Sheen adjusted the surgical mask over her face, the sterile scent of the operating room grounding her. Neuroanesthesia demanded precision, focus, and clarity—all things she possessed now. But there was a time, back in school and college, when her mind had spiraled into chaos—a time when clarity abandoned her, and reality blurred into something else entirely.
Bipolar I.
The diagnosis came after. The understanding came much later.
It began in her junior year of college. The semester had been intense, but Sheen thrived under pressure—or so she thought. Sleep became optional, her thoughts raced faster than she could articulate, and her usual fascination with language dissection took a strange turn.
"Parmeshwar Godrej," she whispered one evening, staring at the mirror in her dorm room. Her eyes were wide, gleaming with a light that scared even her reflection.
Eshwar is Param. God has a rage.
If Eshwar meant god, and param meant supreme, wasn’t she then the ultimate being? Parmeshwar.
And Godrej—God’s rage. A warning. A prophecy. She believed she embodied divine justice.
The logic seemed flawless in her spiraling mind. Every word dissected, every meaning twisted into a dangerous delusion.
By the next day, the campus became her temple—and her courtroom.
She warned students in the cafeteria:
“If you lie, you will die. God’s rage sees all.”
Lectures turned into sermons. She interrupted professors mid-sentence.
“You don’t get it! The structure—the whole structure—is flawed. But I see it. I am it!”
Friends grew distant. The whispers began. “Sheen’s lost it.” “What’s wrong with her?”
But no one stepped in. No one truly helped.
The crescendo of her mania peaked.
Except for two people—her parents.
They arrived breathless, terrified, and yet—resolute.
“Sheen, come down, beta. We’re here now. We’ve got you.”
Her mother’s voice broke through the delusion. Her father’s outstretched arms anchored her back to reality.
They came when no one else did.
The recovery was slow. The manic memories stung. There were hospital stays, medications, therapy sessions, and long nights spent questioning everything. She learned what bipolar I truly meant—not just the label, but the weight it carried. The potential dangers of unchecked mania.
But she also learned resilience.
Now, standing in the OR, watching over delicate neurosurgeries, Sheen reflected on that harrowing chapter. Her illness had nearly taken everything from her, but it had also given her a lesson she would never forget:
Take bipolar seriously. Always.
She hadn’t forgotten her mania—how could she? It was etched into her memory, a reminder of how fragile the mind could be. But it no longer defined her.
She was Dr. Sheen now—a neuroanesthetist, confident, capable, and deeply aware of her own mind.
Because she knew:
Mental illness could be part of your story, but it didn’t have to be the whole narrative.
And for Sheen, that made all the difference.
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