Bipolar and Pole Dancing

An unvarnished look at bipolar disorder, self-awareness, and the art of not falling off.

I don’t dance around a pole — I hang on to it like it’s a coping strategy

No, I don’t pole dance. But I do spend an absurd amount of time pretending to be normal — a full-time performance art piece I like to call “Functioning (Adult) Human Being.” Some people find calm through breathwork or chamomile tea; I find it through smiling convincingly at the cashier while suppressing the urge to narrate my existential dread in iambic pentameter.

Normality, as it turns out, is exhausting. Every day is a small Broadway production. Wardrobe: appropriate. Facial expression: socially acceptable. Dialogue: upbeat but not suspiciously so. Meanwhile, backstage, my brain’s having a board meeting about whether joy is sustainable or if it’s time to redecorate despair.

Everyone loves a tidy binary: high or low, happy or sad, “you seem fine” or “should I call someone?” But bipolar doesn’t do tidy. It’s not two poles — it’s the chaotic flip-book between them, starring you as both the protagonist and the imploding set designer.

Mania isn’t happiness; it’s speed. It’s TED Talk energy without the topic. You’re luminous, unstoppable, and terrifyingly persuasive — mostly to yourself. Sleep is optional, your credit card is an instrument of destiny, and every idea is “potentially world-changing.” Then suddenly you’re weeping into a cold cup of tea, Googling whether showering counts as personal growth.

Depression, by contrast, is a slow leak. Not cinematic sadness — just a numbing sludge that coats everything. You keep functioning, technically — brushing your teeth, replying “haha” in group chats — but it’s all performance. You’re the stagehand sweeping up confetti after the parade.

Modern life has turned “mental health” into a branding exercise. “Raise awareness!” they chirp, as though awareness were currency. Post a selfie about resilience. Add a hashtag. Burn sage. Be “grateful for the journey.”  Meanwhile, real bipolar doesn’t photograph well. Nobody wants to see the glamorous writer who accidentally let her fridge defrost because she was too busy trying to emotionally regulate. You’re applauded for being “strong”, which really means you didn’t die inconveniently. Strength isn’t heroism; it’s maintaining small talk while your internal monologue screams, “Why are we still doing this?”

I take my meds. Religiously. Because I’m not brave enough to try raw brain chemistry again. They don’t fix me, but they make life sufficiently flat that sarcasm can do the rest. My psychiatrist calls me “high-functioning.” I call myself “cosplaying sanity.” The secret isn’t stability; it’s choreography. Smile at the right time. Nod in meetings. Don’t mention the void. If you can fake consistency long enough, people start calling it resilience.

We joke that we’re one pharmacy shortage away from enlightenment …or institutionalisation. Same thing, really.

Living with bipolar in Israel is like trying to meditate during a fireworks display — inside your own skull. Between missile alerts, coalition crises, and your well-meaning friends’ and family’s apocalyptic WhatsApp threads, equilibrium feels less like a goal and more like a foreign import. Here, everyone’s emotional thermostat swings hourly. I just have a doctor’s note.

I’ve stopped chasing balance. Balance is overrated — it’s the emotional equivalent of beige. I’ll take vivid chaos over muted contentment any day. So I get up, get dressed, take my meds, and pretend I’ve got this — because on most days, pretending is the closest thing to peace. And maybe that’s fine.

Because the truth is, I don’t pole dance. I perform gravity — with occasional flair, frequent profanity, and miraculous continuity.

May we all find something to hold on to — or at least pretend convincingly that we’re not falling.