I Dressed in Disguises During My Manic Episode

Person wearing layered vintage coats, scarves, hats, sunglasses, and jewelry indoors

The Theatrical Side of Mania Nobody Talks About

Liam Ronan

There is a moment during a manic episode when you stop being yourself and start auditioning for roles you never applied for. I know because I packed a bag of costumes and carried it with me for weeks.

I am not speaking in metaphor. I had an actual bag of clothes that I rotated depending on who I wanted to be that day. Dressed wealthy, I walked into hotel lobbies and acted as though I belonged. Dressed down, I sat on sidewalks near shelters and talked to people experiencing homelessness as if I were one of them. I pretended to be blind once, closing my eyes and walking city blocks to see how people would react. I told myself I was testing the kindness of strangers. I was testing nothing. I was gone.

The bag had a purpose, or at least my manic brain assigned one. I called it my ministry kit. I believed I was going to help homeless people by understanding their experience from the inside. I would dress the part, sit among them, listen to their stories, and then use my connections and energy to change their lives. I imagined vending machines in the river bed that dispensed supplies. I imagined a referral network where I matched people with jobs. I collected over a hundred phone numbers during the episode because I believed my calling was to connect people.

There was also a vanity to it. Dressed up, I was magnetic. I would walk into a restaurant or a bar with complete confidence, charm everyone at the counter, and leave with the feeling that I had just performed brilliantly. I was studying illusionists at the time and thought I needed to learn their skills. Not for deception. For transformation. I thought disguise was a spiritual practice.

Looking back, the disguises were not about helping anyone. They were about escaping myself. When you are in the grip of mania, your own identity cannot keep up with the speed of your thoughts. You need new characters to contain all the versions of yourself that are emerging at the same time. The homeless version. The executive version. The healer version. The comedian. Each one felt authentic in the moment. Each one dissolved by morning.

I also realize now that the disguises served another function. They kept people from seeing what was actually happening. If you are dressed for a role and playing a part, nobody asks why you are sleeping in hotels, why you have not been home in weeks, why your eyes are glassy and your speech is pressured. They just see the costume.

The fascination with disguise is not listed in most symptom checklists for bipolar I mania, but I think it should be. It sits at the intersection of grandiosity, impulsivity, and fractured identity. You are not just losing touch with reality. You are building a wardrobe for the multiple realities you believe you are living in simultaneously.

After the episode, I found that bag in the trunk of my car. Wrinkled shirts, a flashlight, a towel, a handful of business cards for companies that did not exist. Evidence of a man who thought he could be everyone and ended up losing himself.

A note from Liam Ronan: I do not miss the disguises. I miss the certainty that came with them. That part still catches me off guard sometimes.

For more information, visit NAMI’s bipolar disorder resource page or the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance.

Mania Insights