I talk a mile a minute, my mind is a blur of impossible ideas, I have plans – grand plans! – that I will try to achieve immediately. I will rapid fire announce these plans to my loved ones and when they roll their eyes I will become angry that they would doubt me.
I will be upset that they have seen all this before and reasonably doubt my proclamations. In my swirling mood, I will be at once brilliant, gorgeous, unstoppable, irresistible, bulletproof. Their view is both sober and accurate, but I cannot possibly accept their failure to believe me. They must be wrong.
I start hating birds for some reason. There’s no logic behind it but I actively hate birds. And plaid skirts, and diet soda. Words blur together and I have trouble remembering what a red light means at an intersection. I refuse to eat certain foods because “they” have done something sinister with it.
My mind races and I come up with complex book ideas on my drive home that I cannot sit still long enough to write. I will plan out a beautiful piece of art but will get so caught up in what type of pencil to use that I will never get started. I will work a 12 hour day at work but make so many errors that it would have been better had I not shown up at all.
On the rare occasion that I am able to focus, I will create phenomenal things. I will spend 15 hours straight rendering the perfect Godzilla statue out of copper wire. The statue will later be chosen to be featured in a gallery show. I will create 5-foot watercolor paintings of trees in painstaking detail that sell instantly. I cannot control when these flurries of activity will result in a success.
At the end of the day I will drink two bottles of wine in an effort to slow down the thundering thought patterns. It helps a bit. I am past the point of memory and I shop for things online that I cannot possibly need, many times clothes several sizes too small because I’m going to lose 20 lbs in a month. The wine makes me hungry and I raid the freezer, going to bed when I am sufficiently disgusted with myself. The next morning I wake up wondering why my makeup is still on and where my money went. Soon after comes the plummeting depression.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Such was the experience of my last intense manic episode. It’s been two years since then, and I feel another one creeping up. The awareness is terrifying.