This passage is taken from one of the “sane” chapters in Invisible Driving, http://www.invisibledriving.com. Mania provides Herculean strength and energy, and this is quite easy for outsiders to observe. What’s a little harder for them to get is the feeling of license. In mania there is a profound sense of entitlement, with the illusion of grandeur comes an assumed right to do as one pleases. Repercussions are never an issue because on is living to gratify the appetite of the moment. This is Caligula-ville; this is monster-town. The chapter is entitled, That Tiny Voice.        
 
          That tiny voice. Everybody has one. That cricket on your shoulder that says, “No. Don’t cheat on your income tax return. Don’t lie about your weight. Don’t vent your bad mood on your kids.” Conscience, morality, ethics. Sometimes it’s as simple as fear, guilt, and shame. Whatever you call it, it’s the thread that holds the fabric of society together. Creates order. It gets in the way a lot, but without it, we’re all sunk.
          In my case, that little voice had a bullhorn. I grew up into the young man who wouldn’t take yes for an answer. Well schooled and well educated, I could logically demonstrate the faults of anything and the futility of any act. If I’d ever gone to the trouble of having a motto tattooed on my shoulder it would have read, “Why bother?” I guess I believed that my dad had taken his share of success and my share too. So I opted out of the game altogether. You can’t fail if you’re not trying. Every time I did work up the nerve to step up to the plate and chance it, the tiny voice got loud. “Hey, you, where do you think you’re going? Get your butt back on the bench where it belongs. You ain’t big league material.”
          That little voice vanished when I was Manic. I existed in a moral vacuum. If I felt like doing something, I did it. If I wanted something, I grabbed it. I was immersed in the moment, with no thought at all about the consequences of my actions. Normally I’d consider all the possible effects of an act before making the first move. When I was Manic, I just didn’t care. My actions might have been reckless, cruel, self-indulgent, and ripe with bitter aftermath. Made no difference to me. All I felt was the passionate intensity of the moment. I was completely free from inhibitions, free from fear, free from constraints. A monster had been loosed upon the landscape.
          Friends have asked, “When you were nuts, did you ever realize it?” There were times, when that tiny voice, this time without the aid of his bullhorn, tried to gain my attention. From the furthest recesses of my brain he would cup his hands and holler things like, “Yo, Al, baby, sweetheart, what in the name of Quick Draw McGraw is going on around here? This is not you. You never behave like this. Look at yourself and do something about it. Get help.” But my brain wasn’t moving a mile a minute, it was moving a mile a second. Every time I had a rational thought like that, my mind sent forty thousand angry thoughts after it to stomp it to death. The tiny voice didn’t stand a chance.
          As long as rational thoughts can be kept away, the illusions of the Mania can be sustained. I thought I was transcendentally brilliant, not mad. I continued to convince myself. But when that tiny voice came from the outside world, things became ugly. My ex-wife, my brother, when anyone tried to point my craziness out to me, the euphoria quickly turned to vehement denial. Anyone who stood in my path was shown the butt-end of my rage. My smoldering anger, normally buried deep and safely out of sight, was always just beneath the surface. No Manic can afford for someone to hold up a mirror. When that happens, the whole house of cards collapses.
          And now a little secret. A tale told out of school. Something I share with everyone else who has my illness. I loved it. It felt great. I mean really great. Why else would so many Manics refuse to get treatment? They get hooked on their highs.
          Can you remember the moment in your life when you felt the very best? Was it the day you got married? The day your first child was born? The day you scored the winning touchdown for your high school football team? Remember how you felt. Now double it. Keep going until the settings are turned up all the way to ten and your nervous system is buzzing like high voltage wires. Every pleasure center you have is glowing, you could burst into flames at any moment.
          Now add a few more elements. You’re incredibly strong, incredibly smart, and your energy is limitless. It gets better. You’re totally without fear. That tiresome little voice, the nagging conscience, is dead. You don’t care who you step on on the way up because you’re not coming down. There’s a separate set of rules for you, you’re a Greek god, lightning explodes from your fingertips.
          Of course it’s all a horrible illusion, a lie of brain chemistry, adrenaline, body chemistry. But it doesn’t feel like a lie. I’m sorry for how I behaved and I’m sorry for all it cost me. And I’m certain, certain, certain that I don’t want to ever feel that way again. But my Lord, what a rare, profound experience. This life is short, and we don’t get to sample all the things we would like. I’ll never know what it feels like to hit a home run out of a major league ballpark. But. I know exactly how it feels to dwell upon Olympus.
          And I know how it feels to be a Greek god rubbing shoulders with mere mortals.