Mental illness, particularly bipolar disorder, challenges the very notion of what we call reality.
For those who live without it, reality feels stable and predictable. There is a baseline that holds emotions steady. But for someone living with manic depression, bipolar disorder, reality is not one fixed place. It is multiple realms, shifting and unpredictable.
I have lived within these realms since the age of 24, and over time, I have come to understand them as three distinct states of being.
The first realm is what I call baseline, the norm. This is the grounded version of myself, the place where clarity exists and the world feels manageable. It is where I can live in a sense of stability and calm. Yet even here, there is an awareness that this state is not guaranteed to last. There is always a quiet questioning of how long this state of mind will last.
The second realm is what I have named my “Phoenix Stage”. This is the beginning of elevation, the serendipitous rise into hypomania. It can feel serene at first as everything is connecting magically. Thoughts flow quickly, ideas feel profound and there is a sense of possibility that is almost intoxicating.
But this realm is deceptive. What begins as light can quickly intensify into something uncontrollable. Sleep diminishes and my judgment shifts. Without careful awareness, Phoenix can ignite into full mania, and from there, into psychosis. What once felt like clarity can easily become distorted and irrational.
The third realm is the descent. This is the depressive state, where my mind and body collapse inward. All of my energy disappears, hope feels distant and even the smallest tasks become overwhelming. In its most severe form, this realm can dip into suicidal ideation. It is not simply sadness; it is a profound heaviness that alters perception and self-worth. Moving through this state requires vigilance, support and strength that often feels impossible to access.
Mental illness is hard. It is not for the weary. Living within these three realms means existing in a constant state of adaptation. It requires learning how to recognize subtle changes, how to respond before escalation, and how to endure when control feels lost. I often describe the experience as riding a horse without reins.
For those without bipolar disorder, there is an intrinsic regulation within their biology. When emotions rise too high, something within them pulls back. When sadness deepens, there is a mechanism that lifts them up. These reins are part of their internal balance. For me, those reins do not exist in the same way. When I feel joy, it can build rapidly, leading to sleeplessness and acceleration. That acceleration can push me into the Phoenix realm and beyond. On the other side, when I fall, there is no gentle stop, only the risk of descending further into depression.
There is an uncertainty that comes with waking each day, as any event can become a trigger. This unpredictability shapes how I move through the world. It requires resilience, but also acceptance of what cannot always be controlled.
This reality was deeply present during the writing of my memoir, “Discomfort in the Manic Mind: A Journey with Bipolar Disorder.” Writing became both a release and a challenge.
There were moments of elation after completing a chapter, a sense of accomplishment and clarity. But those moments could quickly shift. Later in the same day, I might find myself overwhelmed, questioning everything, curled inward and repeating that I could not do it, that I could not share my story so openly. Imposter syndrome became another layer of the experience. It held me back for an entire year, convincing me that my story was not valid or worthy. Yet, the story itself had been forming for years.
Five years into my diagnosis, I began to consider that the journey of this in my life would be a story I would want to tell. Ten years ago, I wrote the title in a journal, unsure if my life was something anyone would want to read. It took time, growth, and ultimately an epiphany after the isolation of the pandemic in November of 2025 to begin writing.
My memoir was written in an altered state. In a hypomanic state, I wrote 34K words in 14 hours. It was nothing I could consider as a manuscript. By January my mind had regulated, and I began putting the chapters together, but as I wrote, I fluctuated between all three realms making it most challenging — a blending of memory, emotion and lived experience across all three realms.
It became a reflection not just of events but of the internal landscape that defines bipolar disorder.
Mental illness is also a shared experience. While each journey is unique, there are common
threads that connect those who live with it. The euphoria of mania, the depth of depression and the fragile space in between are familiar to many. There is comfort in knowing that, even in isolation, one is not alone in these experiences.
Despite the challenges, living with bipolar disorder has not stopped me from moving forward. I have not allowed myself to remain stuck, even when episodes repeat and recovery feels exhausting. I do not always know how I find the strength to begin again, but I do.
The purpose of sharing this story is not only to describe the difficulty but to offer something beyond it. I wanted to leave the reader with a clear message that hope is real and recovery is a journey worth taking.
Deborah Francis is the author of Discomfort in the Manic Mind. She comes to Concord for two mental health-related events this year: May 7 at Gibson’s Bookstore and Oct. 7 at the Concord Public Library.