I review the previous 24 hours.
No harrowing bouts of depression so profound it hurts to speak.
No episodes of hypomania where I jabber on as fast and shrill as a squirrel on Adderall.
No thoughts of suicide.
In other words, a good day.
Which seems like a religious miracle considering the countless crippling ones that led me here.
Enough of those days and you are so worn down, you think eventually youll be erased altogether.
Such is the excellent work that bipolar disorder does.
I talked about my childhood.
Reexperienced the pain of childbirth.
Did my best to describe my panic attacks.
In return I was given Valium, various forms of Benzedrine, crude early antidepressants.
None of which touched the illness.
Trudging on, I managed to thrive at college, grad school and various magazine jobs.
While a little voice within whispered,Fix me.
Somehow I survived until I chanced upon my salvation.
He asked me questions no one ever had before.
Did I have sudden, overwhelming desires for activity, for creativity, for sex?
Did I call friends at all hours, desperate to share some amazing idea?
Did I have long periods when I couldnt function and have thoughts of killing myself?
This doesnt sound like ordinarydepressionat all, said the good doctor.
I think you have bipolar disorder bipolar II, actually.
Im going to prescribe something new for you.
I think it will help.
The hours spent paralyzed in bed, my notebook uselessly in reach.
The relationships ruined when impatient women thought I was too moody.
Pictures of these years ran through me as fast as a movie trailer.
And I began to cry.
What Dr. Abrams prescribed for me was a drug called lamotrigine.
Yet, even with that challenge, approximately 6 million American adults struggle with the condition.
They are no farther away than my closest friends.
First I would go into high manic mode.
Id work a ridiculous number of hours every day.
I went on wild shopping sprees.
The lows were terrible bouts of irritability and deathly depression.
I would snap at people for no reason.
