Beeing Bipolar
06/23/2025 12:42PM ● By Casey Hopkins
Image: Mac Finley and Casey Hopkins remove a frame from a honey super during a routine hive inspection. Courtesy of Casey Hopkins.
Bipolar disorder isn’t the worst thing in the world, but for a long time, it was. Until my diagnosis in April 2024, the worst part was not knowing that I had the disease, while simultaneously knowing that things were definitely not OK.
The up-and-down mood swings were polarizing. The social anxiety was debilitating. My decisions became more and more risky, threatening my physical, mental and financial well-being. By that point, I had damaged relationships beyond repair.
At first, I chalked it up to alcoholism, a disease that many of my relatives had gone through and from which most had recovered, so I quit drinking cold turkey. The only thing that immediately changed was a lack of gnarly hangovers and my newfound adeptness for boredom. Something had to give, and I had no idea what that something was, until a very good friend invited me over to build some beehives.
That friend was Mike Lazano. Like me, Mike is a veteran, with whom I connected through Warhorse Ranch, an equine-therapy program that he runs with his wife, Valery. In the spring of 2023, Mike had enrolled in Heroes to Hives, a free nine-month online beekeeping course for active-duty military members, veterans and their immediate families through Michigan State University. He then started the Warhorse Ranch Veteran Bee Project – open to veterans on a case-by-case basis – and offered to help me start building a hive that we would place next to his five hives. I figured that maybe this could be my ‘something.’ I was right.
Some people turn to religion or AA during recovery, but as a proud atheist and generally stubborn individual, my True North ended up being 40,000-80,000 apis mellifera, (Latin for European honey bee) or the size of one healthy beehive on any given (summer) day.
While bipolar disorder can be extremely draining, it also lends itself to addictive personalities. Boredom quickly turned into excitement. My free time was spent glued to my computer and scribbling notes down about waggle dances (a figure eight movement performed by a bee), varroa mites (the biggest threat to honeybee colonies), honey yields and eventually, the prospect of owning my own honey business. When I finished all my lectures, I turned to Bud Werner Memorial Library, devouring the impressive selection of beekeeping material they have at their disposal.
With the help of a new medication regimen, my bees helped me gain back control of my emotions, and in turn, my life. By the end of the summer, I had officially registered my new business, Backcountry Beekeeper, with the Colorado Secretary of State. Soon after that, the fruits of my new obsession came to fruition when I took a heated knife to uncap my honey supers – a box placed atop a beehive specifically for honey storage – in Mike and Val’s basement and placed them in an extractor that sucked out the entire summer’s worth of liquid gold.
All in all, my bees yielded about three gallons of honey, but more than that, they gave me something to live for and be proud of again. I now have 80,000 more reasons to wake up, be productive and take care of myself. Bipolar disorder isn’t the worst thing in the world, and thanks to my bees, I know that it doesn’t have to be.
Bipolar disorder isn’t the worst thing in the world, but for a long time, it was. Until my diagnosis in April 2024, the worst part was not knowing that I had the disease, while simultaneously knowing that things were definitely not OK.
The up-and-down mood swings were polarizing. The social anxiety was debilitating. My decisions became more and more risky, threatening my physical, mental and financial well-being. By that point, I had damaged relationships beyond repair.
At first, I chalked it up to alcoholism, a disease that many of my relatives had gone through and from which most had recovered, so I quit drinking cold turkey. The only thing that immediately changed was a lack of gnarly hangovers and my newfound adeptness for boredom. Something had to give, and I had no idea what that something was, until a very good friend invited me over to build some beehives.
That friend was Mike Lazano. Like me, Mike is a veteran, with whom I connected through Warhorse Ranch, an equine-therapy program that he runs with his wife, Valery. In the spring of 2023, Mike had enrolled in Heroes to Hives, a free nine-month online beekeeping course for active-duty military members, veterans and their immediate families through Michigan State University. He then started the Warhorse Ranch Veteran Bee Project – open to veterans on a case-by-case basis – and offered to help me start building a hive that we would place next to his five hives. I figured that maybe this could be my ‘something.’ I was right.
Some people turn to religion or AA during recovery, but as a proud atheist and generally stubborn individual, my True North ended up being 40,000-80,000 apis mellifera, (Latin for European honey bee) or the size of one healthy beehive on any given (summer) day.
While bipolar disorder can be extremely draining, it also lends itself to addictive personalities. Boredom quickly turned into excitement. My free time was spent glued to my computer and scribbling notes down about waggle dances (a figure eight movement performed by a bee), varroa mites (the biggest threat to honeybee colonies), honey yields and eventually, the prospect of owning my own honey business. When I finished all my lectures, I turned to Bud Werner Memorial Library, devouring the impressive selection of beekeeping material they have at their disposal.
With the help of a new medication regimen, my bees helped me gain back control of my emotions, and in turn, my life. By the end of the summer, I had officially registered my new business, Backcountry Beekeeper, with the Colorado Secretary of State. Soon after that, the fruits of my new obsession came to fruition when I took a heated knife to uncap my honey supers – a box placed atop a beehive specifically for honey storage – in Mike and Val’s basement and placed them in an extractor that sucked out the entire summer’s worth of liquid gold.
All in all, my bees yielded about three gallons of honey, but more than that, they gave me something to live for and be proud of again. I now have 80,000 more reasons to wake up, be productive and take care of myself. Bipolar disorder isn’t the worst thing in the world, and thanks to my bees, I know that it doesn’t have to be.