Something I wrote when hypomanic, describes what it's like for me fairly well...

I feel like I know a secret that the rest of the world is missing, and that secret spreads over my face until my cheeks hurt from smiling.

I step out the door and for a moment I pause, suspended in mid-motion, awed by the beauty that I see. The beautiful blue sky, the warmth of the sun on my face, the clouds floating behind the trees, the dark underside of storm clouds, the feel of cold air on my face as stars twinkle about me, the most perfect crescent moon, the detailed full moon, the wind moving through me and around me. Every time I step out the door I am struck anew at the beauty of the world, no matter what it is I see. This, for me, is part of what it means to be manic, hypomanic, high, on top of the world. Whatever you call it, this is what I live for.

I move from my state of suspended animation and the world starts turning again, and I don’t stop. I dance down the street, because walking is too slow, sedentary. I’m home, but still I don’t, can’t, won’t stop. I take ideas that flow incessantly through my mind, catch hold of one of many and take it for a ride. Travel takes over and I plan holidays, buy hundreds of dollars worth of guidebooks, book tours and flights with no consideration of the cost. In a stroke of genius I see how much better the house would look if that wall was not there. So with sledgehammer, saw and brute force I remove the offending wall - all whilst my husband sleeps on unawares. Sleep is for others, for myself it is an optional extra. There are drugs I take to assist me to unconsciousness and in deference to that rational brain that knows my body requires the rest I take them. Before I down the dreaded tablets I feel as if I have just woken from an amazing slumber full of energy, enthusiasm and plans for the day. There is inspiration in every sentence, and wherever I look ideas flow as to what could be done. The bank account runs down to empty as the fruits of my enthusiasm arrive at my door.

I start a business, so far removed from my day job as can be. I’m convinced that with just a little effort my photography skills will become world renown, that I will be able to fund my travel habit through selling photos to an ever appreciative audience. I enter a photo into an international photography competition. Just one photo, in one competition but I know that this will start my meteoric rise to fame. All the while I dance, run, laugh with unadulterated joy. I dance on picnic tables in the park, I dance unashamedly in the sun in my lunch break, I dance in front of our uncurtained windows for all the world to see.

Then I see my psychiatrist who wants to ‘treat’ me, fix me, give me medication to return me to stability. But this is not a condition that requires treatment, it does not need fixing. This is what I live for, and though I see that my behaviour is not quite what it was, it does not need treating. She says ‘impaired judgement’ where I see ‘inspired genius’. She tells me it’s exhausting for those around me, but I know that they love to be with me to catch the edge of this euphoria. She questions my irritability, but although I am impatient and intolerant of fools this is no cause for concern. I ask my husband and he tells me quite how irritable I am. I snap, I yell, I swear. But I don’t quite believe it and I certainly don’t think it is cause enough to want to end the high. My thoughts don’t always connect, distracted by each intervening image, sight and sound. But everything is so clear to me. Because I know the secret that the rest of you just wish you knew and the smile spreads over my face once more.