O, For a Muse of Fire

Short essay on living with bipolar disorder.

A bipolar hypomanic episode is a visitation by a Muse of Fire, bearing a glass of artistic ambrosia—the sweet, intoxicating nectar of inspiration. It’s a perfect storm of brain chemistry and a creative soul: a tornado that uproots all the other structures in my life and flings them to the far corners of my mind—heedless of the consequences—to enlarge the footprint of an already generous artistic allotment. When the Muse visits, I need to create. Need, like an itch, an urge, an impulse—a gravitational pull to a blank page. It’s glorious and satisfying while it lasts, but the crashes are all too painful.

In those moments, the mercurial Muse departs as swiftly as she came, and the fire is doused in a wave of despair. I become Icarus, wax wings melted by fire, plunging headlong into the wine-dark sea. I become Sisyphus, and my life is my stone. I become Hamlet, taking up arms against a sea of troubles.

But I do not oppose them to end them; rather, I oppose them because I know the war is already won. Each morning, I pick up my sword and my shield to face my lifelong foe: a dragon with three heads whose names are Euphoria, Dysphoria, and Despair. I have scorch marks and battle scars by each day’s end, but scars belong to those who survive. I fight—moment by moment—for I choose to trust in the God who calls me by name, who gave Himself for my ransom, who says the Waters will not overwhelm me nor the Fires consume me, for even the wind and the waves obey Him.