All or Nothing: Learning to Find Balance

Exploring how bipolar disorder, perfectionism, and addiction challenge my sense of balance—and how I’m learning a healthier way forward.

A very good question—and one I’ve been thinking more about lately.

I know I’m like a laser beam. Once I lock onto an idea or activity, that’s it—I’m off. The more focused I become, the greater the sense of flow. All or nothing is as natural to me as breathing. It sounds great, but there’s a downside: the more I do, the more likely I am to trigger the hypomania linked with type II bipolar disorder.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to a party where the theme was ‘wear something pink’. I thought, if I’m going to do this, I might as well go for it—for a laugh. For me, that phrase ‘go for it’ should probably come with warning lights.

I told myself I’d keep it simple and just dye my hair. But the price at the hairdresser made me think again. She suggested a wig. Online I went: a wig bought, and then up popped other suggestions—pink glasses? Sure. Then a pink bow tie, cufflinks, a belt, and shoelaces. Why not? In no time, I had the full pink get-up with a pink shirt. And off I went, up north to visit my friend, who, to be fair, appreciated the effort.

The truth is, I don’t have a good internal gauge for how much effort is ‘enough’. My instinct is: if I’m going to do something, I might as well do it ‘properly’. But I’m learning that my version of ‘properly’ is often a bit over the top.

That learning has come partly from being more open about my mental health. I’m no longer embarrassed to ask for feedback. Take a recent project report—what I intended to be a short summary quickly became over 80 pages. I showed it to a couple of friends in corporate roles. Their faces said it all. I asked, “Too much?” I guessed maybe 10 pages would do. They said five would be more than enough.

The trick, especially with bipolar disorder and addiction, is to find balance. These days, I try to reduce whatever I think I should do by up to 50%—and that usually lands me somewhere more reasonable.

Last week, I decided to buy a few books by people who had walked the length of the UK and linked their journeys to mental health. I got a bit distracted and also bought books about walking in Japan and New Zealand—six books in total. That, for me, is progress—especially as my brain was telling me, ‘you might as well round it up to ten’.

Slowly but surely, I’m learning. I’m starting to accept the journey isn’t about perfection—it’s about progress.

How do you judge when enough is enough?

Finding Peace of Mind: The Memoir Is Finished

After two years of work, my memoir Finding Peace of Mind is finally complete. This blog shares the process, the hurdles, and the personal lessons learned.

Well, I finally made it.

After starting two years ago, my memoir ‘Finding Peace of Mind – An inspirational journey through bipolar, depression, addiction and dyslexia’ is now complete.

There were a few hurdles to overcome. First of all, I don’t particularly enjoy writing—and there’s still a part of me that believes I’m no good at it, that no one will understand what I’m trying to say. The breakthrough came when I decided to write as I speak. Most people understand me when I’m talking, so that approach helped take a lot of the pressure off.

Then there was the sheer scope of the task—days, weeks, and months of writing, followed by even more editing. I borrowed a saying from the 12 Step fellowships: “One day at a time.” I adapted this to mean “one activity at a time,” made a daily plan, and kept returning to it.

I also made a conscious choice to enjoy the process—using my love of learning to help me stay engaged.

One key priority was to ensure there was no self-pity, blame, or resentment in anything I wrote. To help with this, I asked for professional support. That turned out to be vital. The process included:

- A male editor 
- Followed by a female editor 
- A sensitivity check (carried out by the female editor) 
- A proofreader 
- And finally, a designer for the cover and interior layout

The sensitivity check alone raised 240 points. When I first saw that number, my heart sank. But the feedback was fantastic. Many of the comments asked me to clarify things I’d taken for granted—words, phrases, or situations. Working through these gave me a much deeper clarity of thought.

Towards the end, my inner perfectionist made a return and whispered that I should do even more. But this time, I recognised what was happening. I reminded myself of the 20/80 rule: 20% of the effort gets 80% of the result—and I’d definitely gone way beyond that.

The Unexpected Benefits of Mental Health Medication

Taking medication improved more than just my moods. In this blog, I reflect on the surprising side benefits I never expected.

It is good to reflect on the importance of mental health—regardless of gender or age—and the crucial role medication can play.

One of the unexpected personal discoveries I've made over the years is the range of side benefits that come with taking medication for bipolar disorder and depression. Yes, my brain works better, my mind is clearer, and thinking requires far less effort. But other symptoms, ones I’d grown used to, have also faded away.

One was something I used to call “my brain falling off a cliff”. It felt like that moment when you fall asleep sitting up on a train—your head drops forward, then suddenly jerks back. Except for me, this same jolt happened inside my brain while I was fully awake. It could strike when I was sitting, standing, even walking. It came in waves, lasting days or even weeks, and nothing I did could stop it.

Years later, I heard others with bipolar disorder describe a similar feeling—like electric shocks in the brain. I suspect we were describing the same thing. I’d had that sensation since my teens, but in recent years, it’s faded. And now, it’s gone.

Another symptom resurfaced briefly a couple of weeks ago. I’d forgotten about it—until it returned for a few days. It’s that experience of waking up with a low-level but all-encompassing fear and anxiety, in both brain and body. It’s not as intense as some panic attacks I’ve had, but still disconcerting.

The thoughts that accompany it are always the same: “I’m not enough. I haven’t achieved enough. Nothing I do will make a difference.”

This time, I took a different approach. I didn’t try to fight it or solve it. I just focused on what I could do. I sat down for breakfast and paid attention to the taste of the food. Washing my face became a moment of awareness—feeling the warmth of the water and the texture of the towel. Walking to the coffee shop, I noticed the motion of my feet in my shoes. I followed the priority list I’d made the night before. And at some point, I realised the fear had gone. It lasted three days and hasn’t returned. Will this approach work every time? I honestly don’t know.

But what I do know is this: when your brain and body work without effort, it’s not a given. It’s a blessing.

Medication and Mental Health: How It Changed My Life

An honest, first-hand account of starting, adjusting, and living with medication for depression and bipolar disorder—and how it transformed my journey.

I’ve been taking meds (sounds a bit lighter than “medication”) for over 20 years. I take two types—one for depression, one for bipolar.

At first, what I found unsettling was that there wasn’t a definitive test to determine what was going on. No blood test. No brain scan. Just me describing what was happening inside my head to a psychiatrist, who then made a diagnosis. It felt unscientific—too prone to error.

But over time, I’ve come to understand that each mental illness has its own distinct features. Unique patterns of thought, behaviour and language. If you’ve experienced one, you’ll likely recognise their descriptions.

Medication has also come a long way. What once felt like being hit over the head with a sledgehammer is now more like a well-aimed tap. One therapist I respected called them “vitamins for the brain”, which helped get me over the line.

The snag? What works for one person might not work for another. It felt like an experiment at first—but I was lucky. Although it took a few months to settle in, the meds worked for me on the first try.

I started with antidepressants. These were aimed at lifting the constant lethargy, that mind-numbing grey fog. I began with a low dose and slowly built up over six weeks. There were side effects: nausea, faintness (almost collapsing during a pitch to a top business school), constant yawning—which wasn’t great while coaching others. But within a couple of months, I had a brain that actually worked effectively. For the first time in my life. That felt amazing.

A year later, when the bipolar disorder was diagnosed, I began medication specifically for bipolar. This felt more serious. The doses are higher, and for the medication I was taking there was the potential for physical side effects such as liver damage. These meds help me regulate my moods and handle the minor highs and lows better. But my extended highs—especially the ones linked to my business ideas—were more difficult. The high would build over months and only when the stress became too much, I would crash. Hard. And while the meds can’t prevent every crash, I suspect they soften the crash slightly.

Meds can also lose effectiveness over time. During lockdown, I had three crashes in relatively quick succession. I reached out—first to my GP, then the local NHS psychiatrist who adjusted my medication for both bipolar disorder and depression. I started with the bipolar medication and before long, the depression, enhanced by the medication, took hold. It was brutal. Once the antidepressant was added, my mood lifted to a comfortable mid-point. It felt like a miracle.

Still, the bottom line is simple: medication has given me a life worth living. And my goodness, that feels superb.

Understanding Depression vs Bipolar Disorder: My Personal Experience

Drawing on my lived experience, this blog explores how depression and bipolar disorder lows feel very different—and why recognising the difference matters.

People sometimes ask me what it feels like to be depressed—or to have a bipolar crash.

As a young boy, I had no idea what was going on. I just knew I was different. Seeing a doctor never occurred to me, and later on when it did, I saw it as a sign of weakness. I didn’t surrender until my late 30s and early 40s, when I was finally diagnosed with depression and bipolar disorder.

In my 20s, I worked on a cattle station in Australia. They told me you can often spot a sick animal because it isolates itself. That’s exactly how I felt when my mental health dips—I wanted to be on my own.

The impact of my depression and bipolar are very different.

With depression, mornings are the worst. I wake up and it feels like a heavy, energy-sapping grey mist has settled in my brain. Everything is bleak. My mind tells me it’ll never end. Getting out of bed feels like an enormous task—and what's the point anyway, when nothing’s going to change? If someone walked in and told me my time was up, I’d say, “fine.” These episodes can last for 3 to 5 days—or go on, on and off, for months.

Bipolar disorder has a different signature—especially before I went on medication. Back then, my mind was full of noise and interference, with sudden jolts that felt like my brain was falling off a cliff. My inner voice screamed how useless I was. I used to imagine the only way to stop it would be to smash my head through a plate glass window and grind my brain into the shards.

That went on, intermittently, for 20 years. All the while, I worked full time as a police officer, renovated properties, spent time learning two Chinese languages, and completed a master’s in international finance and trade and started a new business as an entrepreneur.

Since starting medication, the constant interference has stopped. But I still have a major crash about once or twice a year. It’s like being on the Mongolian steppes, seeing a sandstorm in the distance, realising I’ve been here before—and there’s no escape. Within moments, it engulfs me. My brain stops working. It’s terrifying and can last 4 to 6 weeks.

Lockdown taught me something else: there’s a difference between having a bipolar disorder low, being ‘depressed,’ ‘stressed’, having a panic attack, feeling down after bad news, or experiencing SAD. Learning to tell them all apart is very helpful.

The good news?

For the past 20 years, since getting proper help, I’ve had long stretches where I feel normal. Sometimes, walking down the street, I marvel at how quiet my mind is—no noise, no pressure, just peace. What a privilege it is to feel this way.

Introduction

Sharing Experience, Strength and Hope: My Mental Health Journey

Welcome to my blog, where I share real-life experiences of living with bipolar disorder, depression, addiction, and recovery. Through honest reflections, personal stories, and lessons learned, my hope is to offer strength, understanding, and encouragement to anyone navigating mental health challenges.

Whether you’re seeking support, insights, or simply a reminder that you’re not alone, these posts are written from lived experience — with openness, hope, and a focus on finding peace of mind.

🎙 Alongside my reflections here, you can also listen to my podcast conversations — open, honest discussions on mental health, neurodiversity, resilience, and recovery.