A dear friend asked me yesterday, “So what does bipolar mania look like as an introvert?” I’m so glad she cared enough and was brave enough to ask. This is my answer:
My mom called me a moody little girl from the time I could talk and walk. She even tried bribing me with toys if I could keep my giant emotions under wraps for a week. Growing up, my family seemed to think something was wrong with me … too sensitive, too emotional, too fiery, too much. But in reality, now I know I wasn’t bad; my brain simply worked differently.
Which I didn’t fully understand until I was 50.
At its root, bipolar disorder is just chemistry — neurotransmitters, dopamine, serotonin, norepinephrine all firing extra high and extra low. A brain that does not regulate mood and emotion in a steady (or even swervy) line. Instead, life swings between internal extremes: depression on one side, mania on the other.
Not every manic person is racing down the street, talking too fast, moving too quickly, laughing too loud. When you’re an introvert, mania can be very, very quiet. On the outside, it can look like you’re simply happy. Emotional. Awake. Productive. Maybe more than usual, but not that much more.
Inside, mania feels like an auctioneer speaking a hundred miles an hour in my mind … and somehow I hear and understand every word.
It feels like every emotion is dialed up to a thousand. Small joys feel like euphoria. Small stressors feel like earthquakes.
It feels like I’m covered with emotional ‘exposed nerves.’ A single thought about politics, human suffering, or animal cruelty can ignite a massive tidal wave of feelings, so big that my abdomen twitches and sometimes my body seizures (this has a medical term: PNES). It is literally carrying too much emotion in a vessel too small to contain it.
Before medication, this invisible storm that had no name spilled out into quiet compulsions.
Sending texts I couldn’t stop myself from typing.
Eating a whole pint of ice cream. And then another the next day.
Making reckless impulsive decisions with no explanation except that my brain demanded it.
Not sleeping and then quietly diving straight into work or creating, and quietly working or creating for hours and hours and hours on end.
Unmedicated, mania twisted into agitation at people I loved, a hair-trigger frustration at myself, and at its worst, sudden intrusive thoughts of self-harm or self-sabotage.
And yet, there is nothing shameful in this. My extra-sensitivity is not a flaw. My neurodivergent brain is not defective. This is chemistry. This is biology. This is the way I was made.
I am so grateful that with the right medications (for me, that’s lithium and Seroquel), lots of yoga and meditation, journaling regularly, avoiding the news, and most important of all, deep self-awareness and self-compassion, I’ve learned not to drown in the bipolar storm but to subdue it to more of a gentle wave… and then embrace it.
I don’t see bipolar as a weakness or flaw, not at all, especially now that I know how to ride its smaller waves. I love this about me. It’s what causes me to feel deeply and passionately. To work and create feverishly. To do everything I decide to do with a full heart, most importantly being an unconditionally loving mother. I love that I am fully alive in this bipolarity.
Thank you to the friend who cared enough to wonder, and ask. :)
To see my initial live reaction after being diagnosed with bipolar disorder:
I’m Anitra Lahiri, a Registered Yoga Teacher (ERYT-500), sharing yoga, meditation, and mindful practices with my students and clients every day. This Yoga Alliance profile lists my verified certifications and training.
Book a Free Coaching or Yoga Session with me HERE!
Anitra Lahiri 