Writing played a significant role in helping me recover from my manic and psychotic episode in 2023. What began as a way of passing the time in the hospital gradually became one of the most important tools I had for understanding what had happened to me and rebuilding my life. The first way writing helped was by allowing me to make sense of the episode itself. Mania and psychosis are chaotic experiences. Events happen quickly, thoughts race, emotions fluctuate, and reality can feel unstable. Writing allowed me to slow things down and reconstruct the sequence of events. Instead of a confusing whirlwind of memories and emotions, I gradually created a coherent narrative of what had happened to me. Writing also helped me process trauma. Once the delusions subsided, memories of past experiences began flooding back. As I worked on A Turtle's Journey, I was not simply documenting my manic episode. I was exploring my entire life, including several traumatic experiences that had shaped who I had become. Writing allowed me to revisit difficult memories, examine their impact, and place them within the broader context of my life story. Another important role writing played was helping me separate insight from delusion. One of the central themes of The Dialectics of Mania is the challenge of distinguishing meaningful insights from ideas generated by mania. Writing gave me the space to reflect on my experiences after the episode had ended. It allowed me to question assumptions, revisit ideas, and determine which insights continued to hold value once I had returned to a more stable state of mind. Writing also helped me reclaim a sense of control. During the episode, much of my life felt out of control. I lost jobs, relationships were strained, and I spent time in the hospital. Writing was something I could control. Every page completed and every chapter finished represented a small step forward at a time when many aspects of my life felt uncertain. Perhaps most importantly, writing helped me discover a new identity. Before the episode, much of my identity was tied to my work and professional roles. After the episode, those foundations had been shaken. Writing gave me a new direction. What began as journalling and reflection eventually evolved into books, websites, research projects, and a growing body of published work. In many ways, writing became part of the process of reinventing myself. Finally, writing helped me transform suffering into something useful. Many people experience mental health crises and simply want to leave them behind. I chose a different path. By documenting my experiences, I have been able to create resources that may help others understand mania, psychosis, recovery, and lived experience. The experience became more than something that happened to me—it became something that could potentially help others. Looking back, writing helped me transform a chaotic and frightening experience into a story that I could understand, learn from, and ultimately share with others. Whether I am writing about mania, lived experience, spiritual exploration, or the evolution of society, I find myself doing the same thing: taking something complex, fragmented, or difficult to understand and organising it into a framework that creates meaning. Writing is more than a hobby for me. It is one of my primary tools for making sense of the world.

Recovery is a slow process. After spending more than three weeks in Penrith Psychiatric Hospital in January 2023, I was transferred to the Hills Clinic, a private psychiatric hospital. It was there that I began to experience a different approach to care and started the long journey of rebuilding my life. Recovery was difficult because I was still experiencing many of the after-effects of mania. Although the delusions had largely subsided and I no longer believed I was living out the Seven Days of Creation, my mind and body were far from settled. Everything felt fast, overwhelming, and exhausting. I struggled to do even simple things. I could not sit down and watch television for long periods. Each evening, about half an hour before taking my Seroquel, I would experience intense waves of panic and anxiety that seemed impossible to control. Breathing exercises provided little relief. The only thing that helped was waiting for the medication to take effect. Once it did, I would finally feel at peace. This pattern continued daily for about a week. I also noticed that the manic energy had not completely disappeared. In the evenings, I would often become intensely excited and talk endlessly about whatever topic happened to capture my attention. Some people found it entertaining, and I formed several good friendships during my stay. However, I soon realised that these bursts of energy came at a cost. Afterwards, I felt exhausted and emotionally drained. Over time, I learned to recognise these impulses and manage them more effectively. Two things became central to my recovery: therapy and writing. The Hills Clinic introduced me to Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT), Dialectical Behaviour Therapy (DBT), and Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT). These approaches gave me practical tools for understanding my thoughts, emotions, and behaviours. At the same time, I spent much of my free time writing. By the time I was discharged after just over three weeks, I had written most of The Dialectics of Mania and a large portion of my memoir, A Turtle's Journey. What began as an attempt to process my traumatic experiences gradually became something much larger. Writing allowed me not only to explore the events that had shaped my life, but also to recognise how much I had achieved and experienced over nearly four decades. It became both a creative outlet and a form of therapy. After leaving the Hills Clinic, I tried to return to the workforce. I applied for numerous jobs and initially secured a handful of interviews. Over time, however, those opportunities became less frequent. The reality of rebuilding my life proved harder than I had anticipated. Instead, I continued writing. I completed drafts of The Dialectics of Mania and A Turtle's Journey and began exploring ways to publish them. This became an important part of my recovery. Writing gave me purpose at a time when I felt lost and uncertain about my future. I also enrolled in a ten-week Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) group run through the Hills Clinic. Initially, I struggled to engage. I was depressed, at times suicidal, and trying to come to terms with the episode I had experienced. I was also grieving the loss of meaningful employment and the identity that came with it. Gradually, however, the program helped me reconnect with my values. As I explored what truly mattered to me, I realised that many aspects of my life were no longer aligned with those values. Recovery was not simply about getting better; it was about reinventing myself. Another important step in my recovery came later that year when I travelled to Canada to visit my brother, his wife, and their children. The trip provided a much-needed change of scenery and perspective. During that time, I began writing The Wellness Revolution and mapping out many of the ideas that would shape my future work. In many ways, that period marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life. I embraced a new identity as a writer and spent the following eighteen months developing books, websites, and projects that had been sitting in my mind for years. Since then, I have completed many of those goals, including multiple published books and the foundations of the Creation Series. Looking back, recovery was not a single event. It was a gradual process of healing, reflection, learning, and reinvention. Leaving the hospital was not the end of my recovery journey. It was the beginning.

When most people think of grandiosity during mania, they imagine someone believing they are a millionaire, a genius, a celebrity, or the future ruler of a country. Popular portrayals of mania often focus on wealth, status, power, and success. My experience was different. During my manic episode in 2023, documented in The Dialectics of Mania, my grandiosity was not primarily focused on becoming rich, famous, or powerful. Instead, it took on a spiritual and messianic quality. At various points, I believed I could save humanity. I believed I was living out the Seven Days of Creation. I believed I held the answers to the world's problems. I believed I had a special mission and a unique role to play in humanity's future. I believed my actions and insights carried significance far beyond my individual life. Looking back, I find this distinction fascinating. The grandiosity was not necessarily, "I am better than everyone else." It was more, "I am somehow connected to something vastly larger than myself, and I have a crucial role to play within it." This form of grandiosity can be particularly convincing because it often grows out of genuine interests and values that existed long before the manic episode. For many years, I had been interested in spirituality, cosmology, consciousness, human development, and humanity's future. These interests were real. They were important to me and remain so today. The mania did not create these interests from nothing. Instead, it amplified them. Questions became answers. Curiosity became certainty. Purpose became destiny. Possibility became conviction. What began as a sincere desire to understand the world gradually transformed into a belief that I possessed unique knowledge about it. What began as an interest in spiritual ideas evolved into a belief that I was personally participating in cosmic events. This is one of the reasons grandiosity can be so difficult to recognise while it is happening. The beliefs often emerge from authentic aspects of a person's identity. They are not completely foreign thoughts. They are familiar thoughts that have grown beyond the boundaries of reality. Reflecting on my experience has taught me that grandiosity is not always about ego in the conventional sense. Sometimes it is about meaning. Sometimes it is about purpose. Sometimes it is about trying to make sense of profound experiences. The challenge is learning to distinguish between inspiration and certainty, between purpose and destiny, between insight and omniscience. For me, that distinction sits at the heart of The Dialectics of Mania.

One of the most difficult aspects of understanding mania is distinguishing between confidence and grandiosity. On the surface, they can appear similar. Both involve a strong belief in oneself, one's abilities, or one's ideas. However, confidence remains grounded in reality, while grandiosity extends beyond what the available evidence can support. Confidence is the belief that we can achieve something based on our knowledge, experience, skills, and previous achievements. A confident person recognises both their strengths and limitations. They may believe they have a valuable idea, but they remain open to feedback and alternative viewpoints. Confidence says, "I might have something worthwhile to contribute." Grandiosity, by contrast, involves an inflated sense of importance, power, knowledge, influence, or destiny. It often involves certainty rather than possibility. Grandiosity says, "I know," "I have been chosen," or "I alone possess the answer." As grandiosity increases, the ability to critically evaluate one's beliefs often decreases. I documented my manic episode in 2023 in The Dialectics of Mania, where I crossed this boundary many times. Looking back, I can now see that many of my beliefs had moved far beyond confidence and into grandiosity. One of the clearest examples was my belief that I was somehow living out the Seven Days of Creation. Before my episode, I had a longstanding interest in spirituality, religion, and cosmology. I had spent years exploring these topics through my writing. A confident interpretation of these interests might have been that I found personal meaning in the creation story or that I saw parallels between my life and spiritual narratives. During mania, however, I became convinced that I was literally participating in the unfolding of the Seven Days of Creation. Rather than studying the story, I had become one of its central characters. This was no longer confidence in my ideas; it was a grandiose belief that placed me at the centre of a cosmic event. At another point, I believed that holding my final breath would somehow save humanity. This belief illustrates another hallmark of grandiosity: an inflated sense of personal responsibility and power. A confident person may hope to make a positive contribution to the world. Grandiosity goes much further, convincing the individual that the fate of humanity depends upon them personally. Looking back, the idea that my actions could determine the future of the entire human race demonstrates how disconnected my thinking had become from reality. My Facebook experiences during the episode provide another example. After posting on social media, I became convinced that the post had somehow been broadcast to the entire world and that one billion people had liked it almost instantly. The reality was very different. The post received no likes at all. In that moment, however, I genuinely believed I possessed a level of influence and recognition that far exceeded reality. This illustrates how grandiosity can distort perceptions of one's importance and impact on others. Perhaps one of the most striking examples occurred when I walked through the streets without a shirt, approaching strangers and asking them, "Do you know all the answers to every problem in the world?" The reason I was asking this question was that I believed that I did. Before my episode, I had spent years studying public health, spirituality, mental health, disability, philosophy, and social systems. Confidence might have allowed me to believe I had developed useful insights into some of the world's challenges. During mania, however, those insights transformed into certainty. I became convinced that I possessed all the answers to every problem facing humanity. This belief was not merely confidence in my knowledge; it was an unrealistic conviction that I had achieved a level of understanding beyond that of any ordinary person. Throughout my episode, I also believed I had a special mission, special powers, and a unique role to play in humanity's future. While confidence allows people to pursue meaningful goals and contribute to causes larger than themselves, grandiosity convinces them that they have been uniquely chosen for a destiny of extraordinary significance. In my case, I no longer saw myself as someone interested in spiritual and social change. I saw myself as someone central to it. What makes grandiosity particularly difficult to recognise is that it often grows out of genuine strengths, interests, and aspirations. My fascination with spirituality was real. My desire to help humanity was real. My years of study and writing were real. Mania did not create these interests from nothing. Instead, it amplified them beyond reality. Curiosity became certainty. Purpose became destiny. Insight became omniscience. Influence became global significance. The distinction between confidence and grandiosity ultimately lies in our relationship with reality. Confidence remains open to evidence, feedback, and uncertainty. Grandiosity replaces uncertainty with absolute conviction. Looking back at my manic episode, I can now see that many of the beliefs that felt unquestionably true at the time were examples of grandiosity. They provide a powerful illustration of how mania can transform healthy self-belief into a distorted perception of one's importance, power, knowledge, and role in the world.

People often ask about the most helpful things that were said to me during my manic episode and psychiatric hospitalisation. While there were many meaningful conversations with fellow consumers, one comment stands out for a very different reason. It was probably the least helpful thing anyone said to me during my crisis. I had approached a nurse whom I refer to in The Dialectics of Mania as "Intimidation." I don't remember exactly what I was asking for. It may have been something to make my stay a little more comfortable or to address a concern I had at the time. What I do remember is her response. "Look where you are." I was stunned. The comment may have only been a few words long, but it carried a message that I found deeply troubling. To me, it implied that because I was in a public psychiatric hospital, I should lower my expectations. It suggested that my concerns did not matter because of where I was. It felt as though my rights and dignity had somehow become secondary to my status as a patient. The comment stayed with me. At the time, I felt that many of my freedoms had already been taken away. I could not leave the ward. I had limited access to the outside world. Decisions were often made on my behalf. I was living within a highly restrictive environment. What troubled me most was the idea that being in the hospital somehow meant I should expect less respect, less choice, or fewer rights. My view then, and now, is that a person's rights should not depend on where they are. Whether someone is in a psychiatric hospital, a prison, a nursing home, a mansion, or their own home, they remain a human being deserving of dignity and respect. The setting may change. The person does not. The comment frustrated me so much that it became something of a running joke in my own mind. Every time I encountered Intimidation afterwards, I found myself responding to questions with the phrase, "Look where we are." Unfortunately, my attempts at humour were not always appreciated. At one point, I was told that I was intimidating her. The irony was not lost on me. Looking back, I do not believe the comment was intended to be harmful. Nursing staff work in difficult environments under enormous pressure. They deal with complex situations every day and are often stretched beyond their limits. However, the impact of words matters. For someone experiencing a mental health crisis, a simple response can either reinforce a sense of dignity or deepen a sense of powerlessness. In that moment, "Look where you are" felt less like an explanation and more like a reminder that I had little control over my circumstances. What my hospitalisation taught me is that people do not stop being citizens when they become patients. They do not stop deserving respect because they are unwell. Recovery-oriented care is not simply about medication and treatment plans. It is also about recognising the humanity of the person sitting in front of you. Many years later, I cannot remember most of the conversations I had with staff during my admission. Yet I still remember those four words. "Look where you are." Perhaps that is a reminder of the power language can have in mental health care. A brief comment can leave a lasting impression, for better or worse. As services continue to evolve, one of the most important lessons may be that every interaction is an opportunity either to empower someone or to make them feel smaller. For me, those four words did the latter.

People often ask me what the most helpful thing someone said to me during my manic episode and psychiatric hospitalisation in 2023 was. To be honest, I don't really remember. That may seem like a strange answer. Many people expect there to be a defining moment, a profound piece of wisdom from a psychiatrist, a nurse, a family member, or a friend that suddenly changed everything. But that wasn't my experience. I was experiencing mania and psychosis. Much of what happened during that period is a blur. While I documented many of my experiences at the time, I don't recall a particular sentence that stood out above all others. What I do remember are the conversations. Some of the most memorable discussions I had were with fellow consumers on the ward. We were all going through our own mental health crises, yet we spent hours talking, debating ideas, sharing stories, and trying to make sense of the world around us. One evening, a consumer showed us pages of chemical equations he had been working on. He enthusiastically explained a range of inventions and theories, including an anaesthetic he believed could withstand police beatings. Looking back, some of the ideas may have been unusual, but what stayed with me was the passion with which he discussed them. For a moment, we were not patients. We were simply people exchanging ideas. The person who had the greatest impact on me, however, was someone I refer to in The Dialectics of Mania as "Generosity." Generosity became my favourite person on the ward. He had studied philosophy and introduced me to the concept of dialectics. Together we explored the idea that opposing viewpoints can both contain elements of truth and that understanding often emerges through examining contradictions rather than choosing sides. Before long, dialectics became our running joke. Every question. Every discussion. Every problem. The answer? Dialectics. The joke followed us throughout the day. Whatever the topic, we somehow found a way to bring the conversation back to dialectics. At the time it was entertaining. Looking back, it was also surprisingly meaningful. The concept stayed with me long after I left hospital. In fact, it became the foundation for understanding my manic episode and ultimately inspired the title of my book, The Dialectics of Mania. What I learned from those conversations was that recovery is not always found in profound statements or clinical interventions. Sometimes it emerges through connection. Through shared experiences. Through discussing ideas with people who understand what it is like to find themselves in a psychiatric ward. When I reflect on my hospitalisation, I don't remember a single sentence that changed my life. I remember the people. I remember the conversations. I remember the laughter. I remember the debates. And I remember discovering an idea that would later become the lens through which I understood one of the most significant experiences of my life. Perhaps the most helpful thing someone said to me during my crisis wasn't one thing at all. Perhaps it was the gift of conversation itself.

One of the things I expected to experience during psychiatric hospitalisation was loneliness. In many ways, the hospital environment is designed in a way that can feel isolating. Contact with family and friends is limited. Visitors arrive only during designated periods. Access to the outside world is restricted. You cannot simply go to the shops, take a walk through the neighbourhood, sit in a park, or spend time under a tree. Much of the freedom that people take for granted disappears the moment the ward doors close behind you. Yet despite these restrictions, loneliness was not the dominant experience of my hospitalisation. In fact, I found the ward surprisingly social. The consumers became my greatest source of companionship. We spent our days together, sharing meals, watching television, playing games, and talking about life. There was a constant flow of conversation. While everyone was dealing with their own challenges, most people got along remarkably well. In many ways, the consumers formed a temporary community brought together by a shared experience of vulnerability and recovery. I found myself fascinated by the people around me. With little to distract us from one another, I spent a great deal of time observing personalities, behaviours, and relationships. As both a writer and someone naturally curious about human nature, I found the ward to be an unexpected study of humanity. I would often share my observations and insights with others. The ward became a place where stories were exchanged and where people revealed parts of themselves that might never emerge in ordinary social situations. Behind every diagnosis was a person with a unique history, personality, sense of humour, and way of understanding the world. This fascination eventually became part of The Dialectics of Mania. Throughout the book, I conduct something of a roll call of the ward's inhabitants. To protect identities, I assigned people names based on the characteristics and qualities that stood out to me. These names became a way of capturing the unique personalities that populated my hospital experience. There was still loneliness, of course. I missed my family and friends. I missed my freedom. I missed being able to step outside and reconnect with the wider world. There were moments when the walls seemed to close in, and the separation from everyday life felt profound. Yet alongside that loneliness was an unexpected sense of connection. The paradox of psychiatric hospitalisation is that while it can disconnect you from the outside world, it can also immerse you in a community of people who understand distress, vulnerability, and recovery in ways that few others can. Some of the most meaningful conversations I had during my admission were not with professionals but with fellow consumers. For all its shortcomings, the ward reminded me that human beings have an extraordinary capacity to find connection, even in the most restrictive environments. The friendships may be temporary, the conversations brief, and the circumstances far from ideal, but for a time we were all travelling through the same uncertain landscape together.

One of the questions I have often been asked since my manic episode in 2023 is what psychiatric hospitalisation taught me. The answer is complicated. Prior to my admission, I had spent years working in the mental health sector. I had worked in peer roles, participated in advisory groups, advocated for people with lived experience, and witnessed the significant effort that consumers, carers, clinicians, and policymakers had invested in improving mental health services in New South Wales. I entered the hospital expecting that conditions would have improved significantly since my previous admission nearly twenty years earlier. What I discovered was both surprising and disappointing. My hospitalisation taught me that despite decades of advocacy and reform, many of the fundamental problems within the public mental health system remain unchanged. One of the most striking observations was the lack of therapeutic intervention. During my admission to the public system, there was virtually no therapy available. There were no structured counselling sessions, no psychology groups, and very limited opportunities to explore what had led to my crisis. The primary intervention was medication, combined with time and rest. This led me to an uncomfortable conclusion: the public mental health system appears to rely largely on medication, containment, and the passage of time as its primary recovery tools. My admission also highlighted the persistence of an "us versus them" culture. While there were staff members who genuinely practised collaborative care and treated consumers with dignity and respect, they were often the exception rather than the rule. Many clinical decisions appeared to be made behind closed doors, with notes written about consumers rather than with them. The language of recovery and partnership was often present, but the practice did not always reflect it. I also became aware of the gap between policy and reality. Throughout my career, I had learned about consumer rights, recovery-oriented practice, collaborative care, and shared decision-making. Yet during my admission, many of these principles seemed absent or inconsistently applied. Procedures were not always followed, rights were not always explained, and opportunities for meaningful participation in care were limited. The physical environment itself also left much to be desired. Some facilities were not functioning properly, while others simply did not exist. There was little meaningful activity available throughout the day. Many consumers spent long periods with little to do other than wait. For people already struggling with distress, boredom and isolation often became additional challenges. Perhaps the greatest lesson I learned was the enormous difference between the public and private mental health systems. After transferring to a private hospital, I experienced a very different model of care. Therapy was available. Group programs were offered. Procedures were more consistently followed. Collaborative care was more visible. Most notably, access to psychiatrists was dramatically improved. While I had seen my psychiatrist only three times in three weeks in the public system, I saw them daily in the private system. The contrast was difficult to ignore. My experience taught me that while both systems rely on medication, the private system is often able to provide the therapeutic and relational supports that are essential for recovery. The public system, constrained by resources and demand, frequently struggles to provide much beyond crisis stabilisation. Yet hospitalisation also taught me something positive. It reminded me of the importance of lived experience advocacy. The reforms that have occurred over the past twenty years did not happen by accident. They happened because consumers, carers, peer workers, and allies continued to speak up. While progress may be slower than many of us would like, the solution is not to abandon advocacy. If anything, my experience reinforced the need for it. My hospitalisation showed me that there is still a significant gap between the mental health system we aspire to create and the one that currently exists. It highlighted the need for greater access to therapy, stronger implementation of collaborative care, meaningful consumer participation, improved facilities, and a continued commitment to human rights and recovery-oriented practice. Most of all, it taught me that recovery requires more than medication and containment. People need connection, purpose, understanding, therapy, and hope. Until these elements become consistently available across the public system, the work of reform remains unfinished.

There are many reasons why people experiencing mania often do not realise that they are unwell. During my major manic episode in 2023, I spent more than $3,000, lost two significant friendships, fought with my brother, damaged my relationship with my parents, and lost a romantic relationship. All of this happened during an episode that lasted only a few weeks. The consequences have had a lasting impact on my life, yet at the time, I was completely oblivious to what was happening. I was making decisions that affected my relationships, finances, and future, but I felt on top of the world. One reason people experiencing mania often do not recognise that they are unwell is that the experience feels good. I felt energetic, confident, creative, productive, social, and optimistic—more alive than I had ever felt before. There was a sense of excitement, urgency, creativity, and possibility. Those feelings do not signal that "something is wrong." In fact, they can feel like the exact opposite. My judgment also became impaired. Mania does not just affect mood; it affects insight and judgement. I recognised that I was behaving differently, but I interpreted those changes positively. I felt that I had finally reached my potential. I believed that everything I was doing was important and meaningful. Even poems and pieces of writing that seemed brilliant at the time now make me wonder what I was thinking. I also believed that other people simply did not understand me. The reason I jumped out of my mother's moving car was that she kept telling me that I was unwell and seeing reality differently. I was trying to convince her that I was seeing the same reality as everyone else. I could not understand her perspective because, from where I stood, my version of reality felt completely normal. I also felt that everyone else was moving too slowly. There was an overwhelming urgency behind everything I did. I did not have months or years to complete my goals—I felt I needed to act immediately. No one else seemed to understand that urgency. As the episode intensified, my ability to critically evaluate my own thinking decreased. Another reason people experiencing mania often do not realise they are unwell is that the beliefs feel real. During psychosis, delusions are not experienced as possibilities or theories. They are experienced as reality. When I believed I was living out the Seven Days of Creation, it was not simply an idea I was considering. It was the framework through which I interpreted everything that was happening around me. Because the belief felt real, there was little reason to question it. Another factor is that everything appears connected. Coincidences become significant. Random events appear purposeful. Ideas seem to fit together perfectly. The world can feel intensely meaningful, creating a powerful sense that you are seeing reality more clearly than ever before, rather than becoming detached from it. Insight is also not always all-or-nothing. I recognised that I was not sleeping properly. I knew my thoughts were racing and that people around me were worried. What I could not recognise was the severity of the situation, the consequences of my actions, or the extent to which my beliefs were becoming detached from reality. I moved back and forth between moments of insight and moments of complete conviction. It was only after the episode ended and I fell into a prolonged period of depression that I began to understand how unwell I had been. When mood stabilises, it becomes possible to look back and see the risky behaviour, impulsive decisions, damaged relationships, delusional thinking, and loss of control. What seemed logical during mania can suddenly appear bizarre, frightening, or deeply embarrassing. This is one of the reasons bipolar disorder and schizoaffective disorder can be so challenging to manage. The very state that requires treatment often reduces a person's ability to recognise that treatment is needed. For me, one of the hardest parts of recovery has been accepting that while mania can feel exciting, creative, and empowering, it can also be incredibly destructive. Learning to recognise that contradiction has become an important part of learning to live with bipolar disorder.

My major manic and psychotic episode in 2023 was a whirlwind. On the one hand, it was exciting. I believed I held the answers to the world's problems. At one point, I thought I was broadcasting my ideas to the entire world. My mind was overflowing with ideas, and I was having experiences and visions that felt extraordinary. Thoughts seemed to roll effortlessly off my tongue, and everything appeared to make perfect sense. At the same time, I was spending extraordinary amounts of money. I smashed my phone in anger. I jumped out of my mother's moving car. I believed I was writing an email that Elon Musk would use to transform the way humanity managed its resources. Looking back, many of my ideas were naïve, and some of my actions were extremely dangerous. The remarkable thing is that none of this seemed unusual to me at the time. I had strange conversations with close friends, including discussions that crossed normal social boundaries. Police followed me down the street because they were concerned for my safety. I walked through town without a shirt or shoes, telling people I had solutions to the world's problems. Yet I never stopped to think that something might be wrong. Everything felt normal. The behaviour continued when I arrived at the hospital. I sang to security guards, offered bizarre advice on how to predict people's behaviour, and behaved in ways that were clearly inappropriate. I was completely out of control, yet I still believed everything made sense. The turning point came in the High Dependency Unit. By that stage, I was fighting for what I believed were my rights, but something wasn't adding up. I had been living within a delusion that I was experiencing the Seven Days of Creation. As events unfolded in the hospital, the story I had built in my mind stopped making sense. The reality around me no longer fit the narrative I was trying to maintain. For the first time, I began to question what was happening. As I spent time in the High Dependency Unit and later in the general psychiatric ward, I began reflecting on my life. Memories and past traumas surfaced. Rather than trying to justify the delusion, I started trying to understand myself. I reflected on my experiences at work, my relationships, my childhood, and the many events that had shaped my life. I gathered scraps of paper and began writing. At first, I documented what was happening around me in the hospital. Gradually, that writing evolved into something much larger. It became an attempt to make sense of my experiences, my trauma, my recovery, and ultimately my life. That process continued at the Hills Clinic. There I began writing what would become The Dialectics of Mania and my memoir, A Turtle's Journey. By the time I left, much of both books had already been written. Looking back, the moment I realised something was wrong was not a single dramatic revelation. It was a gradual awakening. The story I had constructed could no longer explain what was happening around me, and reality slowly began to reassert itself. What followed was a different journey—not one of delusion, but one of understanding.

Living with schizoaffective disorder and bipolar disorder is a balancing act. Since my major manic episode in 2023, I have experienced many ups and downs as I have tried to adjust to the massive mood imbalances that followed. If I am honest, the highs are far more enjoyable than the lows. When I am elevated, I feel excited, productive, creative, and full of energy. I feel as though I am operating at my best. Ideas flow easily, projects move forward, and life seems full of possibilities. But there is a catch. The same state that brings excitement and productivity can also bring impatience, overwhelm, grandiosity, and poor judgment. During my manic episode, I believed I understood how the world worked. I felt invincible. Looking back, I can see that I was completely out of control. I was not the person I wanted to be, particularly during my time in the emergency department and high dependency unit. That experience taught me an important lesson: the highs and lows are connected. For a long time, I wanted the excitement of mania without the consequences. What I have learned is that managing bipolar disorder means managing both. If I let myself get too high, there is a good chance a crash will follow. Since my episode, I have taken Lithium to help stabilise my mood. At one point, I stopped taking it, only to find myself becoming elevated again. It was a reminder that recovery is not simply about surviving an episode. It is about maintaining balance over the long term. Mania is a contradiction. It can feel exhilarating and terrifying, productive and destructive, inspiring and chaotic all at once. It is this contradiction that inspired the title of my book, The Dialectics of Mania. Living with bipolar disorder is not about eliminating all emotion or excitement. For me, it is about finding a sustainable middle ground—a place where I can remain creative and productive without losing myself to the extremes. If you would like to learn more about my experience of mania, psychosis, hospitalisation, and recovery, The Dialectics of Mania is available now through Amazon and other major booksellers.

I often wonder how many great insights throughout history have emerged on the verge of madness. Mania can be confusing, overwhelming, frightening, and deeply disruptive. Yet it can also be exciting, exhilarating, and open up thresholds of thought that seem inaccessible during ordinary states of consciousness. During my own experiences of mania, ideas flowed rapidly, and connections appeared between concepts that I had never considered before. Not all of those ideas were grounded in reality. Some were clearly products of delusion. Yet others sparked questions, insights, and creative projects that continue to influence my life today. This raises an interesting question: how many discoveries, works of art, philosophies, and innovations throughout history have emerged from minds operating at the edge of reality? Perhaps the challenge is not to glorify madness, nor to dismiss it entirely, but to understand the complex relationship between insight and illusion.