I’m sitting here in my shorts writing this article at 12:11am. My energy is stellar – it’s like I have just woken up from a deep and restful sleep and pounded a six pack of red bull. I’ve got a fluttering sensation behind my eyes that is reverberating throughout my body. I’m fully present. Tomorrow does not exist, and I cannot remember yesterday. My stomach feels full even though I’ve barely eaten; in fact, I feel sick – like I’ve just eaten a McDonalds feast. I have a stream of thousand voices talking in my head and yet, I cannot discern what any of them are saying. They are too fast. I feel urgent; like I must achieve financial, spiritual, and health-related mega success before I can go to bed. Sleep is something I’m actively avoiding because I’m enjoying this feeling too much, and I know I’ll feel perfectly rested even if I have four hours sleep. Honestly, the idea of going to sleep feels like a waste of time and a missed opportunity to be productive, even though I’m not really doing much.

I’m distracted, pulled in twenty directions, chaotic. Yet I have an ocean of unbridled optimism surging through my veins.

I feel invincible, like I can take on the world. I feel like nothing could hurt me.

This is what hypomania feels like.

My name is Sam Drake. I work as a psychotherapist and as a mental health trainer. I’m a published author, mindfulness instructor, amateur blogger, and an even more amateur musician. I have two beautiful greyhounds and a loving partner. And I have bipolar disorder (II).

This is a fascinating and extremely vulnerable place for me to be in. While it may sound like I’m hyper aware of my current experience, if I hadn’t been told that I’m hypomanic, I simply would have no idea that I’m unwell. To put it simply; I would just assume this is what everyone else feels like when they’re thriving.  

The week I was diagnosed with bipolar was the most strange, fascinating, mind-opening and frankly, liberating weeks of my life. I had felt for so long that I was broken beyond repair; that nothing could ever possibly explain the depth of my insanity.

I’d always been aware of my struggles with depression; the experiences are too visceral and agonising to misinterpret. But I’d never known the flip side. I’d never known that for one or two periods per year, I was experiencing another form of mental unwellness. A form of mental unwellness that is by all accounts, enjoyable.

The diagnosis of bipolar changed my whole perspective and rocked the foundation of my entire being. Past experiences that I had once considered to be “flourishing” were suddenly tainted with memories of drug abuse, recklessness, emotional intensity, non-existent self-care, delusional thinking patterns and poor decision-making. I fear that if it weren’t for someone close to me questioning if I was okay, I might never have known. Only when you know something is broken can you begin to fix it.

If you’d asked me previously how I was doing in these phases, I’d have simply said “I’m phenomenal.” If you’d questioned my mental health, I’d have become suspicious and agitated, and simply pointed to the all the things I was achieving to consolidate my argument. But you’d have been right to question me; I didn’t hold the capacity to question myself.

Now, I can.

This is the first hypomanic episode I’ve been able to pinpoint. The first episode I’ve noticed changes in my brain and body. The first episode I’ve been able to effectively communicate to those around me that “while I may look it, I am not well.”

I won’t lie, I am enjoying the experience. I’m productive, inspired, passionate, emotive, confident, and creative. In many ways, hypomania feels like a kind of superpower – you borrow from the future you, to make present you exceptional!

…but I have locked myself away in my office and have completely neglected my structured and disciplined daily practices and routines for three days now. I am going to bed later and rising earlier, sleeping for a few mere hours. I have a billion “brilliant” ideas, but I lack the focus, resources, and mental fortitude to see any of them through. I haven’t eaten more than 3,000 calories over the past 72 hours now (I was eating 4,000 calories a day) and my time restricted eating window has shrunk from 8 hours to 2. I haven’t been able to use the restroom either; my gastrointestinal tract has almost completely stopped functioning. I’m not drinking water. I’m not socialising.

I’m not well, but I am okay.

One thing we must all remember is that mental illness is common, and it is treatable.

I may never find a cure for this strange, debilitating and equally fascinating illness, but nothing can stop me from fighting it. I must fight because there is simply no other option. I cannot give in because I have seen how deep this rabbit hole goes, and I simply can’t go back there. I won’t.

We tend to fear the things we don’t understand. By being willing to understand, we take the power out of the unknown and restore courage within ourselves. Through courage, we can drive meaningful and long-lasting change. Without intervention I simply wouldn’t have been given the opportunity to understand this particular side of myself. And I’m forever grateful that now, I can.

I have bipolar, and that’s okay.

I’m up for the fight.

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