The following is reprinted from the June 28, 2026 edition of Atlas Rising, the weekly newsletter of MDI’s Atlas region, Craig Rempel, editor.
Introduction:
Ever since I met R.C., I have dreamt that he would one day take the stage. I imagined a performance that would leave the audience in tears of joy, laughing so hard and connecting so deeply to him.
He is, undoubtedly, a comic genius. R.C. has been honing this craft for several years now. He has recently graduated from the Toronto Film School, with plans to become a television screenwriter.
Yes, it’s steady work if you can get it but I always imagined that, because of R.C.’s particular talent, he’d fall in love with stand-up comedy. People who do stage work often speak of the connection they make with their audience, and the feeling they get from the experience. R.C. has never truly pursued the stage, but in any room he walks into he runs his own kind of set.
At a party. Around a dinner table. In a quiet corner of someone’s kitchen. He begins with material he’s already prepared, as any comic would. Then, reading the room, he at once understands what is happening, the dynamics between people, or how some individuals might be feeling, and it all becomes part of the act. He has never failed to leave me doubled over in laughter.
And yet, in a bitter twist of fate — it seems life never happens without irony — R.C.’s daily struggle is not with a tough crowd but with a much rougher issue: manic depression, also known as bipolar disorder. Not so funny now. The world he knows turns common, everyday tasks into monumental challenges, and would easily destroy any dreams he might have of building a life of his own if he didn’t stubbornly hold to his purpose.
Recently, R.C. has been overwhelmed by his circumstances, which have triggered a depressive episode. He has been very open about where his head’s at and the challenges he’s facing.
During the time I’ve known him, he’s talked openly about his failures and successes dealing with manic depression and it’s this transparency that makes his comedy so relatable. When I approached him about sharing these challenges with a greater audience he welcomed that because, more than anything, he seeks to be understood. And it is in that spirit, and for that purpose, that I present to you, a private journal entry of Mr. R.C.
The R.C. Diaries
Week of June 8th – 14th, 2026
Being bipolar is a lot like being a mutant in the X-Men. For anyone who hasn’t read the comics, the X-Men are a team of heroes in the Marvel universe born with genetic mutations that give them abilities most people don’t have, and most of them can walk down the street looking like anyone else.
Nobody knows Wolverine’s a mutant until his claws come out. He looks like a regular guy until three metal blades shoot out from between the knuckles of each hand. Nobody knows Colossus is a mutant until he turns to steel. One second, he’s a man; the next, his entire body is covered in shiny organic metal.
Nobody knows Banshee’s a mutant until he screams really loud. His voice can shatter glass and break through solid steel. Bipolar disorder works the same way. I look like everyone else. I walk through the day like everyone else. Then a mood episode hits, and suddenly the people around me see something in me they didn’t know was there.
That is what mental illness can feel like out in the open. Even when I’m trying to do something good, when an episode comes through, people see the intensity before they see the intention. They flinch. They back away. They stop seeing me as me.
Mutants are considered homo superior. In the comics, that’s the name given to mutants as a kind of next step in human evolution, a separate species from regular people. I wouldn’t consider myself superior to the rest of humanity.
Some people consider me a genius. A creative genius, maybe. I’ve got a flair for comedy. I think of funny things, and I know how to deliver them in a way that makes people crack up. I’m the ultimate cut-up. I love cutting people up. For anyone who hasn’t heard the phrase, being a cut-up means being the joker in the room, the wiseass, the one who can read the moment and find the line that breaks everybody open.
Although I wouldn’t consider the episodes I have to be superpowers. A bipolar episode is not a gift. Mania can speed your thoughts up faster than your mouth can keep up, burn through your sleep, and push you to do things that look reckless from the outside but feel inevitable from the inside. Depression can flatten you so completely that you forget how to want anything. I know I tend to make a super spectacle of myself whenever one rears its ugly head.
My psychologist, Will, said that my ex-wife never knew how to love me. She never did. That is a heavy thing to sit with. When you live with an invisible illness, the people closest to you don’t always learn the difference between you and the episode. They start reacting to the symptoms rather than the person beneath them.
Can any woman?
Am I destined to walk the earth alone because of my “invisible mutation?” Maybe I’ve just got to figure out how to save the world in my own special way. Even the X-Men, hated and feared by the world they protect, keep finding reasons to show up for it anyway.
All the mutants can harmoniously interact with society. But when they use their powers (most often to help someone), people get frightened because they fear what they do not understand. The fact that they’re the good guys is irrelevant. We often fear what we don’t understand.
About the Author
Mark Dwyer is a (relatively) recent arrival to MDI.
With a keen desire to learn all he can, he is pushing his boundaries ever further.
He currently resides in Brampton, Ontario.
About the Author
R.C. is a recent Toronto Film School graduate who plans to work in the television screenwriting industry.
He has requested anonymity for
purposes of this article.
