Having Bipolar, I dont know near as much as I could. I have a wife who is currently dealing with me and my moods until I can get back on my meds. I did have an interesting conversation with her last night. I try to talk to her alot more now, so she understands what is going on in my head.

I felt somewhat happy with a quick little description that I came up with. Not having a current pdoc or T to speak with, I am unsure how much of this is bipolar, and how much are other things as of yet undiagnosed. To me, Bipolar is like a really fancy restaraunt. You sit down for your first of many many courses. I tell the waitress what I cannot have, and then out comes course 1. I really enjoy what they bring out, to the extent that I completly engross myself into it. Everything about this particular course is amazing, I love everything about it, I try to figure out how I can make it at home. Before I am able to finish this, the waitress comes by and removes my plate and brings out course 2. Perturbed, I go ahead and dive right into this second course, only to find out that she put tomatoes. Something that pisses me off to no end. I chew the waitress out that brought it to me, pissing her off and making her cry, only to find out, she wasnt the one who took my initial order. I simply jumped the gun and took out my anger on someone who..... oh look... Course 3. This is the best course I have had yet. The meat is so tender, I wonder if maybe I should pan fry this, but maybe if I baked it I might not be able to get it as moist. Wrapping myself around this fantastic feast, I get interupted again, by the latest and greatest course 4. This time, its burnt. The waitress comes over and I get snobby with her even though she didnt cook the food, and once again, have succeeded in pissing off someone who doesnt deserve it. So before I know it, Out comes the next course. This course means to much to me. It may have been something that I remember from my childhood. The way my mom used to make slices of bread, covered with peanut butter and sugar. Of course, thinking about this, causes me to remember the reasons my mom may have made that. The struggles my mom was facing at that time in her life, but still finding a way to feed me. Upsetting, I simply run out of the restaraunt. Locking myself away in the car. My wife pleading with me that she needs a ride home. All the time, trying to find out a way to open me up, get me to unlock the doors so that I can let her inside my emotional vehicle. Eventually, I fall and decide to open the doors. We drive around, working out my issues I had, and where do we end up? Another fancy restaraunt. Sitting down for course 1, I fall in love with the food and start the cycle over again.

I am sorry if this is not what you may be going after. Its just... something that seemed to make sense to me last night when I was telling this to my wife.