Reliving the Storm: My First Bipolar Manic Episode

When I look back on my first manic episode, the memories feel surreal, like scenes from a movie I can’t decide if I starred in or just watched. It was chaotic, cosmic, and deeply personal—a whirlwind of emotions, energy, and confusion that marked the beginning of my journey with bipolar disorder.

At the time, I didn’t have the words for what was happening. All I knew was that something inside me had shifted in a way I couldn’t ignore. It started during a stressful time: the grand opening of a restaurant my cousin and I had poured our hearts into. Amid the chaos of orders and customers, I felt a jolt—like a lightning bolt had split me in two. My knees buckled, my vision blurred, and for a moment, it felt like the old me had died, replaced by… someone else.

From that moment, my mind raced like never before. Ideas about the universe, life, and my place in it came flooding in faster than I could process them. I was alive with energy, even as sleep became a distant memory. I started connecting dots that didn’t necessarily belong together, finding meaning in coincidences and symbols. One night, I became fixated on an app showing constellations and planetary alignments, convinced it was speaking directly to me.

Looking back, it’s easy to see how detached from reality I was, but at the time, it all felt so real—so right. I believed I had uncovered universal truths, that the stars were aligning just for me. It was as if the universe itself had chosen me for some grand purpose.

Mania, as I now understand it, can be intoxicating. You feel invincible, like you’ve cracked the code to existence. But it doesn’t take long for that feeling to spiral into something darker. My delusions led me to irrational decisions, sleepless nights, and overwhelming guilt once the episode began to fade. I questioned everything: Could I have stopped this? Was it my fault?

Since that time, I’ve been on a journey to understand and process what happened. Therapy, medication, and self-reflection have been invaluable tools. But even now, I grapple with the trauma and shame of that time, both for what I experienced internally and for the impact it had on those around me.

Sharing this story isn’t easy. Part of me wants to hide it, to pretend it never happened. But I know how isolating it can feel to go through something like this without anyone to relate to. That’s why I’m telling my story—to let others know they’re not alone.

Mania is not a superpower, nor is it a curse. It’s part of the bipolar experience, and while it’s deeply challenging, it’s also something I’m learning to navigate. If you’ve ever experienced something similar, know that you’re not alone in the confusion, the self-doubt, or even the humor that can arise from these surreal moments.

I’m still figuring it all out, but I believe there’s value in sharing the messy, unpolished parts of our stories. If this resonates with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts or experiences. Let’s continue this conversation together.

– Conrad