
Hypomania: symptoms, lived experience, and interactions with autism
To begin my series of articles on bipolar disorder episodes, I thought about presenting them to you in chronological order,…
Chronicles of an Atypical Mind — Unfiltered and Unapologetic
Personal stories, science-based articles, and resources on autism, bipolar disorder, and atypical cognition.

To begin my series of articles on bipolar disorder episodes, I thought about presenting them to you in chronological order,…

A former friend once asked me how I perceived being in love. I replied that it was “a whole lot…

What is the difference between a manic obsession and an autistic special interest? On paper, the distinction seems simple. In…
Choose a path to dive deeper into the topics that concern you.
8 years after the most incredible trip of my life, I’m returning to Cambodia tomorrow — a country whose culture fascinated me, whose kindness almost unsettled me, and whose culinary experiences were endlessly delicious. Ever since planning this trip, I’ve been bringing up (partly as a running joke) the famous fried tarantulas from Skuon — undeniably one of my greatest discoveries. A few months ago, I managed to convince a few friends to choose Cambodia as our travel destination.
Recently, I visited my local disability support office in France in a region where a cyberattack had wiped out all their electronic files. The waiting room was crowded and loud. Instinctively, I put my sunglasses back on. My caseworker looked surprised, but my mother burst out laughing—she immediately understood what was happening. It was compensation. I needed to be able to hear my number being called and then hear the person at the desk. Noise-canceling headphones weren’t an option. So instead, I used my sunglasses to reduce—not the sound itself—but the overall sensory load my brain was processing.
Rapid cycling in bipolar disorder remained a blind spot for me for a long time. Yet the signs had been there all along. I wrote many of the articles on this blog within just a few days. A month earlier, I had written two books in less than two weeks. Before that, in March 2025, I went through an especially stimulating period during which I was socializing from morning until night. In January, the same pattern had already occurred. The common thread? Each time, it started with a hypomanic episode that eventually progressed into a manic episode. In September 2025, my psychiatrist confirmed that my bipolar disorder had entered a rapid-cycling pattern. That was when I realized how little I actually knew about this form of bipolar disorder, despite it being associated with a more severe course and often a more challenging treatment.
Stimming, often simply called stims in the autistic community, refers to repetitive movements or sounds that may look like tics to the untrained eye. Yet stims and tics are very different. Stims are regular, repetitive, rhythmic, and seem to serve no purpose. “Seem” is the key word: they actually play an essential role in sensory and emotional regulation for autistic people. In short, they are essential to their well-being.
When talking about autism, we often use terms that don’t usually appear in everyday language. Most of them aren’t even defined in dictionaries. Within the autistic community, these words make communication easier — they give language to experiences that otherwise have no name. However, this vocabulary can seem confusing or obscure to non-autistic people, as well as to autistic individuals who are undiagnosed or newly diagnosed.
I’ve already talked about the five main senses (hearing, sight, touch, smell, taste), but the human body has several others — most notably four: the vestibular system, proprioception, nociception, and thermoception. The last one you know well: it’s the reason you turn into an ice cube in winter and a boiling pot in summer. In autistic people, these senses are often altered in the same way as the five primary ones. Yet these so-called invisible senses shape our everyday experience. When they are atypical — as is often the case in autism — they can turn ordinary situations into a full emotional and sensory rollercoaster.
One of my oldest memories is watching tiny floating dust particles in the light of my bedroom window. That sight fascinated me. And yet, for most of my life, my sensory sensitivities have been my greatest struggle. They were the main trigger for my autistic meltdowns. When I experienced my first autistic burnout, my sensory hypersensitivities intensified to the point where I described them as “broken.” Things that used to bother me mildly — or things I had adapted to — suddenly became unbearable. Since sensory sensitivities are a core part of the diagnostic criteria and a major aspect of autistic life, it feels important to explain them and share my experience.
Rituals, like routines, transform a world perceived as unpredictable into something stable and manageable. To recap, the key difference between these two concepts is that a routine is a sequence of regular, organized actions or gestures, while a ritual carries symbolic, emotional, or identity-related meaning.
Routines are part of the diagnostic criteria for ASD—autism. They involve sequences of repetitive actions, gestures, or behaviors. Behind this somewhat dull medical criterion lies a daily reality for many autistic people who experience it in a much more vivid way. Each repeated gesture is in fact a compass for the autistic person, guiding their day. Routines provide them with structure and organization.
Special interests in autism resemble passions, but they often differ in their intensity, their all-consuming nature, and the important role they play in everyday life. I have several major special interests in my own life. Some go back a very long way, with one probably dating back to my childhood. But what exactly is a special interest?