Please stop the ride, I want to get off
Many people write about what it feels like to be depressed. Some of them even do it well. But few people write about the experience of mania.
This is not surprising, on reflection. Outside of those afflicted with bipolar disorder or methamphetamine addiction, most people will never experience mania. It is rare – thank goodness – and is thus naturally marginalized. But unlike other marginalized disorders, our culture values the fundamental symptoms of mania: energy, élan, creativity, willingness to go without sleep, and a drive to succeed are, when properly controlled, positive and admirable traits.
My manic experiences are, I’ll admit, pleasurable at first. Colors seem more vivid, my mood grows brighter, I wake up earlier and well-refreshed, and the air takes on a particular crispness. Yet the fact that mania’s first expressions are so subtle and inoffensive makes it difficult to recognize its onset. And the disappointment experienced when happiness reveals itself as nascent mania is particularly poignant.
It takes a few weeks before I start noticing the psychological changes. I find myself making lofty, unrealistic promises, starting overly-ambitious projects, spending money foolishly. It becomes difficult to converse with people: I hop from topic to topic, distracted from ever fully exploring a thought. (I’ve learned that if my conversational parter starts looking askance or with pity at me, I have been changing the subject too often.) My appetite diminishes drastically; when I force myself to eat, food is overwhelmingly flavorsome, well past the point of unpleasantness. My memory becomes unreliable and spotty. I fill up notebooks with ideas, most of which are extraordinarily bad.
At its worst, I am sort of torn along by this torrent of energy, leaving a trail of angry people and hurt feelings behind. The experience, as a whole, is akin to having a high-pitched screech pumped into your ears at all hours of the day: it is overwhelming, omnipresent, and utterly impossible to ignore. No serious work is possible while in a manic state, as it is simply impossible to expect a manic person (I use that term rather than ‘maniac’) to pay attention. Such a person is not capable of doing so.
I have a souvenir from my last manic phase: an essay, written at the height of a three-day bout of sleeplessness, in which I attempt to record some of my thoughts on the nature of science. It is almost charmingly illucid, full of half-finished sentences, incoherent ideas and grandiose comparisons. It breaks my heart every time I read it.
Mania sucks. Big time. But it’s the burden I must face. And what keeps me going is the knowledge that this too shall pass, that someday – maybe next week, maybe next month, maybe three months from now – my brain will calm down.
I can’t fucking wait.
