Mania is by far the most exciting feeling I’ve ever had the pleasure to experience, at least at first. Colors are brighter. Sounds are sharper, clearer, piercing into your ears like a piccolo solo. Everything is the best thing that’s ever happened to you. That trinket at the antique shop? The best thing you will ever buy. The view from this hiking trail? The most beautiful thing you’ll ever see. A hotel room? The greatest adventure you’ll ever take.
Laughs and smiles come more easily than raindrops in a thunderstorm. Glee pours out of every orifice. Constant new ideas flood your brain and they are. All. The. Best. Idea. Ever.
What could be better than pure elation?
Then, for me, the unrest settles in. The colors are too bright, too many sounds assault my ears. People are looking at me, they want to fight me, hurt me. My skin crawls with ants. I bounce on the balls of my feet, desperate to expel some of the coursing electricity running through my veins. I can’t sit still. I’m angry but I don’t know why. The paranoia sets in and I see potential attackers everywhere, behind every corner.
This is when I’m given the heavy stuff, the drugs that quite literally knock me on my butt. Like a charging rhinoceros my mania is shot in the face with tranquilizers, and I spend days exhausted, struggling to function. My brain is foggy, my legs shake when I try to walk. Laying in bed isn’t enough to satisfy my exhaustion. A trip to the kitchen leaves me panting.
But for a while, it really seemed worth it.