What a complex state to be in.

I know confidence is beautiful.
I know mania is an illness.
I know that when you’re manic, you feel invincible.
I know that confidence breeds success.
I know that mania can breed self-destruction.

I don’t know how to differentiate the two.

For the first time, I feel proud of the steps I’ve taken to better my life.
I feel confident that I am going to do this—and do it well.

That should feel good, right?

But ever since mania burst into my life uninvited, I’ve questioned everything.
I remember what it felt like back then—

Invincible.
Impulsive.
Promiscuous.
Dangerous.
Paranoid.
Scared.
Over-confident.
Enlightened.

I’d never valued myself before.

So when that rush of confidence came—when I finally felt wanted, powerful, alive—I chased it.

I imagine it’s like jumping from an airplane.
Only, I had no parachute.

And somehow, I still thought I’d stick the landing.

---

Then, the crash.

The partying and impulsivity cost me everything.
My home.
My job.
My sense of reality.

I broke.

I signed myself into the hospital.
Not because I wanted to get better—
But because I was too scared to leave.

I wasn’t ready to face the aftermath.
I knew what was coming.

The down. The black hole. The part of bipolar that rips you apart after mania has burned everything to the ground.

And I wasn’t strong enough to meet it head-on.

So I stayed.

Not just for a night.
Not just for a few days.

Forty. Something. Days.

I asked not to leave.

Because inside?

Inside, I had padded walls.
Rubber chairs.
Caged windows.
A hospital gown that swallowed me whole.
Double-locked doors that kept the outside world away.

And for the first time, that felt safer than freedom.

That’s how bad it was.

That’s how terrifying it was to be left alone with myself

Forty-something days.

Therapy.
Medication.
Structure.

Behind double-locked doors and barred windows, I thought I had found safety.

But I didn’t realize how out of reality I was.

Within 24 hours of stepping outside, reality gut-punched me.

I felt pain. Even with the medication.
I felt sad.
I felt hurt.
I felt anger.

And then, just like that, the switch flipped again.

Back to mania.

But this time?

Hard drugs.
More sex.
A trauma-bonded, toxic relationship that became impossible to leave.
Hallucinations.
Recklessness beyond anything I’d ever known.

It felt like it would never end.

---

The cycle continued for a year.

Until—

More hospital stays.
More medication changes.
More therapy.
More acceptance.

And hard. Fucking. Work.

I finally found balance.

Finally felt my feet on the ground again.

Finally grasped parts of reality.

Finally had enough stability to research, reflect, and understand my disorder.

And I am so damn proud of myself.

But I hate that I feel like I need to justify that pride.

I just survived years of hell.

And I’m still here.

I am capable.
I am strong.
I am still standing.

Yes, I have a disorder.
Yes, I have to manage it for the rest of my life.
Yes, there will be highs and lows.

But that doesn’t take away my quality of life.
At least, it doesn’t have to.

So why am I still scared?

Why am I waiting for the world to crash around me?
Why am I waiting for someone to yank me out of this peace and tell me it’s not real?

Bipolar disorder is soul-crushing at times.

I just want to be proud—without fear.
Without wondering if confidence is just the beginning of another episode.
Without feeling like every moment of happiness is borrowed time.

I hope I find that balance soon.

Because right now?

I am living every single accomplishment under the shadow of fear.

And I just want to feel the beauty of it—without waiting for it to disappear.