“Wow. That was a brilliant idea.”

That’s what I have been hearing lately in my head. Oh, I am so full of good ideas. They’re just popping out all over. I write them down. I share them and sometimes – with all my enthusiasm – I don’t share well. In fact, I probably scare people. But, boy, are they good ideas. They are such good ideas that I should – must – do something about them now. These brilliant ideas give me lots of energy. I work very hard on my ideas. I am very determined to make these ideas work. Wow, I feel really good!

My therapist says I am manic – getting way up there. “No, I am just going through a creative spell,” I tell her. “No, you’re not. This is your mania,” she says. And we go back and forth, with me leaving her office promising to call my nurse practitioner but not doing it.

This has been going on for about six weeks now. I haven’t worked this hard and much since my first newspaper job. Woo-hoo. I am kicking butt. So what if it’s mania. It feels goooood. I shared this with a good friend who was diagnosed with bipolar years ago. I am still a novice, diagnosed just two years ago.

She tells me that she knows her mania has kicked in when she tells herself, “Wow, that was a brilliant idea.” Holy cow! That’s the same thing I say to myself! This girlfriend has been my saviour during the last few years. I think of her as my mental illness mentor. She has been through everything I have but she has the tools and she knows how to use them.

“Yep. When I hear myself say, “That was a brilliant idea” I know I am manic,” she said. “I know when I go up that high, I am going to eventually come down and I have done that too many times.” 

We talk about the little weed in the backyard that just begged to be pulled that snowballed into trimming the hedges, pruning the bushes, fertilizing the yard and renting a chainsaw to get rid of those pesky branches. She tells me about a brilliant flower arrangement and I tell her about my cleaning triathlon: scrubbing, dusting and vacuuming. I look back on my life. Suddenly I see dozens of manic episodes – dating back to my teenage years – that always ended in a pile of self-loathing, hopelessness and empty chardonnay bottles. 

My therapist has been telling me this for a month. I wouldn’t listen. My girlfriend tells me this and I listen. This is the power of one mentally ill person helping another. I love my therapist. I trust her. She has helped me immensely. Still, there is a special trust shared between those who share the same illness. Someone who has felt exactly what you feel and came out the other side – alive and well. Someone who does not judge but simply shares her experience, strength and hope.

That’s powerful medicine and it works for me.

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From Psych Central's website:
PsychCentral (March 14, 2009)

    Last reviewed: 13 Mar 2009