Author: Conrad Garrison
There was no doubt in my mind that I had discovered the key to the universe: we are all connected, there is a oneness, and that is all that matters. It was the enlightenment spiritual leaders speak of—a higher state of being, the lifting of the veil. I was struck by lightning. I was chosen. I had glimpsed the other side, the side most people can’t see. I had seen the matrix.
What I didn’t know at the time was that I was experiencing my first bipolar manic episode.
At 36 years old, I had no idea I was bipolar. I was an entrepreneur, a college graduate, a husband, and a father. I had never seen a psychiatrist. I didn’t even have a primary care doctor because I didn’t think I needed one. The only time I sought medical attention was for injuries caused by pushing myself too hard—a hernia from overexertion, a torn disc in my spine from weightlifting, a torn ACL from football. Even then, I brushed it off as part of life and moved forward.
I was raised to be tough. It was a requirement, drilled into me my entire life. I grew up working for my parents in the family lawn care business. It was all I knew, and I took pride in helping build it. That job gave me something unexpected: the inspiration for my true passion—talk radio, and later, podcasting. Sitting on a mower gave me endless time to think and listen, and one day I realized, I can do this.
In 2010, I started my first podcast. It was a way to express a side of myself most people didn’t see—a place where I could control the conversation, vent my frustrations, and share my unique perspective on life. It was a comedy show, but looking back, it was also therapy.
By 2012, my parents’ 30-year marriage ended in divorce, throwing the family business into chaos. I stayed involved, but by 2015, I had to step away and start my own lawn care company to escape the conflict. My podcast remained a passion, but it didn’t pay the bills.
In 2019, I took a leap. I bought a vintage Airstream trailer and, with my cousin and podcasting partner, converted it into a food truck. The plan was simple: sell tacos, promote our podcast, and connect with people. I kept running my lawn care business in Kansas while driving to Oklahoma for the food truck. It was chaotic but exciting.
Eventually, we found an old Texaco station on Route 66 that we could renovate into a permanent taco shop and podcast studio. We turned the garage into a taco kitchen, the Airstream into an arcade, and opened on Groundhog Day 2023. It was a dream come true. But then, my brain caught fire.
I couldn’t sleep. Ideas raced through my mind nonstop. I wasn’t just solving problems—I was predicting ones that didn’t exist and crafting solutions for them too. My exercise routine became an obsession. I pushed myself harder and harder, running stairs, jogging on railroad tracks, even running through thunderstorms. I talked to God, demanding signs that I was chosen. The universe was sending me messages, and I saw patterns everywhere—on store shelves, in road signs, in the way items were laid out in Dollar General. Every moment felt like a divine revelation.
I was convinced my every action was being watched, recorded, and broadcasted by the cosmos. When I exercised, I believed I was breaking every track and field record in existence and that the universe was filming it as a testament to my power. I ran stadium stairs until my legs gave out, dressed as Spider-Man, and danced on the high school mascot—a devil—with a jump rope. To me, it was a cosmic act of defiance against evil. Everything was part of a greater mission.
Money became meaningless. I hated the stress it caused and the power it held over people. I saw myself as a conduit, someone meant to let it flow through me to help others. I parked my mowers around the taco shop as a shield against evil spirits. I walked the property barefoot, through broken glass and leftover construction debris, praying and reciting my cosmic purpose. I was convinced I was a celestial being who had died and returned as a Native American warrior sent to protect the vulnerable. The stars had shown me my path.
My behavior alienated everyone around me. My cousin, my closest friend and business partner, didn’t understand what I was going through. I pushed him away, convinced he couldn’t grasp the depth of my mission or the trauma I believed I was fighting for. I carried the weight of my childhood pain and projected it onto everything around me.
The breaking point came after an exhausting day of self-imposed challenges. Dressed as Spider-Man with Boy Scout bandanas wrapped around my fists, I climbed the stadium stairs at the local high school. I jumped off the side of the stadium, landing 15 feet below. Disoriented but unbroken, I wandered off, picking up trash with a jump rope around my neck. When a police officer approached me, I collapsed. I thought he shot me, but I was still alive.
My wife arrived, heartbroken and furious. She got me in the car. I didn’t know it yet, but this was the beginning of a journey that would change everything. It would take another year before I was officially diagnosed with bipolar disorder.
It is now 2025. I have been diagnosed, and more importantly, I have accepted the diagnosis—something that was incredibly difficult for me to do. The depression that followed my manic episode was just as challenging as the mania itself. I endured mixed episodes, suicidal ideation, and eventually needed hospitalization to work through the intensity of the depression. But I pushed through the darkness, and now, I am focused on building a future shaped by everything I have been through.
I am still recovering from the trauma of both my mania and depression. But with the support of my wife and family, who stood by me through it all, I have found stability through the right medication and therapy that has helped me process my experiences. One of the most helpful parts of my recovery has been the books, podcasts, and YouTube videos from others who have lived through similar experiences. Knowing that I am not alone—that others have suffered manic breaks like I did—has given me a foundation of knowledge and helped me work through the stigma I have felt since this experience.
Now, I want to do for others what those stories did for me. By sharing my journey, I hope to offer the same support, understanding, and hope that helped me find my way forward.
Conrad is a writer, podcaster, husband, and father who shares his journey with bipolar 1 disorder through his blog and podcast, Touching Tornadoes. After experiencing a severe manic episode and psychotic break, he is focused on rebuilding his life with honesty, humor, and resilience. Through storytelling, he hopes to break stigma, foster connection, and show that life doesn’t end with a diagnosis.
The content of the International Bipolar Foundation blogs is for informational purposes only. The content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician and never disregard professional medical advice because of something you have read in any IBPF content.
