The Bipolar Dad Who Took Off to Colombia During a Manic Episode

I’ve always been the type to embrace adventure, but when bipolar mania takes the wheel, adventure takes on a whole new meaning. One moment, I was sitting at home, scrolling through pictures of tropical destinations, and the next, I was booking a one-way ticket to Colombia. Rational thinking? Gone. Responsible parent mode? Disengaged. All I knew was that I needed to go, to escape, to feel alive in a way that only mania can make you believe is necessary.

The Parties, Raves, and Friendships Before the Jungle

Before I ended up in the jungle, I spent a couple of wild nights in the city of Bogota, caught up in the electric energy of Colombia’s nightlife. The music pounded through my chest, the neon lights blurred together, and every stranger felt like a lifelong friend. I moved from one party to the next, joining groups of wanderers who were just as lost—or just as free—as I was.

Raves in abandoned warehouses, dancing on rooftops, the feeling of absolute freedom—it was intoxicating. I was spending money like it meant nothing, caught up in the illusion that the high would never end. It was all so fast, so thrilling, but I didn’t see the cracks forming beneath my feet.

Then, the jungle called to me. The promise of an even greater adventure, something raw and real. I didn’t hesitate. I packed what little I had, flew to Leticia—a forgotten part of Colombia swallowed by the jungle—and then traveled four hours by boat down the Amazon. I had no idea the party was over and that reality was waiting to hit me hard.

The Jungle, and the Highs of Mania

The first few days in Colombia were a whirlwind of excitement, euphoria, and reckless spontaneity. I was invincible, charismatic, and eager to make friends with anyone who crossed my path. It wasn’t long before I found myself deep in the jungle, following some locals who promised me a real adventure. I wasn’t worried about safety—I felt like I belonged, like I was meant to be there.

The jungle was both beautiful and unforgiving. Large spiders hung in webs overhead, their long legs shifting in the dim light. I trudged for hours through the dense foliage, the air thick with humidity, my clothes drenched in sweat. At night, the howls of monkeys echoed through the trees, their eerie cries making it impossible to sleep. I survived on plantains and piranha, hastily cooked over an open flame, their sharp teeth still visible as I picked the flesh from the bones.

Reality, however, was creeping in fast. Walking along the banks of the Amazon, the thick mud pulling at my feet, the humidity pressing in like a vice, I started to feel the weight of my impulsive decisions. No way to call for help. No real grasp of the language. No clear plan on how to get back to civilization. The adventure that had felt so thrilling was shifting into something more dangerous, more isolating. The jungle wasn’t just a playground—it was a test of survival, and I was wildly unprepared.

Along the way, We stopped by a local village,  A parrot approached, eyeing my water bottle. It was thirsty, and I shared what little I had, watching as it eagerly drank. I found a baby sloth alone, and gave it to some of the local kids in the village to take care of. I started to miss my own kids. 

The Downward Spiral and Reality’s Harsh Return

When the crash came, it hit like a freight train. The money was running out. I wasn’t thinking clearly anymore, and my grand adventure started feeling like a terrible mistake. I missed my kids. The realization that I had left them behind, without much of a plan, crushed me.

I was walking along the banks of the Amazon when the spiral truly started. The heat was suffocating, the unfamiliar sounds of the jungle were closing in, and for the first time, I realized how alone I was. No form of communication, no cell signal, and my broken Spanish wasn’t going to get me very far with the locals. I might be in trouble. The thrill of adventure faded into an eerie awareness of my own recklessness. Panic began to take hold, my chest tightening as reality set in. What had I done? How had I ended up here?

I called home when I got back to Bogotá, my voice shaking as I spoke to Alexis and Jaxson. I didn’t have to say much; they knew. They’d seen me like this before. The understanding in their voices hurt more than any lecture ever could. I wasn’t the father they needed in that moment. I wasn’t even sure who I was anymore.

It was time to go home.

The Aftermath: Lessons, Apologies, and Moving Forward

Getting back wasn’t easy. The journey home was filled with shame, regret, and an overwhelming sense of guilt. Mania had led me to Colombia, Brazil, and Peru but depression was accompanying me back. My bank account was nearly drained, my responsibilities were waiting, and I had a lot of explaining to do.

The kids were relieved to see me, but they were also wary. I don’t blame them. Trust takes time to rebuild. Being a bipolar dad means navigating these highs and lows, trying to minimize the damage while knowing that sometimes, you’ll still crash and burn.

Colombia wasn’t all bad. I made real connections, saw breathtaking landscapes, and even held a baby sloth. But it also reminded me why I need to manage my condition better. Mania lies. It makes you believe you’re invincible when you’re really on the edge of disaster.

I’m back now, trying to stabilize, trying to make things right. My kids are my anchor, my reason to keep fighting for balance. 

 The Bipolar Single Dad Chronicles: Navigating Parenthood, Work, and Mental Health

Being a single dad is an adventure. Being a single dad with bipolar disorder? That’s like trying to juggle flaming swords while riding a rollercoaster blindfolded. Add in two teenagers Alexis, 17, and Jaxson, 13 a corgi with an ego problem, and a career as a corrections nurse, and you’ve got the full circus act that is my life.

The three of us (plus Buddy) are basically three brokeass best friends just trying to survive life’s plot twists. We laugh until we cry, cry until we laugh, and engage in daily battles over what’s for dinner like we’re negotiating a hostage situation. Some days, we feel like we have it all together; other days, we’re just duct-taping our sanity and hoping for the best.

Meet The Cast

Before diving into the daily struggles and victories, let me introduce my two incredible kids, one very important furry sidekick, and, well... me.

Kasey (Dad, 38): The ringmaster of this chaotic circus. I’m a corrections nurse, a full-time dad, and a bipolar warrior just trying to keep everything (and everyone) in one piece. I’m equal parts responsible adult and overgrown teenager, depending on the day. My hobbies include drinking too many energy drinks, losing at video games, giving unsolicited life advice to Alexis, and wondering why Buddy insists on barking at absolutely nothing.

Alexis (17): Alexis is a driven, ambitious young woman with a strong sense of independence. She’s preparing for adulthood, navigating the pressures of school, and pushing boundaries as teenagers do. She’s got a sharp mind, a compassionate heart, and a fierce determination to carve her own path in life.

Jaxson (13): Jaxson is at that in-between stage of life, teetering between childhood and adolescence. He’s full of energy, humor, and a love for gaming and friends. He’s still figuring out who he is, testing limits, and finding his way, but underneath it all, he’s a kind and thoughtful kid who just wants to make people laugh.

Buddy the Corgi: The real boss of the house. Buddy may have short legs, but he has a big attitude. He’s the self-appointed emotional support animal (whether we asked for it or not) and ensures no meal is eaten without him staring longingly for a bite. His favorite hobbies include zoomies, barking at nothing, and judging our life choices with a single glance.

The Juggle is Real

Every day is a balancing act between my kids, my job, and my mental health. My career as a corrections nurse is rewarding but incredibly demanding. The environment is high-stress, and I often have to manage difficult situations that require patience, empathy, and a level head—traits that aren’t always easy to summon when you’re dealing with a bipolar mind.

When I come home, I switch from nurse mode to dad mode. Dinner, homework, teenage crises, and emotional check-ins are all part of the routine. But my energy levels fluctuate, and so does my ability to engage fully. Some days, I’m the fun, energetic dad who blasts music while cooking with Alexis and debates Marvel vs. DC with Jaxson. Other days, I struggle to get off the couch, feeling like a failure because I can’t summon the energy to be as present as I want to be. Luckily, Buddy is always there to remind me that couch time is also a valid lifestyle choice.

The Bipolar Factor

Bipolar disorder isn’t just about mood swings; it’s about managing extremes. Mania can make me feel invincible, convincing me I can survive on two hours of sleep, take on extra shifts, and start five new projects at once—until reality comes crashing down, and suddenly even getting out of bed feels impossible.

Medication helps, therapy helps, but nothing completely eliminates the struggles. What I’ve realized, though, is that I have no real structure in life—and I need it. That’s why I’m starting this blog: to create accountability for myself. I need routines, habits, and goals to help stabilize my mood, and writing about my experiences is my way of tracking progress (or at least making sense of the madness). If nothing else, it’ll be a record of my journey—wins, losses, and everything in between. Hopefully, along the way, it’ll help others who are searching for their own balance too. Mania can make me feel invincible, pushing me to take on too much at once—overcommitting to work shifts, planning elaborate outings with the kids, and setting unrealistic expectations for myself. Then comes the crash, when depression makes even the simplest tasks feel insurmountable.

Raising Teens as a Single Dad

Parenting teenagers is a whole different beast. Alexis is at that stage where she’s preparing for adulthood—college, career, independence, and testing boundaries. She’s fiercely independent, and I see so much of myself in her ambition and drive. But she also has a soft heart, and I try to remind her that it’s okay to ask for help.

Jaxson, at 13, is navigating the awkward middle school years. He’s still a kid in many ways but eager to prove he’s growing up. He’s into gaming, sports, and cracking jokes that only he finds funny. He needs guidance but doesn’t always want to admit it. I do my best to be there for both of them, giving them the space they need while making sure they know I’m always in their corner.

Buddy, on the other hand, is just trying to figure out which human drops the most food. (Spoiler: It’s usually Jaxson.)

What Keeps Me Going

Despite the chaos, exhaustion, and occasional existential crisis in the cereal aisle, I wouldn’t trade my life for anything. My kids are my greatest motivation—not just because I love them, but because they physically drag me out of bed when I’m in a funk. Alexis, with her no-nonsense attitude, keeps me accountable, reminding me that self-care isn’t just for Instagram influencers. Jaxson, my little comedian, knows exactly when to crack a joke or challenge me to a rivals match to snap me out of a bad mood.

They’ve learned to spot my warning signs before I even recognize them myself. If I’m pacing the house at 2 AM rearranging furniture, Alexis will stage an intervention with a look that says, "Take your meds, Dad." If I’m staring blankly at the wall for too long, Jaxson will strategically place Buddy on my lap—because nothing interrupts a depressive episode faster than a 30-pound corgi built like a loaf of bread demanding attention.

And Buddy? He may be compact, but he takes his emotional support role seriously. If I’m sad, he insists on lying directly on my face like some sort of furry weighted blanket. If I’m manic, he follows me around, judging my life choices and reminding me that, no, we don’t need to adopt another pet or start a new home renovation project at midnight.

Through all the ups and downs, my little team keeps me going. We’re messy, we’re loud, and we turn even the most mundane moments into adventures—but we’ve got each other. And at the end of the day, that’s more than enough. I also rely on coping strategies—exercise, writing, painting, video games, and whatever else helps me stay balanced.

Being a bipolar single dad isn’t easy, but it has taught me resilience, patience, and the importance of self-compassion. I hope that by sharing my journey, other parents—especially those dealing with mental health challenges—know they’re not alone.

A Message for Everyone

You don’t have to be a parent to relate to this rollercoaster ride of life. Whether you’re navigating mental health struggles, juggling work and personal life, or just trying to get through the day without losing your mind, you’re not alone. We all have our battles, our highs and lows, and our moments of wondering if we’re doing enough.

If you’re struggling, be kind to yourself. Progress isn’t always linear, and bad days don’t erase the good ones. Find your support system—whether it’s family, friends, a pet with an attitude, or even a good therapist. And most importantly, don’t forget to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Sometimes, laughter is the best survival tool we have.