By Sreeja Roy

There are days when everything around me feels like it’s been dialed up to a frequency only I can hear. The world doesn’t just shine—it pulses. Trees aren’t just green; they seem to vibrate with intention, with meaning. The sky is no longer just a backdrop—it becomes a presence, a voice, a companion whispering stories only I can understand. I don’t always notice the shift C away. It’s subtle at first—a sharper corner of light, a taste lingering longer than it should. And then suddenly, it’s like someone has lifted a veil. I’m not just in the world—I’m inside it in a way that feels both electrifying and sacred.

During these periods—what some might call episodes, but what I’ve come to see as altered states of being—my senses feel magnified. A glass of water doesn’t just quench thirst; it tastes like a distant memory, like rain on childhood rooftops. Music doesn’t simply play in the background—it floods me, note by note, until I can feel it in my ribs. My skin becomes too alive, almost overwhelmed by sensation. Clothes aren’t just fabric anymore—they feel like waves or heat or static electricity wrapped around my body. I’ve caught myself staring at the way dust dances in a beam of sunlight, feeling more wonder in that moment than I’ve ever felt in a crowd or at a celebration.

This, I’ve realized, is one of the strangest and most powerful gifts of bipolar disorder—the way it can lift you out of the ordinary and into something utterly luminous. We don’t often talk about this part. The narrative surrounding bipolar is so often wrapped in fear, risk, and collapse—and for good reason. I’ve seen those shadows. I’ve felt the crash, the regret, the isolation. But there is also light here, and it’s important to name it. It’s important to say that sometimes, this condition allows me to access a version of life that feels technicolor, divine, bursting with meaning. It’s not sustainable, but for a little while, it’s unforgettable.

In these times, sleep becomes irrelevant. Time loses its grip on me. I can write for hours, thoughts arriving faster than I can catch them. I dance alone in my room, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying—not from sadness, but from a feeling so enormous that it spills out of me in every direction. Even silence feels musical. I become someone who feels everything—the wind, the light, the pain of strangers, the beauty in a crack on the wall. It’s not always functional. It’s not always healthy. But it is real. And it is mine.

Eventually, though, the glow begins to dim. The music flattens. The trees go back to being trees. I wake up one day and everything feels a bit muted again—easier to manage, yes, but a little less alive. There’s relief in the stillness, but also a kind of grief. I miss the intensity. I miss the clarity, even if I know it was temporary. It’s like returning from a dream you didn’t know you were having, and suddenly you’re back in your body, back in your schedule, back in the world that expects you to follow the rules. I follow them. But I miss the magic.

The danger, of course, lies in chasing that magic. I’ve done it before—followed the fire too far and found myself lost in the blaze. Mania can look like freedom, but it can quickly become a prison. Ideas become obsessions. Joy turns to recklessness. I’ve made choices I wouldn’t have made if the ground had been more solid beneath my feet. That’s the cost. And I carry that knowledge with me now. I don’t romanticize the whole picture. But I also don’t erase the beauty that was real.

It’s difficult to explain all this to someone who hasn’t lived it. People hear “mania” and think chaos or danger. And yes, sometimes it is. But it’s also standing in the center of a storm and feeling, inexplicably, like you belong there. It’s like the whole universe has curled up in your chest and started to hum. It’s not about happiness, not really. It’s about aliveness—an overwhelming, sometimes terrifying, sometimes transcendent form of being that connects you to something far beyond yourself.

I no longer try to live in that place. But I no longer pretend it doesn’t exist either. I’ve learned to treat those hours like glimpses—fleeting, fierce, and full of light. When they come, I try to meet them with respect rather than fear. I don’t hold on too tightly. I don’t make promises. I just listen. I feel. I let the world glow.

And when it’s over—when things return to quiet—I carry those moments like tiny sparks inside me. They don’t guide my life, but they remind me of something important: that even in a mind that doesn’t follow the usual rules, there can be meaning. There can be beauty. There can be something worth remembering.