I loved being high.
That kind of high—
the manic kind.
There’s nothing quite like it
without drugs.
I felt powerful.
Confident.
Defiant.
Unstoppable.
I thought I had evolved—
into my best self.
But really,
I was just loud.
Sharp.
Judgmental.
Because of course,
I knew everything.
And you didn’t.
“Let’s go out for drinks!”
A few sips in,
my filter vanished.
Gone.
Alcohol lowers inhibition,
but for someone with mania,
it’s like watching
a five-car pileup in real time—
chaotic,
unstoppable,
mind-blowing
in the worst way.
Impulsivity
becomes recklessness.
A runaway train
with no brakes.
The crash?
Inevitable.
The damage?
Everywhere.
Some burger joint.
Name forgotten.
Maybe for the best.
I wasn’t wasted,
but drunk enough
for my inflated ego
to take the wheel.
A guy.
With his girlfriend.
Beanie, beard, tattoos.
You know the type.
Most people
think the insult,
then swallow it.
I didn’t.
“So what?
You think you’re really cool or something?
Seriously—it’s all just dressing.
You probably aren’t doing much below the belt.”
Yeah.
I said that.
I only know because my friend
told me the next day.
Mortified
doesn’t even come close.
I wish that was a one-time thing.
It wasn’t.
I’ve driven 100 miles an hour
to reach a boyfriend
who dumped me
over the phone.
No, I didn’t go to jail.
But I should have.
I should’ve been hospitalized.
Who does that?
I moved across the country—
on impulse.
Because in my mind,
that was a choice.
I was the life of the party.
Told a guy,
in front of a house full of people,
that I’d sleep with him
on the couch
after everyone left.
He laughed.
Said it’d never happen.
But it did.
Because you can’t resist
that kind of confidence.
Promiscuity—
a well-documented symptom.
You feel invincible.
Alpha female.
Untouchable.
Desired.
You conquer anything.
Anyone.
Shopping?
Another high.
It felt like a black card—
with none of the credit.
Maxed out.
Bought a car
I couldn’t afford.
Then came
the shotgun wedding.
The ten-year cycle of abuse.
As if—
that was the best I could do.
As if
I deserved it.
But why?
Don’t try to answer.
It’ll only lead you
into a loop:
“But why?”
The truth?
This isn’t normal.
So something is wrong.
Don’t look away.
Don’t dismiss it.
Send an ambulance
in the form of kindness.
Help us find a safe landing
when it’s finally over.
Because after the high—
comes the crash.
And coming down
feels like riding an elevator
past every floor
where you left wreckage behind.
By the time you hit bottom,
it’s not a landing.
It’s a cage.
It’s hell.
It’s falling into your own grave
and still breathing.
From heaven
to hell.
So heavy,
you fall.
That’s why many of us
don’t want to get stabilized.
Because that high?
It feels like truth.
Like power.
Like purpose.
Like this is who I was meant to be.
But here’s the thing—
stabilization
doesn’t mean losing the fire.
It means learning to channel it.
Those racing thoughts?
They slow
just enough
to be usable.
To become finishable.
You start thinking
before you speak.
Because not everything you think
needs to be said.
You still get the thrill.
You just stop losing everything
in the aftermath.
Stabilization
means no more blackouts.
No more strangers.
No more shame in the morning.
It means
you don’t have to crash
just to feel alive.
You don’t lose yourself.
You find your footing.
Instead of chaos—
clarity.
Instead of spiraling—
stillness.
You start to recognize the edge
before you leap.
Stigma?
It’s still the loudest voice in the room.
Because when bipolar disorder
runs in your blood,
you know what it looks like.
You’ve watched it
in a sibling.
A parent.
Someone who scared you.
And now
you’re afraid of yourself.
Or worse—
maybe you don’t have it.
Maybe you’re the one looking in,
labeling us
“crazy”
because you don’t understand
what you can’t feel.
But hear me when I say:
People have bipolar disorder.
They aren’t bipolar.
There’s a difference.
We don’t blink
when someone has an asthma attack.
It’s a chronic condition.
We offer help,
not judgment.
Bipolar should be the same.
Not feared.
Not mocked.
Understood.
Awareness
builds compassion.
And when we understand something—
we fear it less.
Maybe next time
you see someone spiraling,
you won’t look away.
You’ll look closer.
You’ll ask,
“Are you okay?”
You’ll learn the signs.
You’ll remember this voice.
You might just
save a life.
My life is still messy.
But now,
I know how to hold it.
I still feel deeply.
But I no longer fall
unconscious
into the fire.
And that?
That’s what stabilization gave me.
Not perfection—
but peace.
Not a cure—
but control.
Not less of me—
just more of me
on solid ground.
J.N. Rose 