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I developed major depressive disorder when I was eighteen, caused by severe social anxiety. Treatments failed, perhaps not unexpectedly, as most of them focused on the symptoms of the illness, and not the cause. I tried Cognitive Behavioral Therapy in an attempt to fix the underlying issue but that required effort. Since I had no energy, it too failed.

For a long while I had wanted to go backpacking and use it as exposure therapy to treat the social anxiety. I dissuaded myself for years but when it became clear that I was not getting well, I finally committed to the trip. There was nothing to lose, after all.

In 2012 I began a six-month backpacking trip around Asia. It was an opportunity to face my social fears, repeatedly, every day. Cafes had intimidated me, so I went to one each morning for breakfast. Restaurants had frightened me, so I went to one every lunchtime, and again in the evening. Bars had made me particularly nervous, so I went out for a few drinks every night. I had always avoided talking to other people, if at all possible, so I talked at every opportunity. Where I had always said ‘No’ to invitations and new experiences, I now said ‘Yes’ and experienced as many things as I could afford. The trip healed me completely of social anxiety which, in turn, healed most of the depression. It was the most miraculous transformation.

In 2015 I fell into depression again, this time as a result of life events. I knew that my previous method of recovery could not help here—I didn’t need exposure therapy. What I needed was an opportunity to retreat from life and to think through my issues. The Camino de Santiago beckoned. It’s a pilgrimage—a backpacking endeavor where participants walk 750 km across the north of Spain. It’s open to everyone regardless of their religious beliefs.

I went to Spain and started my Camino, a long walk broken down into short daily stages. Each one completed provided a daily boost to my self-esteem and I also benefited from socializing with the other walkers. I was always one step outside of my comfort zone and I had time to think. Once again, I recovered from depression. The Camino is a loving, safe and supportive environment and I recommend it.

I maintain a blog called the Depressed Backpacker and have written a book with the same name. I hope to encourage others to participate in this form of recovery. There’s nothing to lose and everything to gain.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

As with many of us I knew from an early age I was different from the children and adults that were in my life. I spent my childhood, school years and college riding the rollercoaster of bipolar disorder. I also grabbed onto things and people I defined as all good and put those judgements on a pedestal when those people and things failed to be perfect, I couldn’t see any value in them and would completely disregard and ruin the relationships. I joined DBSA about 5 years ago and attended only 2 groups. I came back because I found them again after a suicide attempt. I heard people saying the things I had been feeling for decades. I was so overwhelmed I broke down sobbing uncontrollably. For the first time in my life, I was not afraid of being judged, and I didn’t feel threatened.

DBSA became my life saver. If I hadn’t been able to attend support groups on a weekly basis, I’m sure I would have made another suicide attempt. I kept going to meetings and kept getting stronger. I was asked to facilitate a group and after much deliberation, I agreed. Later I was asked to serve on the chapter board of directors. Again I thought it over carefully. As with most of us with mental illness, we hold ourselves back from what other people may see of us because of our low self-esteem issues. I now serve on my local chapter board. I have learned I am safe at DBSA. I’ve learned I am accepted and I can be involved without letting the bipolar or the borderline personality disorder destroy my relationships with DBSA. I have also received remarkable help from a great psychiatrist and an even better psychologist. I’ve learned I need to identify my moods, triggers, and splitting. I have learned how to deal with them before they get a hold of me. Now I breathe. I talk things over with my professional support team and a trusted friend. When a trigger comes along, I frame it in ways I learned through therapy and by belonging to DBSA. I continue to attend groups.  I recently attended a DBSA Conference in New Jersey where I was able to shift the paradigm of my thinking:

  • I do not suffer from this illness.
  • I do not have an illness that owns me.
  • I no longer live with an illness;
  • I am not its hostess, and
  • These illnesses are not my roommates.
  • I live well and thrive.
  • I am normal.

I am glad to see DBSA emphasizing the idea we can move from Illness to Wellness. I hope everyone who has received mental health diagnoses can move along through their lives with wellness and thriving.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

It never crossed my mind that I might be suffering from a mental illness, despite staying awake for days at a time, working myself into an aggressive stupor, or tearing apart my relationships. I thought it was just my personality until I was diagnosed with manic depression in 2004. I didn’t think too much about it when it was suggested that I attend counseling, which I did, and take medication for the rest of my life. That was my problem. The medicine. As a young 24 year old mother with two sons and a husband at the time, I couldn’t fathom taking medicine just to get through a day without feeling “different.” So I avoided medication and continued on with my life of tyranny for the next 11 years.

Finally, I hit a brick wall. No, I didn’t hit a brick wall… it hit me. Suddenly, I was in a position in my life that I had never been in: arrested. I had worked my entire life to go to college, graduate, own a business, get married (and divorced) raise my two sons and do things most people only think about. I had spiraled so out of control that it landed me in jail. That was what did it for me. Once I bonded out, I called my doctor and told her I was ready. I knew I needed the help but avoided it even when it led to me being hospitalized in 2007 for a week. Prior to my arrest, I felt that I was stronger than any mental illness, after my arrest, I was ready to seek support.

It’s laughable now but jail was the greatest reality check I needed. I went to my doctor and she started my treatment plan. What a relief. Or so I thought. It has taken me time to get over some of my past mistakes. I didn’t realize how much damage I caused the people I loved because I refused treatment. I wanted and needed to be stronger than my illness because in the Black community, mental illness feels like it is only your burden and shame, with no help for those in need. So you walk alone. I had to decide to step out in walking alone to help others.

I started to video journal my story about being Young, Black and Bipolar on YouTube as an outlet for others, like me, who are trapped inside of their minds and their communities. My videos allow me to humble myself and ask for forgiveness but most importantly to forgive myself. I try hard to stay on the right path because sometimes I want to let the worst part of me come out but I enjoy being kinder and more thoughtful of my actions. It’s nice to know who I really am versus contending with the symptoms of a mental illness gone unchecked.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

I’m a 47 year old single mother that used to maintain a wonderful career in the healthcare industry and had a very productive life until the end of 2008. After having personal difficulties, I found myself needing to take a leave of absence from my job, which led to my resignation in 2009. I experienced a deep depression and with the economic fall out, I found myself in financial debt and emotional despair. This went on until 2011 when I finally found myself so desperate that I asked for help with my dark depression. I felt alone, worthless, sad, and empty because no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t get a grip on life. At my doctor’s appointment, I was prescribed an antidepressant. Six weeks after being prescribed the antidepressant, I went into a full blown mania episode. It just so happened to be the first day of my daughter’s 8th grade year of school. It all began three days prior, when I found myself struggling with insomnia. It was a very scary and confusing time for me. I was experiencing increased energy, giddiness, and racing thoughts. Eventually I became paranoid, delusional, and sick to my stomach. I was confused and I did not understand what was wrong with me. I alerted my closest relative who took me to the doctor. I was immediately put on an antipsychotic and the antidepressant was lowered. I was told that day that I have bipolar disorder. After many visits, it was clarified to me that I had a chemical imbalance which led to the mental break and resulted in me being diagnosed with bipolar disorder type I.

I am lucky that I have a great, loving family, and I trust my doctor’s advice and instruction. I had to give myself time to adjust to my new self that now has to take a smaller dosage of the same antipsychotic and different antidepressant. It has been a trial and error finding what dosage works best for me. But I also had some financial and emotional setbacks. I had to move in with a family member for over a year to get back on my feet. During this time, I regained control of my emotions and became more financially secure which allowed me to move into my own home.

I have learned that I am stronger than I realized. If you have love for yourself and others, you can live a normal life with a mental health condition.

I know that I have to take my medication daily, eat right, have the proper sleep, and keep my stress level down in order to maintain a well-balanced life and to manage my bipolar I disorder—just like most productive people. I know that having a mental health disorder is no different than having an illness such as arthritis or diabetes. I am currently blogging to try to teach others that they should not treat anyone less because they may have mental issues such as I do. Being my own advocate is the first step to standing up for social equality for people who face the stigma of mental illness in our society today.

Currently, I am still a work in progress. I enjoy activities with my daughter, family, and friends. I have found it necessary not to be shameful of my disorder. Talking and sharing my story not only helps me, but hopefully could help someone else. It has definitely been a character building experience and I have learned a lot about myself and how much of a fighter I am.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

On a fragrant, spring evening in 2006, my mood and behavior were marred by somber darkness and crippling psychosis. It was my first break in several years. Screaming into the phone at my psychiatrist, I couldn’t hold back gibberish and nonsensical speech. I don’t recall, but somehow I contacted an ambulance and I was on my way to a community hospital.

My psychiatrist, who was at the hospital, attended to me. Full of grandiosity, I screeched sounds repeatedly. My clothing was quickly replaced with a white straight jacket right out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I had become violent.  Kindly, they placed me in a darkened room where I ruminated about the world coming to an end. I saw myself as Jesus and concocted over and over elaborate schemes to save earth.

I envisioned myself as omnipotent. My bipolar disorder I was at its absolute worst.

After a week, excellent psychiatric care and an opportunity to rest my mind and body helped me to heal. I had arrived at this state because I had asked my former psychiatrist to take me off my medicine because of terrible side effects. After a few weeks of not sleeping, I spiraled into sleep deprivation psychosis. It was traumatic for a few days. Initially, I still resisted sleep.  However, as bad as it was, I can compare my current mental health and it is now much better. Yes, there are times when I still have hard times. But they are few and far between.

Since then, I haven’t been back in the hospital. Over the years, I have been fortunate enough to have excellent care. Even though I initially went off my medicine, I have since learned that “pharmaceuticals for better living” made a huge difference in my life.  My recovery included learning how to take care of myself.  If I felt mania coming on, I would often go to the beach and read soothing literature. I would soak up serenity. Support from friends and family eased me back to a calm state. Sometimes a heart to heart conversation with a close friend makes the difference.

I worked as a writer for most of my adult life. I wrote about health and mental health. After successive breakdowns, it became difficult for me to write and work full time. I learned that brain chemistry is altered from trauma. I am currently reinventing my writing life. Through writing and asking questions of my psychiatrist, I have learned quite a bit about bipolar. I am passionate about understanding bipolar in order to help others and myself. Education about mental illness is improving. Yet, when I shared with a neighbor that I had bipolar disorder, she was quick to call me a lunatic and looney when she became angry at me. Sometimes, I feel that my desire to help others is because of that neighbor. I am not a lunatic, but old scripts have people calling me or others names because they just don’t understand. I believe that many people are frightened of mental illness because there is so much stigma. Once I began to understand bipolar, it became my intention to educate others about the condition. I encourage those who are having mental health difficulty to seek help. A longtime friend jokingly says my picture should appear on posters for people seeking therapy. I provide referrals to therapists or other mental health professionals in order to ease suffering. I have delivered speeches about mental illness in order to reduce stigma. Sometimes that can be frightening but I believe it may help.

I recognize the need to take care of my own mental health. I recognize when I am cycling up or spiraling down, I need to intervene. I use techniques to calm myself and work closely with my mental health team. My goal is to help myself so I can help others with bipolar disorder.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

Finally and Forever

In the dark year of 1999, I was challenged with a dilemma that I thought could not be solved. But luckily, with treatment and time, I recovered gracefully. I learned how to grasp onto my once lost will while I erased my self-pity, self-doubt and self-defeat. In essence, I overcame my mental disorder, bipolar, and I refused to let it block my success in life. I never thought I would have been able to write a self-affirming story about my experience with bipolar. My suffering seemed too gloomy without any possible retraction. My psychiatric disorder began when I was twenty-six years old. I was a top customer service representative and I received many accolades for my performance along with other merits and awards until my one-year anniversary. My life took a total spin.

As a customer service representative it was normal for me to handle a high volume of calls even if they seemed overwhelming. Without notice, it seemed as if I lost control of my thoughts. The calls at work were decreasing in volume, but to me it seemed as if they were quadrupling by the millions each second. I became unaware of time. I also began to lose touch with reality. The more calls I received, the more confused I became. The voices of customers were distorted and scary to me. I also began to have “visions”. My perception of the biblical world became an unreal fantasy. Now I was in two worlds—real and unreal.

Hence, I could not perform my job any longer. My unreal mind told me that I was going on a pilgrimage, so I, without question left my place of employment, with resignation that I was “going into a new world.” 

I was so focused on becoming my own Savior that I walked night and day trying to save the world, to find Jerusalem, but to no avail the many days I walked around without a plan led me not only to be malnourished, but an undiagnosed patient into a crisis center (the night I tried to drive myself to space or heaven).

Thankfully, on December 31, 1999, treatment began for me when my loved ones coaxed me into going to a crisis center. Although my behavior was mimicked in the year of 2003, and I was once again convinced to go to a crisis center again. When I was admitted I was given medication that “woke me up” or rather brought me back to reality. Once I discovered that my disorder was a lifelong illness I was disappointed as well as depressed. I turned my depression into words of pain, anxiety, and frustration on paper—I journaled every day. Tear drops landed on many pages of my many entries.

Though I journaled, I almost became reclusive. I was ashamed of who I was. But I came to an epiphany, “why worry?” My misery soon was released after three years of writing, and journaling. I concluded that bipolar should be a major concern and managed with responsibility, but not obsessed with worry.

Empowered, my low self-esteem eventually diminished. I chose to believe that bipolar was only a “condition” and a part of me, which I accepted. I began to love myself for who I am and moved forward. I regained my confidence and re-established what I had lost.  I found employment, gained control of my finances, and my social life; it was like a bad dream and waking up to a new fresh morning.

Furthermore, as recovery is always an ongoing process, I claim myself as “healed.” I continue my methods of treatment. Faith, prayer, and positive thinking contribute to my everyday lifestyle. They all are a part of my daily routine, and keep me well. I will live with this disorder for eternity, but I will embrace my journey that led me to be able to tell this story. Also, I greatly wish for others who have this disorder to overcome it and defeat stigma without giving up hope, and to identify themselves as “extraordinary.”

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

When I was eight years old I announced that when I grew up I was going to be a famous artist and live in Paris. My mother, then a full time college student, instilled the belief that I could be whatever I wanted. She sat me and my twin siblings down to inform us that we could attend any college we desired for free because our father died. As a kid, I didn’t understand anything about social security or Veterans survivor benefits; I just knew that my mom had given me a dream to hang onto.

Creating art was an escape that helped me cope with the suicide of my father in our home and the subsequent emotional numbness that enveloped my mother. When I was 19 years old, my brother had his first psychotic break, and I was scared that I would be next. After ten years of watching my brother decompensate with severe mental illness, I began to have uncontrollable crying spells that baffled me. Already confined in depression, intense fear that something horrific was about to occur crept in and swathed me in anxiety. I desperately sought relief from the heaviness that weighed down the muscles needed to speak, much less smile. With determination and faulty reasoning, I figured I would find out what was wrong and fix it so that I could get my life back. It wasn’t an easy fix, and I couldn’t do it by myself.

After being diagnosed with major depressive disorder and taking anti-depressants for several months, I rocketed into rapid cycling and was hospitalized for the first of many times in 1992. After many medications and more hospitalizations I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. The mania symptoms I experience are not the classic type you see in movies. I mostly experience dysphoric mania, which is the concurrent presence of depressive and manic symptoms, the most dreadful state I’ve ever endured. Imagine feeling despondent, exhausted, detached and hopeless while simultaneously agitated in warp speed. I could not sleep or eat, was confused as racing thoughts spun in my brain while what felt like jolts of energy zapped through my torso into my extremities.

I joined a six month study at the National Institutes of Mental Health in Bethesda, MD. My time living at NIMH allowed me incredible opportunities to listen to some pretty smart folks explaining brain functioning and treatments for mental illnesses. I spent a lot of time in the vast libraries on the campus and participated in every type of therapy available to me. I especially benefited from art therapy, cognitive behavioral therapy, meditation, and exercise groups.

Back in California, I struggled through mood swings to continue learning about bipolar disorder. I was empowered by expressing my experience with mental illness through drawing, painting, photography and mixed media, and having my artwork displayed in galleries. I attended many support groups and became an advocate for myself and others. Psychotherapy was an immense help in learning to cope with my new “normal.”

As I began to get better at managing my symptoms and the psychological distress they bring, I decided I wanted to become a therapist. I went back to school and completed a Master of Science degree and am now a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist.

It’s been 15 years since I was last hospitalized, though I haven’t forgotten the confusion, fear and pain of the most challenging time of my life. That’s why I now have my own business specializing in working with women living with anxiety, depression and bipolar disorder.

I don’t consider myself “recovered,” as bipolar disorder is not a broken bone that I can completely recover from. I manage bipolar disorder with therapy, medication, practicing coping skills, paying attention to sleep, nutrition, exercise and surrounding myself with healthy relationships. I also embrace joy and laughter every single day.

My determination to understand bipolar disorder by educating myself, creating art, having very supportive family and friends and an outstanding professional treatment team helped me to stabilize. I didn’t just get my life back; I created the life I wanted.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

Some of my earliest memories go back to when I was in kindergarten. These are not happy memories of friends, coloring, chocolate milk, and cookies. Rather they are memories of profound sadness with a strong desire to disappear. I did not know the words depression, suicide, or mental illness, but I did know that I was very sad, alone, and all I wanted to do was just go away and never be heard from or seen again. In later years, coming to terms with these memories actually became a comfort to me as I realized that a five year old would not be having suicidal ideations all the time if there were not some profound clinical cause of these feelings and thoughts. This helped me realize that my character was not flawed and that I was not a “bad person”. Instead I was sick. I have a real illness. However, I had a difficult road to this realization.

In my teens, I started to self-medicate my constant feelings of despair and sadness. It did not take long before I was addicted to alcohol. In my mid-twenties, at the intervention of my employer, I went to drug and alcohol rehab and became sober. My first year of sobriety was as if I unleashed a terrible monster in my mind as my untreated depression raged at full fury without the numbing effects of alcohol. In little time, I became jobless, delusional, and suicidal. I had a clear and intentional plan to kill myself. I sincerely thought I would be doing the world a favor and the voices I kept hearing in my mind told me it was the right thing to do.

Another intervention saved my life. An out-patient addiction counselor I had been working with called the local crisis team. In minutes, two people knocked on my door and sat down and spoke with me. I spent the next eleven months between in-patient psychiatric care and an out-patient partial hospitalization program. After numerous trials of medications, combinations of medications, intensive and sometimes confrontational therapy, and a round of ECT, the wounds in my soul suffered from a lifetime of depression began to heal.

In the nearly two decades since I was hospitalized with severe, psychotic depression, I worked in several capacities caring for and providing community based services for people with a variety of disabilities. I also cared for my wife, who was slowing dying from complications caused by lupus. When my wife passed away in 2005, I found myself again at the door of a professional counselor. I have since come to view monthly appointments with mental health professionals as “preventative maintenance”, much like taking my car for an oil change. I remain on psychotropic medication and will be for life. I continue to monitor my symptoms, mood changes, and even my behavior. I am okay with this because I have also learned that I have an inner strength and a determination to persevere, survive, and thrive.

I once had grandiose ideas of what I would become in life. I now know that a simple life being honest with myself and others and working to help make the world just a little bit better is truly noble and honorable. I have left full-time employment but I continue to volunteer my time and energy to helping others. Bipolar type II has been added to my diagnosis to reflect the frequent hypomanic episodes I experience. I must continually monitor symptoms and my medication sometimes needs adjusting.  I have remarried and my spouse is truly a partner who supports and encourages me to maintain my mental health. She monitors my symptoms and is honest with me even when it may make me uncomfortable. Being male, I have learned there is no shame in being honest about my mental illness. I feel a calling to help other men realize this as well because society has long taught that talking about our feelings was not okay. This barrier caused by stigma destroys many lives and needs to be broken. There is strength in honesty and healing.

My name is Robbie Graves. I am a man with mental illness. I preserve, strive, and thrive.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

My journey with bipolar certainly has framed my adult life, but it hasn’t defined it.

Just getting a correct diagnosis was certainly half the battle early on. For me I was acutely aware that I was running away from a lot of emotional issues in high school.  Once I got to college I had insight to seek professional help in dealing with them. For better or worse, the help I received lead to a misdiagnosis of depression. I was compliant with treatment and put on a medication. Less than two months later my sleep and eating became erratic and I became hypo-manic. This episode reached its climax when I ended up walking 3 plus miles to seek treatment at a local hospital.

Over the next two years I would wrestle life at college and the harsh reality of adapting to life on medication. For me at this time, I viewed taking meds as the only way I was going to be stable enough to go to class. After two semesters and three credits to my name, it became clear that having success in the classroom was going to be an uphill climb. At the request of administrators at the university, I was told not to return until I had proven I could handle life and academics at that level. I never wanted to leave, but I knew I needed to find stability in my treatment regimen and I had to develop a whole new way of staying busy while I was getting back to the classroom. As medications allowed I read more, I exercised, I would swim at a local YMCA, and I also discovered the craft of journaling. At first I had tons of downtime, and I would spend it at a local park, just observing the world around me and not being afraid or critical of what I wrote down. Eventually I found part-time work, which was a struggle at first. I remember that I read The Power of Positive Thinking, and I would jot down affirmations and put them on 3 by 5 cards and read them on my way to work in order to keep myself focused and not get down about not being at the university.

Eventually I picked up momentum and I took classes at a community college. I kept on taking the next logical step, taking more difficult classes and transferring to the next college. In February of 2001, I covered another hurdle and I was accepted back into the University of Michigan. In August of 2004 I received a Bachelor of Science Degree. Post-University I certainly have had struggles adapting to professional life. There have been times where I have thought that the easiest way to achieve goals was to take a “shortcut” and get off my meds and be “normal” so I could be accepted by more people in general. This approach backfired every time. I now know that in order to achieve my dreams staying in treatment is an absolute necessity.

Today, I am a really creative person. I have published two poetry books, composed dozens of songs, I have dozens of paintings and ceramic pieces, and I love taking photos of nature. I have tremendous creative goals (I am in the process of writing a symphony) and I know they are achievable if I have faith in myself and patience knowing that as one of my teachers put it “life is made in inches”. Having a supportive family certainly has helped in my journey. They have helped me stay true to myself, and their value as been immeasurable. Through every turn in the process I have learned that if you are determined and you focus and commit yourself to a desired outcome, anything is achievable in life. Having a mental illness doesn’t stop you from your dreams, it provides you with an awareness that helps you become a better you.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.

As a college freshman, I fell into a suicidal depression, believing that my family and the world would be better off without me. I knew I needed help, and saw a psychologist whose cognitive therapy helped me with my suicidal thoughts. Throughout my twenties, I used psychotherapy to cope with my depressive symptoms. In the 1980’s and early 1990’s the hypomanic symptoms of bipolar disorder type II were not yet diagnosed. I was considered an overachiever battling chronic depression. I went on to attend graduate school and become licensed as a psychotherapist, specializing in the treatment of adolescents.

At the age of thirty I had a complete psychiatric breakdown. I was unable to get up out of bed. For the first time, I turned to medical doctors for medication. A psychiatrist prescribed a tricyclic antidepressant which led to manic psychosis. I spent a week without sleep with thoughts racing in binary (zeroes and ones), about chaos theory, and about Christian mystics. Although my psychosis was manic, I was not prescribed a mood stabilizer. My psychiatrist prescribed a three-day regime of antipsychotics which stopped the racing thoughts in their tracks and allowed me to sleep. At that point, I simply couldn’t function on my own. I would fall asleep driving to my temporary clerical job. When at work, I would try to read a word or a sentence over and over, unable to string the letters and words together, unable to make sense of them. I appeared competent. No one could see that I, a highly educated and articulate former professional woman, could not read a sentence.

As both a psychotherapist and as a patient, I have experienced optimal results when care providers and family members work as a team to support the patient. Since I could not take care of myself, I returned to my parents’ home where I visited a group practice and saw both a psychotherapist and a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist prescribed a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. This treatment team and medication provided me with relief from depressive symptoms. My parents encouraged my recovery by giving me work to do around their home and charging me room and board. Once I was up for it, I got outside employment, starting as a temporary file clerk. This temporary position led to a decade long career in commercial real estate. Although I continued to show hypomanic symptoms, working long hours and periodically burning out, I seemed to be coping well.

Soon after moving back in with my parents, I met my future husband. On our second date, though I was living with my parents and filing invoices as a temp, he told me that I was the most independent woman he had ever met. I laughed, for my then-current life circumstances were far from independent. But, he could see beyond that. He saw me, not my illness. Three years after we met, we married and later had a son.

At the age of thirty-nine, I realized that once again I was experiencing the symptoms of mania. I sought psychiatric treatment and medication for bipolar disorder. Eventually I had myself voluntarily hospitalized, spending two weeks in the hospital and months in partial hospitalization. The hospital offered an excellent highly structured program in which we attended groups throughout the day. In these groups, I learned many coping skills and met others with similar struggles.

I look much like the other mothers in the neighborhood, but life remains a balancing act. Now fifty-one years old, I blog (kittomalley.com) and communicate online with other mental health bloggers, advocates, poets, and writers. I reclaim my life. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a writer, a blogger. I live with bipolar disorder type II. I am a mental health advocate.

This story is a part of the Life Unlimited series.
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