After my accounts of bipolar episodes, I thought I would introduce a brief breathing space before continuing my content about my conditions. A moment I repeat every morning, which awakens my senses and gives me the energy I need to navigate a world designed for allistics. It is the very first thing I do when I get up. I did it every morning for 12 years before a depressive episode managed to sweep away a moment that was nonetheless so precious and simple. And then, naturally, it came back.

This small gesture is my favorite ritual: the cup of coffee. I can’t imagine a day without having my wake-up coffee. Even in the most gloomy places, I would take delicious-tasting instant coffee with me.

At home, I have a Nespresso-compatible capsule machine. Not ideal, since my dream would be to have a bean-to-cup machine, but it already fulfills its role wonderfully.

Then it’s time to choose the capsule. Always the same.
I take my favorite mug. Always the same.
And I start the machine to let an espresso flow into it. Always the same.

I can already smell the coffee as soon as the machine starts, a sound I’ve grown used to over time. The aroma fills my living room. If I had the ability, I would wake up to that smell, with my cup ready to be drunk. The most satisfying part is watching the crema form once the coffee has finished pouring and making it dance by gently swirling the cup.

A black coffee. No sugar, no milk. Oh no, never. That would be sacrilege. I wait a minute for the coffee to cool gently and bring the cup to my lips. I feel the touch of the ceramic and then, finally, the delicate bitter taste of the coffee. Bitter — exactly how I like it.

And yet, when I started drinking coffee, I only drank it to help me survive my prep classes. I added so much sugar that the taste of coffee was unrecognizable. Then, out of challenge — out of curiosity — I began tasting different coffees, stronger, more intense.

Victory: less than a year later, black coffee and I had become one. To the point that sweetened coffee disgusts me, and I won’t hesitate to pour it down the sink if it is.

A coffee that never changes

This coffee, I love it hot, at the perfect temperature, and at the ideal strength. Though if I have the choice, I sometimes opt for a ristretto (one sip), with an even more pronounced intensity and bitterness.

This coffee structures my days. Even when nothing is going right. Even when I’m depressed. Even when I crash into a mixed episode.

This coffee helps me add a bit of predictability to a world I imagine every morning as difficult to integrate. So if I can’t integrate into it, I integrate the coffee into my morning routine.

This coffee is often not the only one. Others accompany me throughout the day. But this coffee is the one that matters.

It is ritual.
It is an anchor.
It is identity.
It is symbol.
And somewhere, yes, it is real support.

Tomorrow, the coffee will be the same. I might not.