Ten years ago, I had a manic episode. I was 22.

It started with an emergency GP appointment after my behaviour had become increasingly erratic. When the crisis team was called out to my home, I tried to explain that I was an untapped genius, and began a monologue about Freud, Emily Brontë and Jack Kerouac. I recall feelings of frustration and impatience. No one appreciated my astute, intellectual observations.

The nurse turned away from me, towards my mother. “It’s good you’ve caught this now, otherwise…”

I felt patronised and ignored, but I also realised this was serious.

I was admitted to hospital, where I stayed for almost three weeks. I will never forget walking down that disinfectant-scented tiled corridor, convinced I was permanently unwell. They all wanted me in: they would never let me go. This was my life now. 

Thoughts flowed rapidly: I had been sent by Jesus to help people; I had a brain tumour and was about to die.

I was afraid to take the medication prescribed to me, but after some persuasion, I did.

One night at 2am, I collapsed in the corridor. I was lifted up, put into a wheelchair and monitored all night. I had barely slept in over a week and was exhausted.

Eventually, I slept – a lot. I was sedated, and I was often unable to make it down to breakfast, but kind nurses brought me bowls of Weetabix. I stayed in the bath or the shower for what could have been hours or minutes, until there were knocks on the door. I tried to read and failed. I coloured in patterns and stuck them around my small room, only having to remove them again later, leaving the walls plain and beige.

The only books I managed to read were children’s books that my cousin thought to bring me. I needed big fonts and simple, nostalgic narratives. There was little privacy; I was subjected to spontaneous safety checks, often while I was in a state of undress. There was something juvenile about me during that time. I had to relearn how to put shoes on, how to make breakfast, how to eat and how to have a conversation.

Trying to recall this time is like trying to describe a dream I had, with the memory slipping away into hazy obscurity.

My admittance to hospital hadn’t happened in a vacuum. In the year leading up to it, I had graduated with a degree in English literature and moved back home, where I felt listless, disoriented and without a clear path forward. I secured a data entry job at a company that sent bailiffs to people’s homes. I couldn’t focus, and after being demoted – I stapled documents for a week – I was told not to return. 

I felt like nothing. I was stupid. I was worthless. I didn’t deserve fun or pleasure and I was a disappointment to myself and everyone else. Once, I believed I was bright and had potential, but my recent experiences told me otherwise. Life after university felt bleak and meaningless.

I received an offer to study for an MA at my dream university, but funding it would be near impossible. The pride, excitement and subsequent stress attached to this was an intoxicating combination. There were also bereavements in the family. and I spent weeks sitting in my bedroom, unemployed and paralysed, staring at the ceiling or scrolling through Facebook for hours.

One night, my body began shaking uncontrollably and I couldn’t keep my legs still. I knew something was wrong, so I went to my GP, who diagnosed anxiety and depression.

Depression and listlessness began their steady ascent one night when I took the bin out; I wasn’t usually forthcoming with chores, but this time I felt it was imperative. I then scrubbed the bathroom and did anything I could around the house.

That night, I didn’t sleep; instead, I spent the dark hours writing down my life goals. I’d just read Rhonda Burne’s The Secret – about how your thoughts can determine your reality – an intoxicating companion to the new ‘optimistic’ mindset my growing mania gave me.

I went to The Lake District for a few nights with a friend. I had never felt so joyous or on a roll. We went walking and swimming and I wanted to run and skip and dance in the rain. I made friends with strangers, starting spontaneous discussions with people. I couldn’t believe my attitude before, which was all wrong. I was putting positivity into the universe, and I was reaping back my rewards.

Looking at photos from this time, I wince. I feel sad for the young woman who thought she had it all figured out. We’re not educated to spot mania, and it isn’t talked about as widely as other conditions. With depression, by and large, we’re familiar with the signs. Sudden, inexplicable and problematic happiness and energy? Being full of positivity and ideas for my future? Surely that could only be a good thing.

Soon, my thoughts started to feel out of my control and my good mood took a sinister turn. I didn’t sleep much all week. By the third night, I was on the floor of our hotel room, crying in the foetal position. I read a magazine and became convinced I had a photographic memory. I texted obscure messages to my friends.

Once home, I began to lose track of time, struggling to complete basic tasks such as showering or putting shoes on. I lay in bed convinced my mind was lost forever, envisioning snake-like vines creeping into my brain. I felt sad for the woman I had lost, the person I used to be. I spoke of a large spider on my face; I’m still not sure what I meant.

I stopped sleeping entirely, worried that I wouldn’t wake up, or if I did, I’d find I had no thoughts or identity. I needed to remain vigilant. I went into my mother’s bedroom early one morning and held her tightly, something I hadn’t done since childhood.

I am not religious, but that night I was bargaining with God to let me stay alive, convinced I would be dead by the morning.

The following morning was the emergency crisis team meeting, followed by my admittance to hospital.

Under the care of the nurses, slowly but surely, I began to heal. My fast speech gradually slowed to my usual pace; my thoughts stopped racing, and I managed to rest. We had group meditation sessions and watched BBC dramas in the communal living room. I took short walks around the tiny garden.

The episode has shaped who I am. It taught me the extraordinary resilience of the human mind in response to the right help. In many ways, it led me to my husband. He was a friend, and with recovery came clarity about who was important to me. I invited myself to visit him in Brighton and never left. We married last year.

It has taken years for me to accept what happened, and it hasn’t always been easy. For a long while, I was afraid of sudden bursts of positive wellbeing or excitement in case it was happening again. I aimed for flat contentment because flatness was safe. I also kept my experience to myself, except for close friends.

My episode certainly isn’t uncommon, although I may have felt isolated at the time and in the years that followed. According to Bipolar UK, bipolar affects 1.3 million people in the UK (that’s one in 50). That’s excluding anyone without a diagnosis, who’ve had isolated episodes. I do not conclusively have bipolar, but this is a possibility.

I recognise my privileges. I had an NHS bed when I needed it. I had friends and family who cared enough to visit, a place to live when discharged, and I had follow-up counselling appointments and medical care. Who knows whether this would be the case for me now or what would have happened if this had hit during the pandemic.

Now that 10 years have passed I can reflect without spontaneously bursting into tears, and I finally don’t feel ashamed anymore. Neither should anyone who is going through mental illness. 

Frame Of Mind is Stylist’s home for all things mental health and the mind. From expert advice on the small changes you can make to improve your wellbeing to first-person essays and features on topics ranging from autism to antidepressants, we’ll be exploring mental health in all its forms. You can check out the series home page to get started.

If you or someone you know is struggling with their mental health, you can find support and resources on the mental health charity Mind’s website and NHS Every Mind Matters or access the NHS’ list of mental health helplines and services.

If you are struggling with your mental health, you can also ask your GP for a referral to NHS Talking Therapies, or you can self-refer.

For confidential support, you can also call the Samaritans in the UK on 116 123 or email jo@samaritans.org. In a crisis, call 999.

Images: courtesy of Sarah Jane Holland