and after. While I still feel like “me,” when I think back to the way I was, it seems foreign, like that was never really me. I don’t know if it was the drinking, the disorder, or a mixture of both and more.

It’s not that I think I was a bad person before—I don’t. I had good qualities, although at my most manic, I acted in ways I’m not proud of. But even beyond those moments, it’s as if my entire value system shifted. The things I care about now are so different—or maybe it’s more accurate to say that I don’t care about a lot of the things I used to care deeply about. Now, I’m trying to discover what I do care about.

I still feel like I’m searching for my purpose—or perhaps rediscovering it. But one thing is certain: the best thing I did this year, in a year where everything fell apart, was quitting drinking.

Distracted, Loved, and Blogging Anyway

Behind the scenes, Bipolar Blog Posts, Bipolar Disorder, Creative Process, Mental Health, Personal reflection /

I’m working on the blog as much as I can. Oddly, the writing part seems to come easy—or naturally—probably because I’ve been bottled up for so many months, searching for a way to express myself without making those around me think I’m “going into a crazy zone.” It’s a delicate balance.

The part that doesn’t come naturally is the functionality of the blog. It’s like the more I mess with it, the more I screw it up. I just want a clean website that includes a blog and a podcast page. Sounds simple, looks easy, yet if you aren’t familiar with the tools, you stumble around trying to do things that you know you can do—or maybe even have done before—but now seem impossible.

At some point, the site will be as close to perfect as I can make it. When that will be? I’m not sure. That’s just how it goes when you’re chasing a vision that feels complete in your mind, but as it starts to come together, you think, “Wait, why don’t I do this too?” And then that decision affects everything else.

It also doesn’t help that I’m building this in the dining room, where my presence apparently invites random curiosity and persistent distractions. Even though those distractions come from a place of warmth and love, they can still be, well, distracting. I try to accept them as part of the process and not outwardly show how annoying it is to be patted on the shoulder every time someone walks by, causing me to stop, say, “What’s up?” and hear, “Oh, nothing, just love you.” I love you too. I’ve said that three times in the past hour.

Ultimately, I suppose I’d rather have the intermittent love check-ins than none at all, so I’ll stop complaining. I’ll get it done. And yes, I do expect a pat on the back for doing it.

Healing in Hindsight

Bipolar Blog Posts, Bipolar Disorder, Blog, Mental Health, Personal Journey /

I’m still working on repairing the chaos of my last manic and major depressive episode that happened this past year. I’ve apologized to those I had manic moments with, though it seems, for some, like I should do more. Even when they’ve accepted my apology, things still feel weird—or maybe I just perceive them that way.

I’m trying to remind myself that while many friends and family members may have seen me during the episode, they didn’t live it the way I did. I was the only one stuck in it the entire time. The people who interacted with me during those moments only remember those specific interactions—if they remember them at all. And even if they do, they likely don’t remember them the way I do. They’re not stacking the entirety of my episode onto that one interaction the way I am.

What I’m describing, I think, is the guilt that comes with bipolar disorder. Sometimes, it feels like that guilt lasts longer than it should because others have moved on, but I’m still stuck in the moment I’m embarrassed about. Or even stuck in the embarrassment of being diagnosed.

No matter how many times I hear that it’s not my fault, there’s still a part of me that wishes I had held it all together.

-Sending My Love

Does Bipolar Disorder Even Exist?

Bipolar Blog Posts, Bipolar Disorder, Blog, Mental Health, Personal Journey /

Does bipolar disorder even exist? This is a thought I have—probably more often than I should—considering my history with the disorder. I guess it’s because, as I continue my journey into stability, I often think to myself: Of course this is how I am; this is my normal. The memory of my mania or depression feels so distant from my stable self that I sometimes wonder if I was just acting that way.

Then I think: Well, I would never act that way. It’s this thought that reminds me: when I’m stable and in control, those past behaviors seem so strange because they weren’t truly me. This, to me, is what the disorder is—those moods take control during an episode. When I’m in the grip of mania or depression, those states feel permanent. They feel like my “normal,” even though, to others, they are extreme. And to me they are extremely, but only through the lens of reflection.

I’m not sure if it’s the medication itself or simply the belief that the medication is working, but I don’t think it really matters as long as I stay stable. I do believe therapy helps, but for me, it’s the daily practice and application of the techniques I’ve learned that make the real difference.

Much like a good cup of coffee, stability is a daily grind. Sure, you can use the pre-ground stuff, but it’s never as good as grinding it yourself.

Sending my love,

The Sneaky Side of Mania: When Memories Strike

Bipolar Blog Posts, Bipolar Disorder, Blog, Mental Health, Personal Journey /

One of the hardest things to deal with is the memories that seem to pop up out of nowhere. You’re not even thinking about your mania, and then, all of a sudden, a flash of something you did or said comes rushing back. It completely throws you off. It might only last a few seconds, but it feels like a jolt of regret that snaps you out of your day.

You tell yourself you’re fine. It’s a great day, and you’re working on your positive thinking and reframing techniques. But then, it’s like another part of your brain throws a stick into the spokes of your bike wheel. It may not ruin your entire day, but it knocks you off track for a while.

Learning to Rise Again

Bipolar Blog Posts, Bipolar Disorder, Blog, Mental Health, Personal Journey /

I’ve been struggling to wake up in the mornings. This has been going on for a while now. At first, I couldn’t sleep at all. When I was first medicated for my bipolar disorder, I started on Abilify. At first, it felt like progress, but after a couple of weeks, I hit a week-long stretch of paranoid insomnia. Looking back, I think that might have been a mixed episode—one of those confusing and exhausting overlaps where mania and depression tangle together.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was coming down from a long manic episode, heading straight into a deep depression. It was like free-falling into darkness, and I didn’t know where I’d land. Eventually, I ended up in the hospital—more than once—and went through med changes that felt like a slow crawl toward stability.

Now, I feel like I’m clawing my way out of depression and into something resembling balance. Part of that has been reintroducing running into my daily life. Running has always been my reset button, but being a dad with a job means I need to get up early to fit it in. That’s where the real challenge comes in.

Even though I go to bed as early as possible and don’t drink anymore, it still feels like I wake up hungover. It’s getting better, but I want to wake up earlier, to feel like I’m ready to start the day. Why can’t I just roll out of bed? Why can’t I sit up and ease into it, instead of feeling like I’ve spent the last decade waking up in quicksand?

My body seems stuck in a loop, holding onto the feeling of waking up miserable, even though there’s no reason I should feel that way now. Maybe it’s a habit. Maybe it’s my brain resisting change. Either way, it’s frustrating.

In future posts, I’ll dig deeper into some of these topics—meds, sobriety, mania, hospitalizations, and the long climb toward stability. For now, I’ll sit here with my coffee, wishing it was an hour earlier and hoping tomorrow feels just a little easier.