What's happening to Kanye is heartbreaking. It's impossible to know if he is going through a manic episode, but in light of some reactions, I'd like to share my own experience.

The goal here is to get people to empathize with how dangerous and difficult this is.

Thread.

It was summer break during college, and I was staying at a house my friend had rented near our school in Arizona.

I hadn't come home because I had been behaving so erratically that my parents were concerned about my being with them.

This was before I was diagnosed as bipolar.

I was pretty much alone, except for my roommate, as well as my girlfriend at the time. I had very little supervision, in other words.

For most of the summer, I was simply depressed. Mostly stayed at the house smoking, watching TV, playing video games. Not much else.

One day, I had this random thought: what if I was a descendent of Jesus? It made sense to me at the time: I was Jewish, Middle Eastern, spiritual.

I got curious about it. I started thinking about it more. And suddenly, I couldn't stop thinking about it.

I stopped hanging out with my girlfriend as much, started watching even more TV and self-isolating. My roommate had left on a tour as a sound tech person for the Wailers and I was suddenly even more alone.

And soon, I started to wonder: maybe this Jesus thing was legit.

I started taking notes. Just a few at first. Then a lot. I started to work things out, figure them out. I was excited. Like I was cracking some case wide open.

Then it struck me: I *was* Jesus. I don't remember why I thought that, but I remember I was sure of it.

I started smoking nonstop. I stopped eating. Stopped drinking. In the middle of the summer in Arizona. (I didn't notice any of this until it was over). I'd only eat if someone happened to be eating with me.

Instead I'd focus on my notes. What would I do with this newfound power?

Soon, I became obsessed with numbers. I realized that if I was Jesus, then I had divine powers to figure out reality. So I could figure out when the next terrorist attack would be. I could prevent the next big terrorist attack!

Soon, my pages were filled with calculations.

Throughout all this, I would vaguely become aware something was wrong. I'd wake up in the middle of the night (and soon, I wasn't sleeping at all), and wonder what was going on. One night, after trying to send a message to Bin Laden with my mind, I thought: "I have brain cancer!"

It got worse.

One day, I went shopping with my girlfriend. (Because I was relatively quiet, she just thought I was being thoughtful).

We were at a mall. I felt like God was guiding me. I let Him choose my destination.

It ended up being a knife store.

I had just studied Rasta religion the winter before, the one class I hadn't dropped all year. And so when I saw a knife with Jamaican colors, I *knew* it was for me.

I bought it.

I became obsessed. I held it for what felt like hours but might have been minutes or longer than it felt. Time made no sense.

I would try to put magical powers into it. I was sure that as Jesus, I could make it supernatural, if I kept focusing my energy on it.

One day, I was in the car with my girlfriend after we had gone out. I wanted her to understand that I really cared about her (or something). So I took out the knife, and said, "I want to show you how much I care."

I put it near the skin of my arm. I was going to slice it open.

I don't remember her exact reaction, but I remember realizing that she seemed more concerned than she should have been. I was fine! I was invincible! I was just going to show her how much I cared!

But somehow, calmly, she convinced me I didn't need to show her. She believed.

She probably saved my life.

That was when she understood something was wrong. She convinced me to come stay at a friend's home for a bit, another friend from college who had just happened to come back for the summer. There, they kept me until I got help.

But that's not the whole story.

One of those days, either at her home or before or after when I came back to my place to visit, I took a shower.

At that time, when I took showers I'd be stuck in there for hours because I'd get lost in my own thoughts and in my obsession with the water.

I finally left the shower, and I laid down in bed.

Then I stared at the ceiling.

Then the ceiling started swirling (this was normal, I was used to it).

Then it disappeared.

Then I felt myself leave my body.

Then I saw a light.

Then I felt a kick.

Then I was back in bed.

I describe this as a near death experience (I personally feel it was, but it's worth debating). I hadn't been eating or drinking. I hadn't been sleeping. I was dying, whether I had actually died or not.

By the end of this story, I will have lost 45 pounds.

First my friends took me to a therapist.

At first, I was happy to see him. It was the first time I heard the words "bipolar" and "manic episode." He promised me I'd get help.

But then, my mom called to check in on me. She was worried, and said she wanted to call the police.

I threw my phone out the window, convinced it was bugged. The FBI was after me. I'd be tracked and arrested. They knew too much.

I became utterly paranoid. I didn't trust anyone, including the therapist, and I refused to meet with him again.

I was taken to the emergency room, where I couldn't stop talking about how I was going to be taken to Guantanamo Bay. People were laughing nearby, and I couldn't understand why, especially since my girlfriend was frowning at them.

Then they took me to a mental hospital.

But they couldn't take me. I couldn't give them my parents' insurance that I was on because I hadn't been in touch with them. They told me to take Tylenol. It was a horrible place. If they had taken me, I might not be here today.

I don't know how, but finally my parents got in touch with my friends, and they brought me back to the therapist.

He told me I was a danger to myself and others. He could force me to go to a hospital now. But I'd do much better if I went willingly.

My friends convinced me.

Finally, I ended up in a hospital that took care of me. It was incredible, and I was quickly diagnosed and given medication that saved my life. Depakote. I would have died without it.

I spent 10 days there. In those 10 days, I mostly recovered. That's what help does.

I'm sharing this all with you because it's likely someone is going through a public manic episode right now.

I cannot imagine what that must be like, but the response to such behavior is not anger, politics, or shaming.

It is empathy.

You likely have no idea what this is like, both for him and those around him. I traumatized the people around me, I have no doubt. I can't imagine what it was like for them.

In other words, these stories have no winners. Only humans that need help.

Right now is an opportunity: this can either just be another story about another celebrity, and another reason to debate shit.

Or it can be a moment where we look at someone, understand something is wrong, and hope for them to get better.

Send support. Learn. Listen.

I could have died multiple times in my story. I was incredibly lucky. I could have been sent to the wrong hospital. I was both lucky and privileged to have good health insurance and good care. I could have hurt others. They were lucky, as was I.

So many stories are like this.

Please take a moment to see what bipolar does, what manic episodes do, and to think about how you respond in such moments.

I'm not saying that's what's happening, but *something* is clearly happening.

And like COVID and any other physical disease, mental illness is not a choice. Getting care is a choice, but not the disease.

Wearing a mask is a choice, but once you have the disease, there is no arguing with it.

Please use that logic for this.

Sending love.

/Thread