Wolves in the woods  
I had a manic episode. 
Now, if the average manic episode were a raging, foaming at the mouth Tyrannosaurus rex, this episode would be more like Little Foot, but we’re not making rash judgement here on the magnitude. The point is, if you don’t know who Little Foot is we can’t be friends, good day sir.
I said good day!
Seriously, I had a little episode and although the most dramatic things I did was fall off my diet and dye my hair, the point is that I was a bitchy little brat and I apologize. If I contacted you and you went to Chris to discuss me instead of addressing me directly, I forgive you even though you’re kinda a wussy. If you’re reading this now and thinking, huh, what the fuck is a manic episode and how can I detect one, well, fortunately for you, I can write a list of symptoms! You lucky lucky bastard. 
Lack of sleep. When I go manic I don’t sleep much, I don’t need sleep because I’m magical and different from everybody else, right? Right.

Mood changes. I’m happy one moment, I’m miserable the next, and don’t you worry about figuring out where I’m at because…

Rapid speech. I have ever so much to say on a variety of topics, which really don’t relate to each other but by god, I can jam them together like a pro. 

Irritability. Fuck off, you all hate me. (This one is particularly good at alienating friends and peers)

Rash decisions. Liiiiiiiike dying my hair. It came out really cute, but that’s not the point. 

So many, many others. While I’m still bitchy, I will say something: you know someone who’s bipolar. Someone other than me. The statistics are on my side for this one. So if you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about…guess what, the Internet does! Look it up. It means a lot to us. Or speaking more personally, it means a lot to me. 

For many bipolar people, me included, there are wolves in the woods. They may eat your loved ones and they may try to kill you too, but remember, they started out by simply suggested you smell the flowers and take your time enjoying the forest instead of hoofing it straight to grandmas house. They’re tricky. Especially for a person like me who values and cherishes their creative soul, it’s hard to tell the good flower-smelling from the wandering off the path. Even scarier is how appealing it is to frolic in the forest of mania forever. When I was fully manic, I was skinny and blindingly happy and confident, and that shit is regrettably hard to let go of. Of course, I almost lost my husband….but that’s a different story for a day when I’m not quite so brittle. 
For real, loyal reader, it would mean a lot to me if you spent a few minutes googling my condition. You never know when someone else’s bad day is something more. Knowledge is helpful.