The feeling left me conflicted about who I really am
In my manic episode I sometimes imagined I could be a social chameleon. I could blend in and fit to where I am.
I wrote that in my journal during one of the stranger years of my life, sandwiched between a note about doing laundry and a reminder to fill out disability paperwork.
During my manic episode, I thought I could walk into any room and become the person that room needed. At a bar, I was the life of the party. At a hotel front desk, I was polished and composed. On the street, talking to homeless people who were clearly struggling, I was soft spoken and present.
I would study the person in front of me and mirror their posture, match their energy, find the compliment that would land. I thought of it in terms of meeting people where they were on their hierarchy of needs. I was not being fake. I genuinely felt all of it.
I was a chameleon!
The manic brain does not fake empathy. It floods you with it. You really do feel connected to every person you meet. You really do believe you can see what they need and provide it. And because you believe it so deeply, other people often believe it too. It’s a weird and slightly delusional aspect of the condition.
What they did not know is that I was also telling everyone something different about what was going on with me. To some people, I was going through a divorce. To others, I was just dealing with some ADHD. To my doctor, I was managing fine. To my family, I was unreachable. I had a different story for every audience, and I told each one with complete sincerity.
After my manic episode, I sat in the wreckage of all those performances and tried to figure out which one was me. And to reconcile it with how I had alienated those I love most.
That is the part they do not put in the brochure about bipolar I. The identity crisis that follows a manic episode is its own kind of loss. You spent weeks or months being someone who was louder, bolder, and more certain than you have ever been. People responded to that person. They usually liked him. Some of them loved him.
In my manic imagination, I used to think the chameleon instinct was a strength. I supposed sometimes it did. I also reflected on the question: have I always been like this?
A note from Liam Ronan: The hardest part of being a chameleon is not the performance. It is the moment you take off every mask and realize you are not sure what is underneath. I am still looking.
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