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.