Krit McClean made headlines in late June by stripping naked in Times Square and jumping from the top of the TKTS booth. Here, the 21-year-old fashion model and college student speaks publicly for the first time about his meltdown with The Post’s Melkorka Licea.

It was a bright morning on June 30 when I stepped off the F train near Times Square. I had blisters all over my feet from walking barefoot and was overwhelmed with fear.

As I headed to my apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, I was in the throes of paranoia. I thought evil people were out to get me.

As I stared at the towering ads of Times Square, they started to send me subliminal messages.

“Express Yourself,” read the billboard for Express jeans.

I obeyed. I immediately took off my clothes. Being naked, I thought, was the most truthful way of expressing myself. It made me feel safe.

Then, I saw another “sign” — the red glow of the TKTS stairs looked like a red carpet. It beckoned me to the top.

After reaching the highest step, I noticed litter on the other side of the banister, so I climbed over.

I started collecting old gum, cigarette butts and coins — and ate it all. It was my way of disposing of the garbage.

I noticed figures in blue uniforms coming toward me. They looked evil, and I was convinced they were out to get me, too.

Trying to fend them off, I went back to expressing myself — this time with song and dance.

I repeated, “Yeezy, Yeezy, Yeezy just jumped over Jumpman,” and, “They smile in my face is what I don’t like,” hoping Kanye West’s lyrics would protect me. I saw him as a divine entity and his words my safeguard.

I also became transfixed with dichotomies, like Democrats vs. Republicans, love vs. hate, female vs. male. I screamed, “Donald Trump!”

I wasn’t really thinking; phrases were just coming out.

The uniformed figures started moving closer to me, and I saw a huge inflated pillow on the ground. I thought it was a trap.

So I leaped from the roof of the ticket booth, 18 feet above the sidewalk, dodging what I later learned was an airbag the rescuers had set up to break my fall.

I hit the ground, but I felt no pain. It felt like I was no longer inside my body.

I pretended to be dead.

When someone grabbed me, I screamed Kanye’s nickname, “YEEEEEEEZZZYYYYYY!”

Suddenly, needles pierced my body and I started to feel sleepy.

“It’s time to go into darkness,” I told myself.

It all started the week before. I became transfixed with the color yellow. I had never experienced anything so strange, but I didn’t realize anything was wrong.

I’m an artist, so I channeled this feeling into painting everything in my apartment yellow. I painted my shoes, clothes and photographs yellow and made a yellow costume to wear.

I also started following taxis.

I started to associate certain things with positivity and others with negativity. If I saw something I liked, like yellow, or art books or the Sullivan Street Bakery, I would gravitate to it.

I was hyper-focused.

I spent hours fixated on one conversation, practicing photography, painting, reciting monologues, singing and writing poetry. I stopped eating and checking my email. I felt I had found a new religion: the religion of love and artistic expression.

My best friend, Marc Choueiri, thought there was something seriously wrong and asked me, “Are you OK?” multiple times.

I’m a student at Columbia University studying English and political science, but I was in the middle of my summer break, so I wasn’t seeing my school friends. I was taking acting classes, but I was so wrapped up in my thoughts, I didn’t know how I was coming across to others.

I also became transfixed with dichotomies, like Democrats vs. Republicans, love vs. hate, female vs. male. I screamed, ‘Donald Trump!’ - Krit McClean

One night, I went home to see my family on Roosevelt Island. I tried to teach my dad, Vincent, my mom, Vipa, and older sister, Siri, about my newfound religious belief and gave them a painting lesson. My mom pleaded with me: “Please, darling, don’t go, don’t leave. Everything will be OK if you stay.”

I was working on an extensive project for the fashion magazine VMan the week I had my breakdown. I wanted to be at my best, so I quit smoking marijuana.

Not until after what happened did I realize I had been self-medicating for years. Smoking helped me sleep and calmed my racing thoughts. Quitting abruptly threw off my mental balance.

That whole week I slept a few hours each night, if at all. Strangely, the less sleep I got, the more energized I felt.

My paranoia heightened on June 29, the night before my Times Square show.

I thought I was James Bond. I thought everyone was after me. I ditched my phone because I thought it was a tracking device.

I grew scared in my apartment, so I went to my parents’ at 3 a.m.

“I have to sleep outside tonight,” I told my worried father. “People are coming, and they’re going to kill everyone in the family.” He stood in the doorway to block me, but I pushed him out of my way.

I walked to the southern tip of Roosevelt Island, took off my shoes so the “evil people” couldn’t hear my footsteps, and climbed over a cement wall to the water.

That night, I slept stretched out over the rocks, believing mermaids were keeping me safe.

When I woke in Bellevue Hospital, my feet were shackled and my right wrist was handcuffed to the bed. The other arm was in a cast. I had 13 stitches on my left elbow, where broken bone had pierced skin.

My parents weren’t able to see me because I was in custody. Finally, my sister came in a few days later. “We don’t care about what happened,” Siri said. “We love you, Krit.”

I was moved to a barren room at the hospital’s psychiatric ward. I worked with psychotherapists to determine what had happened.

At first, I didn’t believe I had anything wrong with me. But after meeting my current therapist, Dr. Samoon Ahmad, I began to understand and accept my diagnosis — I was bipolar, and my nude jaunt was part of a manic episode.

It wasn’t until I got out of Bellevue three weeks later that I saw the front page of The Post with the headline “Ball Drop in Times Square.” I laughed.

That is not to say mental illness is a joke. I am now on medication and go to therapy sessions weekly.

I’m still trying to fix the damage in other parts of my life. Ford Models no longer represents me. Columbia is holding a disciplinary hearing. I faced criminal charges in court.

Most reactions have been punitive and don’t come from a place of understanding of mental illness. That is why I am going public — to help others with mental illness who battle constant judgments and stigmas. In sharing my experience, I hope to start a dialogue. I’m now involved with the National Alliance on Mental Illness.

We can all relate to being judged and misunderstood. We have all at some point been the “weird” one, whether in the classroom, gym or office. But if we approach each other with empathy, openness and sensitivity instead of judgment, we might just learn from one another.

I will continue to pursue my career in the arts and in modeling. I’m working on my photography and acting. I’m also learning to love myself, even my mania, because it’s a part of who I am.

Illness is terrifying — and deadly

Bipolar disorder is a mental illness defined by depression, mania or both — with the severest form of mania marked by racing thoughts, sleeplessness, irritability, euphoria or overindulgence, says Dr. Samoon Ahmad, the Kips Bay psychiatrist treating Krit McClean.

People in a manic episode might also become delusional, hallucinate, feel paranoid or perceive messages incorrectly, he said.

It is most common in people in their 20s and 30s and has the highest suicide rate of all psychiatric conditions, he said. Treatments include mood stabilizers, therapy and a balanced lifestyle.

By Melkorka Licea