On Mania

About once a year, I get manic. I don't know why, but it happens. I'm not sure if it's a chemical imbalance, or if it's just a part of who I am. But it happens, and it's not fun.

Every year, the trip is different. Sometimes I'm happy, sometimes I'm sad. Sometimes I'm angry, sometimes I'm scared. But every time, I'm manic.

I've tried to figure out what triggers it, but I can't. It just happens. And when it does, I have to ride it out. I have to let it run its course, and hope that I come out the other side in one piece.

I've learned to recognize the signs. The racing thoughts, the sleepless nights, the endless energy. I know when it's coming, and I know what to expect. But that doesn't make it any easier.

When I'm manic, I feel like I'm on top of the world. I feel like I can do anything, be anything. But at the same time, I feel like I'm losing control. I feel like I'm going to explode, like I'm going to fall apart.

I've tried to fight it, to push it down, to ignore it. But that only makes it worse. It only makes it stronger. So now, I let it happen. I let it wash over me, and I try to stay afloat.

I know that it will pass. I know that it will end. But in the moment, it feels like it will last forever. It feels like I will never be normal again.

But I will. I always do. I always come out the other side, battered and bruised, but alive. And I know that I will again. I know that I will survive.