The mirage of mania and the sands of shattered self-esteem

Mania has enormous appeal. During an episode, bounding with energy, a manic individual has diminished need for sleep or food. Thinking accelerates and becomes extraordinarily fluid, marked by quick lateral jumps, making connections possible that might otherwise prove elusive. Sights and sounds resonate in profound ways for a person jolted by mania. It heightens perceptions like an elongated, tactfully angled FM radio antenna.

Mania offers its host false assurance. Problems in life are readily solvable, at least so it seems to a person under mania’s spell. A daunting project seems considerably more feasible, as the mental gymnastics of mania create the impression of a clear action plan that will undoubtedly facilitate a seamless execution.

It’s such a head-trip. While manic, seemingly every thought is brilliant or insightful or hysterical. “Riffing” — the art form of speaking extemporaneously on a topic or a series of digressive topics — becomes completely intuitive and effortless. Think golden era stand-up comedian after one or two lines of quality cocaine. A manic state is so seductive because for the affected person it not only feels like the mind is firing on all cylinders but also, given the human neurology at play, actually is doing exactly that.

As a sidebar, I can only imagine a comedian’s cocaine-infused thought patterns, as I have never done the drug myself. And there is a reason why I have never done cocaine. It’s not because of concern for the sanctity of my nasal septum. The repeated breaks of the fifth metacarpal bone in my right fist indicate my disregard for self-preservation. It’s not because of reverence for legality. As an adolescent, I established myself as a world-class shoplifter. It’s not for want of access. I spent two decades of my life cavorting about the public square. Cocaine was ubiquitous in my after-midnight Manhattan travels. The reason I never did coke was that I never needed to.

It’s a fleeting glimpse for the manic person of what she might be like as her optimized self. Her inward perception suggests that with mania her intelligence, humor, and intuition are fully realized. It’s not so much “more human than human” as it is “more human than non-manic human.” If the axiom that people generally only utilize 10% of their brainpower holds, mania offers a taste of what lies beyond that threshold.

An accounting of my exhibited behavior during bouts of mania would read like excerpts from a mental health textbook. Speaking of written text, while manic, I have filled notebooks with what seemed like revelatory stuff at the time but was mostly found to be gibberish upon later review. One time at a restaurant, I exhausted the two notebooks on my person, precipitating an urgent need for more paper. I bought the waiter’s order pad and proceeded to stuff it with scribbling, formatted to the peculiar configuration of line items and subtotal fields. During a run of mania, I would litter my apartment with Post-It notes. In social situations, people would think I was speaking in code, given my vocalized scattershot tangents.

My greatest struggle with bipolarity has been what I can only characterize as an addiction to mania. It’s an intoxicating feeling, and the madness beckons you to chase after it. To paraphrase Rick James, “mania is a helluva drug.” I spent most of my thirties attempting to summons a viably manic, or hypomanic, state. Sleep deprivation, weed, booze and loud music played contributing roles.

In retrospect, mania wrought havoc in my life. It precipitated bad career decisions. It aided and abetted some poorly conceived entrepreneurial projects. Jumping into start-up ventures rashly, without proper due diligence or business plan drafting, was a recurring theme.

My physical health suffered on account of mania. It was a pronounced factor in an increasingly unhealthy lifestyle. Strange hours and an uneven diet became the norm. Long stretches of sleeplessness, of course, are physically toxic, with consequences ranging from gray hair to diminished cognitive facility.

Hallucinations on Block Island and clairvoyance in the East Village tempered my enthusiasm for reality. Odd hours and a propensity for finding the wrong place at the correct time led to unwanted interaction with law enforcement. Rhetorical question for the reader: how many Ivy League white boys have been stopped and frisked four times by NYPD? Mania has the subtle power to pockmark a Privilege Building with Broken Windows.

The crushing blow of mania comes a few days after a flight. You’re at your lowest possible point. You haven’t slept adequately. You’re physically and psychically spent. And at this moment, you’re forced to take stock of whatever mania-hatched, outrageously ambitious project you conceived of a few days prior. It’s a crushing moment when the grandiose projects that seemed well within reach are subsequently revealed to be impractical and hopeless.

This cycle obliterates your self-esteem. You start asking difficult questions about yourself such as, “am I only smart when manic?” or the flip, “am I useless when I’m not manic?”

This crippling of self-esteem generates another layer of self-loathing. In turn, the inward revulsion often fuels indulgences in booze or drugs; which then may catalyze another cycle of mania.

Please click the ♥ button and write a comment.

Join my distribution list or simply email me at [email protected].

Find Henry Niles (@henryniles) on Instagram.

I am interested in your feedback and I will reply to you.

Thanks for reading.