[RomanJames2014]

Hi guys, I have always wondered why I act like I am in a different world or a different time and place when I am in the deepest of each poles. I wrote a manic blog about it (lower) and I was wondering if anyone has kind of experienced the same thing. I don't just have historical actions going on but sometimes i feel and think that I am in a different part of the world like Havana Cuba or something? I feel as if it is my hyper creativity taking over my mentality. Is this a Bipolar thing or a Crazy Roman Bipolar thing? Thanks!

The Dapper Brute
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On living in Ethereal England

Soooo…. Some people live in the past and it kind of makes me want to kill myself. They are always the ones that want the states to be all confederate and slavery to come back. They are the people who fear communicism and the thought of their precious guns being taken away. Personally, I hate these people. I, however, have never hated the idea of living in the romantic past.

By romantic I mean Georgian, Victorian, or even Edwardian. Having bipolar disorder causes me to face many different emotions, attitudes, and behaviors. Whilst highly hypomanic or even full blown manic, I tend to live my life in kind of this romantic Georgian way. My brain releases these chemicals that tell me to think, feel, and act as if I am at a night time garden party at Pemberley or one of those gorgeous Georgian houses with the lush rose garden and the sweet plum and pear trees. This is when my mania turns into hyper sexuality and I become seductive and playful. I am 12 years old all over again.

I skip and then gallop and then skip around the concrete garden of Chicago as if I am pursuing every guy in the garden party that is life.

Usually when manic I have musical hallucinations and if I don’t have them I act out to the music I am listening too. I play something like upbeat English punk rock or even classical music. I feel as if my life is a Georgian era themed film directed by (one of my fav) Sofia Coppola. Think Marie Antoinette only more vibrant green and pink hues and more washed out blues, greys, and reds. I even throw on an accent and start speaking in a seductive way as if I am the master of the house throwing a lavish party in my garden. I usually accompany my pets on this disssassociative moment of living in the past. I start proclaiming to my dog, Daphne, that we must ready the car to go meet Mr. Darcy in the Drawing room at Pemberley. She only looks at me in pity. My cats freak the **** out as well. When they hear the English accent and the regal tone of my voice as I command and announce each statement coming from my mouth as if I have a house full of servants waiting among the shadows for me to release my hand in need of something. As the cats meow and run rampant up and down the stairs in seek of shelter my manic brain makes me giggle and laugh.

When this occurs, my manic life is nothing but playful. I remember one night I was completely off my rocker and I had been skipping about the city to go to some of my favorite Chicago bars. I had stopped at school in the Merchandise Mart and though I felt like I was the only person in the world, I had realized that there were people in the mart… all over the place. I had just been galloping around oblivious to all of them.

“Whoa you are looking very sharp my man!” a gay yet bro-ish voice shouted at me as the crazed clicking of my John Varvatos wing tipped shoes slapped upon the marble floor, echoing among the thirty foot walls. The young man was clearly flirting, or so my manic mind interpreted it that way. “And how does one of an unripen youth such as myself dress whilst taking on the euphoria of the city and its night?!?!” I shouted across the corridor of the Merchandise Mart with my locks of hair in my left eye clearly out of place. Laughing like I had fallen down or if I had done something even more embarrassing the boy looked down and away as I galloped into the shadows of the city street. I haven’t seen the boy since.

I usually don’t talk that way. But being manic and being hit on at the time, I decided to pull every move in the English romance dictionary. How am I still single?

I live in the past when I am manic and I love it!

Living in the past is something that I clearly do eccentrically. When manic I suck in life from the innocent eyes of a child in the gardens of a party in Georgian England. The problem occurs when that manic episode drives into the river that is Depression.

Depression. How can I describe it? I just can’t. It’s one of those moods that if you haven’t been depressed, you will never know. When I say depression, people often think that I am talking about sadness. Every one believes that they have been depressed when they really haven’t. There is sadness and grief. Sadness is when you feel sad about a moment or action. There is also grief. Grief is coping with the loss of someone or something. Finally, depression. Depression consists of sadness, anxiety, hopelessness, and suicide. None of these are feelings that anyone wants. Sometimes when normal people are sad, they will say things like, “Oh I needed a good cry.” With depression the crying doesn’t stop. In fact the crying eventually dries up and turns into a zombie like state. I fear the depressive side off my illness. I tried describing it once as feeling like, “I have hunger pains and I know I will never see food again.” Ironically, when depressed, I either eat too much or not enough. It’s ok. You can laugh.

Depression comes in and that lush Georgian garden turns into a macabre and eerie Victorian house where the dry wall is crumbling and there hasn’t been a Swiffer in the house for many many years. All I can do is hate being there but then realize that leaving this haunted like house is something I don’t care to do.

Soon everything becomes cold and drafty and I become possessed with my corpse like state. When depressed I place an awkward energy in the house. It feels as if many people in the house are dying of tuberculosis or another illness Edgar Allen Poe might have written about. My thoughts become Emily Dickenson like or Sylvia Plath-esque. Everything turns goth. And not the glam punk type. Just goth. Things feel as if I have died and my corpse has been sold with the house to the new owners of spiders and mice.

I might have moments where I live in the past but its only because I love the arts and I love history so putting those together into a life like state is a part of my personality.
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[Bipolarchic14]

Oh my God no one responded to you either . I have a tendency to be in my own world just about every day.