Manic depression is unique, as unique to me as my fingerprint or my ear-shape only not as predictable. What was there yesterday may not be there tomorrow. The pattern established in the last cycle may not be repeated in the next. It is a phantom of an illness which lulls one into a cruel and false sense of security.

I have been unable so far to write confidently with raw honesty or lack of guile on this subject, from the fear of appearing self-indulgent or all-knowing? I can’t be sure. It may just have been that the words weren’t there.

Depression is a cold, damp, lonely place. It smells: of musty old scarves, turning milk and cat pee (but not necessarily at the same time!). It is deathly quiet and yet ear-shatteringly noisome – like walking past drunk revellers on Christmas Eve night, when you know you will be waking up the next morning alone. It is rarely pathetic: I may wish to crawl under the duvet, indeed I probably should, but I don’t. I am angry, tearful, resentful, bitter, irritable and cross. I will my friends to tire of me and I goad my husband to despair of me. And then, of course, the spectre of suicide hovers on the sidelines, tempting me with the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card. I hate being depressed. It goes against my whole nature – the nature I believe truly belongs to me.

Mania, it seems to me, is the single most misunderstood aspect of Bi-Polar Disorder. It is not the happy flip-side to depression’s sadness. At its worst, mania robs me of reason, reasonableness, perspective, sleep, sense, empathy and sympathy… it is a selfish and aggressive beast. At its best the feeling is addictive: I soar like an eagle with golden gem-encrusted wings, the world is mine to land where I will. The problem is that I have no idea how to slip out of the thermals which take me further and further away from my world; I have no idea how to steer; I accelerate faster than I can begin to cope with and my screams for help are silent.

I never know how, practically, the mania will strike: it may have me knitting egg cosies until 4am; or it may have me jetting from Warsaw to London to buy a pair of shoes and staying in Claridges because I really can’t be bothered to drive to my UK home an hour away. Above all, the fear of the inevitable, impending crash into an ever-deeper depression (for this is the only pattern which can be relied upon) makes me reluctant to bother anyone – friends or professionals – to admit that I am in trouble, take early steps to avoid the plunge or take responsibility for myself. Once again – I am not that person.

Somewhere in the middle is calm and normality. I am not sure whether the longer stretches of ‘wellness’ are given to make up for the increasing devastation of the highs and lows, or if it is the other way around and I am punished for my attempts to blend in. I don’t want to know in case it is the latter – and that would be too cruel a knowledge to live with.

What Bi-Polar Disorder is not is the normal highs and lows of everyday life; nor is it being a genius like Stephen Fry (if only!). It is not being a gifted artist like Van Gogh and it is not an excuse for willful antisocial behaviour. It is a crappy mental illness that I hate with a passion – and yet I would not give up for the world. I would be more afraid to see the me that is left without it than manage the me that is.