Bipolar Disorder, God, and the Thin Line Between Madness and Divinity

For a long time, I thought my mind was a curse. The highs that sent me soaring into the sky, believing I was unstoppable, chosen, divine. The lows that swallowed me whole, making me question my very existence. It felt like I was trapped between two worlds—one where I was invincible and another where I was completely insignificant.

It wasn’t until I stopped fighting my brain and started listening to it that I realized: Bipolar disorder isn’t just a mental illness. It’s a spiritual experience.

Faith and mental health: the edge of madness and mysticism

Throughout history, prophets, mystics, and visionaries have walked this fine line between what society calls “madness” and what others call enlightenment. The ecstatic revelations, the deep despair, the moments of absolute surrender— these are the same states that people reach through deep meditation, fasting, or divine encounters.

Manic episodes, in many ways, feel like a direct connection to something greater than myself. It’s as if a floodgate opens, and suddenly, I can see the intricate patterns of the universe. Ideas flow at lightning speed. There is no doubt, no hesitation— only certainty. I feel like I’m speaking directly to God, or maybe, I am God in those moments.

And then, the crash.

The fall from grace is excruciating. It feels like God has abandoned me, like I was foolish to ever believe I was special, like I was never worthy of that connection in the first place. But what if both states— the highs and the lows— are equally divine?

Finding God in the darkness of depression

I used to think I could only feel God when I was high. That my connection to something greater only existed in the euphoria, in the speed, in the certainty. But the real test of faith? Finding God in the silence, in the slowness, in the waiting.

When I’m deep in the abyss of depression, I don’t hear the voice of God the way I do when I’m high. But I feel Him. In the stillness. In the weight of my breath. In the way the world keeps moving, even when I feel frozen.

I’ve learned that God doesn’t disappear when my mind slows down. God is just as present in the pause as in the chaos. I just have to be willing to sit with Him there.

Bipolar as my spiritual teacher

Living with bipolar disorder has forced me to surrender in ways I never would have otherwise. It’s taught me that control is an illusion. That no matter how much I try to hold on, life will always ebb and flow.

It has also taught me that my mind is not my enemy. The highs are not something to chase, and the lows are not something to fear. They are both teachers. They both show me different sides of myself— and different aspects of God.

Some days, I feel like I am in direct communication with the divine. Other days, I feel abandoned. But I’ve learned that God doesn’t leave. It’s just that sometimes, He speaks loudly, and other times, He whispers.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what faith really is— learning to listen, no matter how loud or quiet the voice may be.