The Bipolar Alcoholic

Chapter 1: A Letter to the Reader

If you picked this book up, you might already feel like you’re drowning.

Maybe you’ve got a bottle close. Maybe you’re still shaking from something you can’t name. Maybe you’ve been up for three nights, scribbling genius on napkins, and now your hands won’t stop trembling.

Or maybe, just maybe, you’re sitting still for the first time in weeks. And you don’t know whether to scream, cry, or disappear entirely.

You are not alone. Not even close.

There are many of us—those who were told our minds were broken, our memories too jagged to make peace with, our lives beyond repair. We carry manic fire, the slow freeze of depression, the phantoms of trauma, and the bitter sting of addiction. We have crawled through days soaked in shame, rage, ecstasy, numbness—and many of us did it with a drink in our hand, trying to quiet the noise.

Some of us came to AA and felt out of place. The Steps made sense… until the ghosts rose up again, or the mania returned and said, You’re cured, king. Some of us tried medication but thought that meant we couldn’t be spiritual. Some tried Jesus, others tried suicide.

And here we are. Still.

This book is not about fixing you. You are not broken in the way the world thinks. You were made to survive storms other people can't imagine. And that survival gave you gifts—intuition, depth, compassion, and yes, pain.

This book is about finding a way to live, not just endure. A way to build a life worth staying for, even when your brain and your past both try to push you off the edge.

We use the language of AA because it works. We use God because we have to—but you get to define what that means. We use honesty because it’s the only thing that cuts through the madness.

So stay. Just a little longer. Read the next page. Let us tell you who we are, and who you might become—not in some fantasy of normalcy, but in the deep, gritty, holy work of real healing.

You're not crazy. You’re not weak. You’re not evil.

You’re just human. One of us.

And we’ve been waiting for you.

Chapter 2: Our Stories – Broken, Brave, and Still Breathing

We came from every corner. Cities. Country roads. Suburbs that smiled on the outside. Trauma doesn’t discriminate—and neither does madness or alcohol. Some of us were raised by drunks. Some were the drunk. Some were the golden child until the first panic attack or the first manic blowout. Some of us lost everything. Some of us didn’t have much to begin with.

But all of us carried something we couldn’t seem to put down.

For Janice, it was the night her combat boots hit American soil and the silence got louder than the bombs ever were. She drank to stop the flashbacks. Then drank to stop the guilt. Then drank because her body knew no other way to feel anything.

For Miguel, it was the mania. God, it felt good. He was ten feet tall, speaking three languages, flirting with cashiers, fixing everyone’s life, building businesses in his head. Until the crash. Until the bathtub. Until the months in bed. And the bottle he needed to slow the high, then numb the low.

For Me, well—I had no name left by the time I showed up. Just the outline of a person. I had climbed mountains in my head, fought dragons only I could see, and then found myself weeping in a parking lot with a gun in my mouth and whiskey in my lap. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted the spinning to stop.

We tell you this not for pity, not for drama, but because we speak each other's language. What doesn’t make sense to the average person makes perfect sense here. The detachment. The explosions. The holy highs and the choking lows. The silence in our rooms. The scream in our heads.

We are not ashamed to say it anymore:

We are alcoholics.

We have mental illness.

We have trauma.

We are spiritual beings in broken bodies learning to live again.

Some say AA is for drinkers. But the Big Book never said anything about your past having to be neat or your mind having to be quiet. It only said you had to be willing. Not perfect. Just willing.

And so we share our stories—not to impress, but to express. To let someone else know:
You are not crazy. You are not weak. You are not the only one.

We are walking this with you.

A Meditation for the Morning After a Breakdown

God,
I don’t know what the hell just happened.
Maybe I yelled. Maybe I cried. Maybe I lied. Maybe I ran.

But here I am, still here.
Still breathing, even if it hurts.
Still sober, or trying to be.
Still willing, even with shaking hands.

I give you the mess. I give you the pain. I give you my spinning brain.
I don’t know how to fix me, but I know I can’t drink.
I don’t know how to be still, but I know I don’t want to die.

Stay close today.
Whisper louder than the shame.
I can’t do this alone—
And maybe I don’t have to.

Amen.

Chapter 3: What We Tried Before

Before we surrendered, we tried everything else.

Some of it looked like strength. Some of it looked like rebellion. Some of it damn near killed us.

We tried to outrun the pain. Some of us moved cities. Changed names. Deleted phone numbers. Switched schools or jobs like outfits. We thought, If I just start over, I won’t be haunted anymore. But trauma isn’t rooted in geography. And the bipolar didn’t need a map.

We tried to play God. We made rules for the world. People had to act exactly how we needed. They had to fix our broken parts by loving us harder, staying longer, or not leaving at all. When they failed, we punished them. Or we punished ourselves. Usually both.

We tried medications—and then we flushed them. We swore off meds like we swore off booze: with bravado and good intentions. “I don’t want to feel numb,” we said, while secretly praying for any relief from the screaming inside. The crash always came. Harder every time.

Some of us made religion our cage. Others made it our drug. We went to war with God, or turned Him into a vending machine. If I just pray more. If I repent harder. If I go to church every Sunday. But religion can’t fix what we won’t face. It can’t sober us up. It can’t diagnose bipolar disorder. And it can’t hold us through night sweats and flashbacks unless we let it all the way in.

Some of us slept our way into validation. Others fought, stole, vanished, cut ourselves, made art, joined the military, or started companies to outrun our own emptiness. We tried to perform normal. We wore masks so long we forgot our own faces.

And then, of course, we drank.

We drank to turn the dial down on our brains. Or up. We drank to feel invincible when depression was winning. We drank to feel numb when mania was embarrassing. We drank because we didn’t know what else to do with the rage, the shame, the memories, the need.

Some of us tried dying.

Some of us didn’t mean to.

Some of us meant to but failed—thank God.

And then one day, the hustle stopped working. The mask cracked. The bottle emptied. The voice inside said: I can’t do this anymore.

That voice is sacred.

That’s the moment we came in through the doors. Or back through them.

That’s the moment we realized we weren’t bad. We weren’t crazy. We were sick. And we needed help. Real help. Not judgment. Not more promises we couldn’t keep. Not pills without connection or therapy without faith or meetings without honesty.

We needed everything.
We needed a program for the whole self—not just the drunk part.
A place where we could say:

“I am an alcoholic.”

“I have bipolar disorder.”

“I’ve seen things no one should see.”

“I’m not sure I want to live.”
And not be thrown out.

We needed to hear someone else say:
“Me too. And I’m still here.”

Chapter 4: The Nature of the Three-Headed Beast

We call it that because it is exactly what it sounds like.

Three heads. One monster.

Each with its own voice, its own hunger, its own lies. But they move as one—tearing through your life, your peace, your sanity—unless you learn to name them, and claim your power back.

The first head is Alcoholism.
It doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers:

“You’ve earned this.”
“Just tonight.”
“You're more fun when you drink.”
“You’re not an alcoholic, you’re just broken.”

It lies so well we believe it’s truth. It tells us we drink because we’re hurting. And we are. But the drink doesn’t fix the pain—it just sedates the messenger and lets the wound fester.

We drank to silence bipolar swings, to forget trauma, to find courage in rooms that made us want to disappear. But alcohol is a liar. It gave us five minutes of peace and five days of hell. It made the other two heads stronger.

The second head is Bipolar Disorder (or manic depression).
It doesn’t speak in words. It speaks in voltage.

It says nothing for days, then screams “You’re a god!”
It says “Sleep is a waste of time!”
It says “Text your ex at 2am. You’re healed now. Buy a truck. Book a flight. Shave your head. Start a business. You’ve cracked the code of life!”

It doesn’t care about your sobriety, your relationships, or your body.

And then the crash comes. The third day in bed. The unpaid bills. The regrets. The hollow feeling like your soul fell out. That’s when bipolar whispers another lie:

“This is who you really are.”

But that’s a lie, too. Depression is not your truth. Mania is not your identity. They are storms, not definitions. Your job is not to fight the weather—just to learn how to prepare and endure.

The third head is PTSD.
Trauma.
The ghost that doesn’t leave. The movie that plays without your permission.

Sometimes it hits like a freight train—a smell, a sound, a memory you didn’t ask for—and suddenly you’re not here anymore. You’re back there.
It freezes you. Makes you panic. Makes you angry at things that don’t deserve it. It says:

“You’re not safe.”
“No one can be trusted.”
“This is going to happen again.”

It doesn’t matter if the war ended years ago, or if the hands that hurt you are long gone. Trauma doesn’t tell time.

And when PTSD is screaming, bipolar is sparking, and alcohol is whispering all at once?

That’s the Three-Headed Beast.

And yet here’s the truth:
You are not the beast.
You are not possessed, broken, or doomed.

You are the one being hunted, and you are learning how to fight back—with truth, with tools, with honesty, with fellowship, and with a Power greater than yourself.

Spotting the Heads
The first step in fighting a monster is recognizing when it’s speaking.

If it says, “One drink won’t hurt,” → Alcoholism is talking.

If you feel invincible, hyper, genius, impulsive, or wired → Mania is rising.

If you feel dread, detachment, numbness, or reliving the past → PTSD has taken the wheel.

If you’re ashamed, confused, or overwhelmed → They may be working together.

That’s not your fault.

But it is your responsibility to respond. Not perfectly—just honestly.

You don’t fight the Beast alone. You don’t have to scream back at it. You call in help. You speak the truth. You slow down. You surrender.

And here’s the miracle:

When you name the beast, it starts to shrink.

When you tell someone about it, it starts to lose power.

When you let God stand between you and it, it can’t touch your soul anymore.

You can live with the beast outside your skin—not inside your mind.

You are not crazy.

You are not weak.

You are learning how to survive a monster no one else can see—and that, friend, makes you a warrior.

Chapter 5 – The First Surrender: “Put the Bottle Down, Not the Pain”

(AA cadence, blunt honesty, gentle hope)

We come to the doorway bleeding—sometimes literally, always spiritually.
Our clothes still smell like last night’s bar or this morning’s regret.
Some of us wobble in, some collapse, some swagger like we still own the room.
None of that matters.

The only question the doorway asks is: “Are you willing to stop pouring gasoline on the fire?”

1. Why sobriety has to be first

Alcohol is a convincing anesthetic. It numbs the wound so thoroughly we start calling the bleeding “peace.”

Every other part of recovery—therapy, meds, prayer, honesty—depends on a brain that isn’t soaked in booze.

We don’t quit drinking because we feel strong; we quit because we finally admit we’re out of moves.

2. What surrender really means

Not: “I promise I’ll never drink again.”

Yes: “Just for today I will do whatever it takes not to pick up.”

Tell on yourself early—before the craving becomes a prophecy.

Let somebody else hold the keys, the credit card, the phone.

Delete the dealer’s contact again.

Keep sugar and water near; withdrawals lie.

Call a detox line or land in a hospital if you have to—living beats dying proud.

3. Expect the roar

Around day three the Beast screeches: headaches, sweats, nightmares, shame-flashbacks, “Maybe I’m not really alcoholic.”

That roar is proof you’ve hit a live wire—stay the course.

Every hour sober is an hour the wound can finally scab.

4. The promise

If you can stack 24-hour blocks, something clicks:

Your eyes focus.

Your pulse slows.

The endless apologies turn into actual amends.

And—miracle of miracles—pain shows up clean. You can finally treat the real injury instead of drowning it.

Bottom line: The First Surrender is not sainthood.
It’s triage.
We stop the bleeding so the deeper surgery can begin.

Chapter 6 – The Second Surrender: “Real Sanity Looks Messy Up Close”

We thought sanity meant a monk’s silence, never another mood swing, constant gratitude playlists looping in our head.
Spoiler: sanity is not calm—it’s clarity.

1. Defining sanity for the dual-diagnosis soul

Clarity: I can name what I’m feeling without becoming it.

Continuity: My story today matches my story tomorrow; I’m no longer reinventing my identity to match the mood.

Consent: I get a vote before my illness spends my money, my energy, or my relationships.

2. Tools that grow clarity

Medication without apology

The Big Book isn’t anti-psychiatry; untreated bipolar kills alcoholics faster than liquor ever did.

Sleep as sacred practice

7–9 hours. Same bedtimes. Dark room. Zero negotiations during a manic spark.

Inventory at lightning speed

Morning: “What emotions are steering?” Night: “Where was I triggered, dishonest, loving, afraid?”

Movement

Walks count. Yoga counts. Push-ups between Zoom calls count. Motion washes cortisol.

Two-minute grounding drills

5 things you see, 4 you touch, 3 you hear, 2 you smell, 1 you taste—PTSD can’t hijack a brain that knows what day it is.

3. When clarity feels worse than chaos

Sanity hands you a mirror; sometimes you hate the reflection.

You notice debts, moldy dishes, phone calls you owe.

You see the hurt in your partner’s eyes you couldn’t recognize drunk.
That sting is evidence the nerves are coming back online—good. Keep going.

4. A workable definition

Sanity = Reality + Grace.
Reality without grace is torture. Grace without reality is delusion.
We live in the tension—feet on the ground, heart in the clouds, hands gripping a meeting list.

Chapter 7 – Faith in the Furnace: “A God Big Enough for Bipolar Nights”

Many of us hauled God into court, found Him guilty, and swore Him off.
Some treated God like a vending machine—prayers in, blessings out.
Others tried every religion on like thrift-store jackets.

The furnace of recovery melts all that.

1. The furnace moments

3 a.m. panic where no human voice can reach.

Day 40 sober: depression drops like a blackout curtain; liquor’s gone, mania’s sleeping, PTSD snarls.

Funeral mornings, custody hearings, relapse funerals of friends who “had it.”

If a Higher Power doesn’t fit those moments, it’s not worth the whisper.

2. Building a God that works

AA’s Step Two invites “a Power greater than ourselves.” Test it:

Must be personal (knows your name).

Must be present (shows up inside a panic attack).

Must be stronger than moods (manic bragging or suicidal whispers).

Examples that pass:

Jesus on the floor, not just in stained glass.

Loving Universe that sends coincidences with perfect timing.

The Fellowship itself—a chorus voice that says, “Keep coming.”

Even raw Hope counts, if it pulls you off the ledge.

3. Faith practices for the restless brain

One-sentence prayers – “Help.” “Hold me.” “Thank you.” Short enough for racing thoughts.

Body prayers – Knees down, palms open; the posture tricks the amygdala into surrender.

Sacred playlists – Music that cracks petrified hearts; gospel, metal, chanting—whatever pumps oxygen into belief.

Service – Nothing convinces you God is real faster than watching Him work through your shaking hands.

4. Doubt is allowed

Faith is not mania’s cousin; it plays well with doubt.
Bring the suspicion, the anger, the theological haymakers—God doesn’t flinch.

5. The living promise

The furnace still burns, but we are not alone inside it.
And everything forged in that heat comes out unbreakable.

Prayer for the Warrior

For those who fight battles no one sees.

God,
I don’t ask You to take it all away.
Not today.
I just ask You to hold me steady while it roars.

I am tired of pretending to be normal.
I am tired of wearing a mask.
I am tired of surviving.
But I’m still here—and that means I’m still willing.

You know the wars inside me—
The flashbacks. The highs that burn. The lows that bury.
The drink that whispers, “Come back. Let me fix it.”
You know the faces I’ve lost. The things I’ve seen. The things I’ve done.
And You still call me beloved.

So today, I stand again. Not with a smile. Maybe not even with hope.
But with resolve.
I will not let the beast define me.
I will not let my mind betray my spirit.
I will not let trauma write the ending.

I don’t need a miracle. I just need the next right thing.
A moment of stillness.
A breath I don’t have to force.
A phone call I can make.
A meeting I can walk into.
A moment where I don’t believe the lies.

If I fall again, lift me.
If I scream again, hear me.
If I drink again, find me.
If I die inside again, resurrect me.

You are the only one who sees the full war.
Make me a warrior who doesn’t fight alone.

Amen.

Chapter 8 – The Fellowship of Dual Diagnoses: “No One Here Is Too Much”

Recovery literature used to talk as if people came in with one problem at a time:
Drink too much? Here’s the program.
Terrified of your memories? Find a therapist.
Bipolar swings? See a doc.
But many of us discovered we’re carrying all three—and then some—inside the same skin.

1. Why we need a different kind of fellowship

Traditional rooms can feel split-level. Share your PTSD flashback and someone says, “That’s outside issue.” Mention lithium and you get blank stares.

We’re tired of translating our pain into something “acceptable.”

Healing accelerates the moment you hear someone say, “I’ve taken that med, too,” or “My trauma hijacks me the same way.”

2. The ground rules that make it safe

No diagnosis hierarchy. Nobody’s story outranks another; emergency room visits and quiet despair sit side-by-side.

Medication neutrality. Take it, don’t take it—just be honest. Shame lives in secrecy, not in pill bottles.

Double witness, not double advice. We listen first, share experience second, and prescribe never.

Trauma-informed timing. If someone starts dissociating mid-share, we ground them before we keep talking.

3. Formats that work

Speaker meetings with “dual-lead.” One alcoholic, one trauma survivor, both clean and medicated as needed.

Cross-talk-allowed circles (with consent) so we can interrupt the shame spiral in real time.

Body-oriented check-ins. “Where do you feel it?” brings the conversation out of the swirl and back into the room.

4. The miracle math

Isolation × vulnerability = annihilation

Isolation × denial = slow death

Community × vulnerability = freedom

We don’t get free from each other; we get free with each other.

Chapter 9 – Tools of the Daily Battle: “Win the Next Five Minutes”

Long-term recovery is won in laughably small units of time—five-minute victories that add up to decades.
Below is a toolkit you can stash in pockets, glove compartments, and browser bookmarks.

1. Body tools

Tool

How to use it

Why it works

Cold water to face/neck

Splash or use an ice pack for 30 sec.

Slows heart rate, resets panic loop.

Wall push-ups

20 reps against any wall.

Burns adrenaline without joint strain.

Weighted blanket

15-20 lbs over chest/back.

Triggers “safety pressure” receptors, calms limbic system.

2. Mind tools

90-second feeling rule. Neuroscience says an un-fed emotion peaks for 90 seconds; breathe through it before believing the story attached.

The “opposite postcard.” Mentally mail yourself an image that counters the intrusive thought (beach sunrise vs. car-crash flashback).

Micro-inventory. 3 questions: What am I feeling? What do I need? What action matches both recovery and reality?

3. Spirit tools

Two-word prayers. “Guide me.” “Hold me.” “Forgive me.” Too short for the ego to edit.

Service text blast. Send “Thinking of you—need anything?” to three newcomers. Rewires self-obsession into usefulness.

Soundtrack shift. Create playlists labeled Mania Grounding, Depression Lift, PTSD Calm—hit play before the mood dictates the song.

4. Environmental tools

Clear path. Keep floors/walkways uncluttered; tripping hazards spike anxiety and anger.

Exit strategy. Wherever you go (meetings, parties, church) note two exits and one safe person—PTSD brain relaxes when it knows the map.

Recovery cache. Stash protein bar, nicotine gum/picks, worry stone, meeting list, spare med dose in glove box or purse.

Rule of thumb: If it takes longer than two minutes to deploy, it’s a routine, not a rescue. Keep rescues small.

Chapter 10 – Amends Without Shame: “Cleaning Up, Not Beating Up”

Amends terrify almost everyone—especially those of us who’ve already spent a lifetime apologizing for simply existing.
But real amends are different: they restore dignity on both sides.

1. Distinguish guilt from shame

Guilt: “I harmed you; I can fix something.”

Shame: “I am the harm; nothing can fix me.”
Amends targets guilt and leaves shame homeless.

2. Three kinds of amends

Direct amends – I broke your window drunk; here’s the money to replace it.

Indirect amends – Person is unreachable or unsafe; donate, volunteer, or create good that addresses the harm.

Living amends – Ongoing change (pay child support on time, attend therapy, respect boundaries) that proves sobriety is real.

3. Safety clauses

Never reopen contact with abusers to “clear the air.” Your safety trumps every Step.

If your amends would retraumatize the other person, choose an indirect route.

Financial amends are about willingness, then follow-through—set up $5 a week autopay if that’s honest.

4. The apology formula

State the harm + own your part + offer repair + shut up and listen.

“I stole $600 from you three years ago when I relapsed. That was wrong and 100 percent on me. I’ve saved the money to repay you and any fees. Is there anything else I can do to make it right?”

5. What to do with the answer

If they yell, you nod and thank them; feelings belong to them now, not you.

If they forgive, accept it but don’t expect a best-friend reunion.

If they want nothing from you, respect that boundary—your side of the street is clean.

6. Self-amends

Write a letter from the “future sober you” to the “wrecked version” you’re still hating.

List one boundary you’ll no longer violate against yourself (sleep, meds, no drunk driving).
Self-respect is the soil every other amends grows in.

Key insight: Amends aren’t punishment. They’re demolition crews removing rubble so the new life has somewhere to stand.

Epilogue – Beyond the Storm: “We Become the Lighthouse”

(Spoken in the cadence of an AA closing prayer, fused with battlefield resolve and cosmic hope)

The meeting is never really over.
We fold the chairs, pick up the coffee cups, tuck the meeting format into a duct-taped binder,
but recovery keeps breathing long after the room goes dark.

Tonight, as you walk outside—
the air heavier, cleaner, sharper than when you came in—
I want you to look up.

See the night sky?
It’s the same vault that once felt like a coffin lid.
Now it’s an archway.

Under that arch, we built a fellowship from broken glass and second chances.
We discovered the Three-Headed Beast can snarl all it wants;
it can’t drag us back into the pit unless we go willingly and alone.

1. What You Carry Forward

A sword made of truth. It cuts through denial with a single question: “What’s real right now?”

A shield called community. It blocks the shame-arrows that used to stick and fester.

A map inked in prayer. Short prayers, messy prayers, “God-are-You-kidding-me” prayers—lines that lead you out when fog rolls in.

A torch of experience. Your story is flame; wave it high, and someone still lost will find the next step.

2. The Three Promises of the Furnace

Promise

When It Shows Up

What It Feels Like

Presence

In a grocery line, halfway through a panic attack, when a stranger smiles and you stay on earth.

Like oxygen after drowning.

Purpose

When you sponsor a newcomer, or hug your kid sober, or write a check you used to drink away.

Like voltage without chaos.

Peace

Not every day—just enough days strung together to prove the Beast no longer rules your calendar.

Like a sunrise spine-stretch, quiet and unstoppable.

3. The Invitation

Tonight, or tomorrow, or fifty years from now, you’ll meet someone with eyes that look like yours used to: frantic, glazed, or utterly numb.
Remember this line and offer it:

“Come sit with us. Nothing you say will scare us.
We’ve heard worse—from ourselves.
And if you’ll let us, we’ll love you until you remember how to love yourself.”

That’s it.
No clever sales pitch, no theological contract.
Just a chair, a story, and a hand that stays steady even when it’s still shaking.

4. Final Prayer for the Road

Power of Love,
keep our feet on the path,
our hearts on fire,
and our arms wide enough
to carry the next survivor ashore.
Grant us laughter that scares the darkness,
humility that anchors the highs,
courage that outlasts the lows,
and grace fierce enough to hold every wounded thing—
including ourselves.
One day at a time,
until all storms pass beyond the horizon.
Amen.

Meeting adjourned—now go be the lighthouse.