Do you have a lot of confidence, perhaps more than most?
“I tear hecklers apart for a living.”
Have you had a difficult time maintaining romantic relationships?
Only with my spouse. And my ex-spouse. And everyone else I’ve dated.
Have you ever chased new experiences?
“I did try to become a priest during the pandemic. And I may or may not go pro as a kickboxer.”
The priest thing is a whole other essay.
Next came medication—psychiatric not psychedelic. With the help of my doctor, I found a prescription that allows me to live life instead of throwing myself through it. More often than not, my chest feels as if it will remain closed. It’s a massive shift. Already in my 40s, I feel like a genius when, for the first time in my life, I am able to track conversations, predict outcomes, and execute on long-term plans. And I’m tired.
I’ve never before been tired. Medication slows me down. With a lifetime of racing thoughts behind me, sometimes I search for words, though this is perhaps imperceptible. After 20 years on stage, I can hold a pause. Where I used to have seven podcast ideas by 9 a.m., now I sometimes only have one. Performing is fun, but I don’t feel that if I take a night, a week, or a month off, I will cease to exist. Plus, stage time doesn’t get me as high off endorphins and the other intoxicating brain chemicals it releases; my medication prevents that.
There’s a reason bipolar disorder produces politicians, pop stars, and business leaders. Mania, the one side of its polarity, wants novelty, power, movement, excess. It wants more. And once that more has become too much, depression appears to provide the crash. It’s the same cycle as campaigning, performing, launching an IPO. It’s a mental illness that mirrors the American dream. Sometimes it’s terrible. Other times, terribly fun. But, untreated, there is always more. It is commonly known among medical and mental health care professionals that people with bipolar disorder can struggle to stay medicated, and with my experience of the past two years, I can see why. For someone like me, to choose medication is to choose to be enough, to live a life that is enough, to cap the “more” and not see that as settling. All that potential, all those impossible dreams, all those restarts and uphill climbs—they are a lot to lose.
And there are gains.
I have stepped off the cycle. I still have a mood disorder—that’s what bipolar disorder is—but I can manage my mood, or at least track when it seems to be elevating or in decline, and take steps to curb the swings. Now instead of reinvention, I have traction. Instead of perseverance, I have solidity. I’m a straight line, not a wheel, and get to move forward instead of spin. I see the
signs of progress everywhere. My wife and I recently bought a house, a complicated process in which I took the lead. We live together once again and have a new depth to our connection. I am also a dependable friend and family member. I remember birthdays. I sleep. I don’t do drugs. I am happy, which, as a standup comic, I’m choosing to believe is not a career liability.
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