I do to my bipolar mafia, of course, but with outsiders it’s different. Out in public, the mask goes on. I only used “the bipolar excuse” once, I tell her, after considerable thought. I had been called for jury duty and had turned up with every intention of serving. But this was to be a five-week trial. My illness, I knew, could not hold up to the demands of sitting still in a corner of a windowless room for that long. I felt a tremendous sense of shame in having to admit this to what turned out to be a very enlightened judge.

My recollection of the event comes as a revelation to me. The stigma of this illness is obviously a lot worse than I thought.

After a short nap, I wake up and take a good long walk. New York is the hypomania capital of the world, and I am sparking off the energy. The temperature, after weeks of bitter cold, is in the seventies, and people are everywhere, in a carnival mood. I only sit down to catch up on email and for dinner, then it’s more walking late into the evening. I love this city.

Today, I head out for a speaking engagement this evening in New Jersey, then down to DC.

This is John McManamy, reporting “live” on the road.