I Am Bipolar Mood Disorder

He doesn’t appear all at once.

He never has.

At first, he feels like energy. Like clarity. Like finally being able to breathe without effort. Her thoughts sharpen. Her body hums. Sleep becomes optional, then unnecessary. The world opens wider than it ever has before, and for a while, she believes this is what “better” feels like.

He lets her believe that.

She talks faster. Thinks faster. Decides faster. Money stops feeling real—just numbers moving from one place to another. Purchases stack up. Investments are made on instinct, not logic. Promises are spoken with conviction she can’t later remember earning. People around her start to look concerned, but concern feels like jealousy when you’re this alive.

He stays quiet while she burns bridges.

He prefers not to interrupt his own work.

Then the edges start to fray.

Her laughter arrives too suddenly, too loud, often in the wrong moments. A joke she can’t stop laughing at. A memory that collapses into tears without warning. Crying turns into laughter so fast it scares even her. She presses her hands to her face, unsure which emotion belongs there anymore.

Someone inside tells her to pull herself together.

That she isn’t dying.

That this will pass if she just breathes.

That voice tries to slow her down. Tries to guide her through grounding exercises. Tries to make space between thought and action. It speaks calmly, persistently, like someone trained to survive storms.

He doesn’t like that voice.

He leans into the noise instead. He tightens her thoughts until they blur. He rewrites memory so consequences feel distant, unreal. He convinces her that anyone questioning her is trying to cage her. That restraint is a threat. That hesitation is weakness.

And then—just as suddenly—he lets go.

The fall is brutal.

Her body feels heavy, like gravity has been turned up without warning. The energy drains out, leaving guilt in its place. She looks at bank statements she doesn’t remember creating. Messages she sent that sound cruel, reckless, unrecognizable. Faces she hurt without meaning to. Apologies pile up, but they don’t erase what’s already landed.

This is where the anguish takes over.

She can’t get out of bed some days. Can’t stop replaying everything she ruined while she wasn’t fully herself. The voice inside her starts asking darker questions now. Whether anyone would miss her. Whether this cycle is worth surviving again.

The calm voice returns, firmer this time.

You’re not dying.

This is an episode.

You’ve survived this before.

It walks her through showers, meals, medications. It reminds her to breathe. To reach out. To wait.

He watches all of it.

Medication tries to loosen his grip. He allows it—sometimes. He retreats just enough to make her think she’s won. Stability settles in. Life looks manageable. Hope grows careful legs.

He waits.

Because it will take a lot more than pills and patience to get rid of him.

When he returns, he doesn’t announce himself. He never does. He slips back into her thoughts, rearranges priorities, sharpens impulses. He doesn’t need constant control—just enough to remind her who has rewritten her brain before.

Only at the end does he speak clearly.

Only when the damage is already done.

He has many names.

Doctors use careful language.

Charts call him Bipolar Mood Disorder.

He prefers not to be named at all.

If you are struggling with mental illness or addiction, reach out—to a professional, a trusted person, or a support service. You are not alone, even when it feels that way.