TIDAL MIND

Some mornings I wake up electric.

The sky feels like it was made just for me. I have ten ideas before I brush my teeth, and every one of them feels like brilliance.

I make plans I have no business making—lunch with a friend, clean the house, start that blog, take a road trip, maybe learn how to sew?

I talk too fast. I laugh too loud. I dance in my room like I’m in a music video no one else can see.

My heart races like it’s trying to outpace a storm I can’t name.

And I swear—I feel alive.

---

People love me like this.

They call it my “glow.” They say, “I wish I had your energy.”

I smile. I don’t say:

This isn’t energy.

It’s pressure. It’s chaos that wears glitter.

They don’t see the way my fingers tremble when I try to slow down.

They don’t see the tabs open in my brain, or how I haven’t eaten a real meal in two days because I forgot.

This is mania—but I don’t tell people that.

Because it’s easier to be seen as “fun” than unstable.

---

And then, like clockwork, the crash comes.

It doesn’t roar. It slips in quietly—like fog filling a room you didn’t notice had windows.

Suddenly, the world dulls.

The thoughts stop racing; they vanish entirely.

My bed becomes a continent I can’t leave.

The same music that made me dance yesterday makes me cry today.

No warning. Just silence.

---

This is the part people don’t see.

Or worse, they do—and they ask, “What happened?”

Like I broke. Like I fell from something high.

And I guess I did.

But the truth is, this is the cycle.

Not a fall. Not a failure.

Just the other side of me.

---

I don’t answer texts. Not because I’m mad—because I can’t.

I forget to shower. I lose track of time. I exist, but barely.

And in those days, I am not electric. I am unplugged.

Still. Flat.

Held together by caffeine, tears, and whatever strength I haven’t used up yet.

I know people mean well when they say,

“Just push through it.”

“You were doing so great before.”

“Try to stay positive.”

But bipolar doesn’t ask for permission.

It doesn’t care if I have plans.

It doesn’t care that I was glowing yesterday.

It just shows up.

Uninvited.

Heavy.

---

I’ve learned to survive the shifts.

I’ve learned to let people go who only love my highs.

I’ve learned to be gentle with myself when the lows come and stay longer than I want them to.

Soft chaos is the space between mania and depression.

Where nothing is loud but everything is unstable.

Where I seem fine, but my brain is playing tug-of-war with my soul.

Some days I win. Some days I float. Some days I disappear without telling anyone.

---

This is not a cry for help.

This is a confession. A release.

Because living with bipolar isn’t just mood swings—it’s identity whiplash.

It’s mourning who I was yesterday and fearing who I’ll be tomorrow.

It’s constantly managing chaos that looks invisible to everyone else.

But I’m still here.

Not always glowing. Not always broken.

Just somewhere between the high and the hollow,

trying to make peace with both.

This is life

This is me or I'll rather say US

I and my mind

The high and the hollow

One wanting to take over another

The struggle is real;

But only seen from within

Only seen by me,

Only felt by me,

Because it is just I and the Tidal mind I possess.