I talk about my illness openly at work. That's not always easy, and it's not always safe. But I'm fortunate.
There's someone I work with, I'll call her Ruth. She's a psychologist and a pastor, so she gets it from both sides. And we talk about bipolar type 1 like it's a normal part of life, because for me it is.
Ruth leans a bit cautious with me. She doesn't want to see me sick again. I understand that. But she's got a pretty good balance. She'll notice things. She'll ask. But she doesn't panic, and she doesn't treat me like I'm about to break.
That matters more than most people realise.
When the people around me get alarmed, I feel it. I'm constantly checking whether I'm okay, and one of the ways I check is by watching the people I trust. If they're calm, I can be calm. If they start to panic, it's like the ground starts moving under me.
Ruth stays steady. That's a gift.
She also introduced me to DBT, dialectical behaviour therapy. It's a set of skills for handling big emotions, tolerating distress and getting through hard moments without making them worse.
What changed my thinking was something she taught me along with it. Leaders use these skills too. People without any mental health condition at all. CEOs, pastors, people running teams under pressure. They learn to regulate, to pause, to name what they're feeling before they act on it.
That flipped something for me. I'd always seen the tools I use as a sign that something was wrong with me. Meds, sleep routines, Box of feels, DBT skills. Like a set of crutches.
Ruth helped me see them differently.
I think about it like Formula One. F1 Ferrari drivers need a pit crew that's the best of the best. The harder you push yourself, the more you want to perform, the more you need the best people, the best tools and the best technology around you.
Nobody watches a Ferrari pull into the pits and thinks, that car's broken. They think, that team knows what it's doing.
That's how I want to see my life now. I'm someone who likes to push. I've got big ideas. I build things. I want to perform. And because of that, I need a really good pit crew. A psychiatrist. Good friends. My dad and my brother. People at work like Ruth. My own tools.
None of that makes me weak. It means I'm taking the race seriously.
If you're someone with a mental illness, I'd encourage you to start thinking about your pit crew. Who's on it? Who stays calm when you pull in? Who panics? You might need to do some recruiting.
And if you love someone with bipolar, I've got something to tell you that might be hard to hear. It's about fear, and what it does to the person you're trying to help.
It's in the book.
If you're struggling right now, call Lifeline on 13 11 14. In an emergency call 000.
