I have an absolutely wild story—the chance I’d still be alive after everything is like being struck by lightning four times. I knew my story was incredible, but it was never for my vanity—for God’s glory.

I was diagnosed late with Bipolar 1, endured panic attacks, 25 broken bones, a broken jaw, four surgeries on my right hand alone, and a broken back with three spinal fusions. I never sought drugs; I always passed on weed and was proud of staying clean. I didn’t understand opiate tolerance until after three years of prescribed use.

When my liver and kidneys showed distress, I freaked out and flushed everything down the toilet—not knowing the detox demon train was coming. After the agony of withdrawal, I was hurting but hellbent: “No pills!” I was 100% sincere; I wanted to be fixed, not given cheap addictive pills.

Two months later I had surgery, but I had a much bigger problem. The doctor I told “no pills” sat in front of me after a full exam, mentioned my new wife and baby, talked about quality of life and providing for them. He acknowledged I said no pills but offered this “super neat” patch/sticker—“technically not a pill,” so it followed my instructions. Those patches? Pure fentanyl. I was teetering on the edge, recognized the dependence, and refused. I learned about fentanyl long before it was in every headline. Evil stuff—100× stronger than morphine, builds insane tolerance, and everything goes to hell from there. I ended up educating other opiate addicts in my first treatment center in Pennsylvania about fentanyl and the Suboxone that followed.

My journey is mind-blowing—not bragging; only two months ago did I truly see God’s hand in every moment, turning the knobs with intent.

I’ve been writing this memoir in pieces over the past 11 years—tons of real-world context and experience. My survival is by God alone. What I also learned recently, after all the psychiatric breaks and tools to escape panic loops and infection thoughts: I was never a street-drug-seeking mess. I got hurt, blasted into pieces. A product of evil, really.

At the same time, the first real betrayal by my own father and family—I quickly learned the “no sex before marriage” rule was weaponized as manipulation. She was robotic, terrified, neglected, treated like pure hot trash. I felt doomed on my honeymoon—conned, trapped, lower than ever.

Through ups and downs and more adversity, I was blessed to land a top 1% job, ironically using the brain speed and pattern recognition that mania gave me—everything built on recognition and control.

I always hoped and prayed my story—all this suffering, perseverance, survival—would be worth it to inspire and help others. I’ve now helped a few people off the ledge. I’ve learned “know thyself”—not perfect, but more tools. It works.

So maybe as devastating as this moment feels, it’s God’s way of kicking my ass into high gear to finally get this out—instead of being stuck in formatting or feeling defeated. I know those hells; if I can help navigate someone through, it’s all worth it. God causes all things to work together for good.

(KRISTEN ARM—NOW WITH MESSAGE & MORE MEANING)

At this point, given the circumstances, I’m going wide-open honest. That’s how I’ve improved—by staying consistent. The first four years: forced psych hospitals, shattered hand, total mess. Then, because of the severity, I received hyper-attention, bought into all the tools, and set a military-style routine.

This memoir was written in phases—revelations (and pain) along the way.

**Name?**  

M8N1AC—an encoded version of “maniac,” born from “mania”: the high-energy, charged, reckless, inspired, wild version of my bipolar 1.

Through it all, God was there.

This site is intended to offer **hope** to others in similar situations—inspiration, God willing.  

I pray my story inspires you to find **hope, direction, and peace** through something greater than me.