There is a piece of me that I work incredibly hard to keep hidden from sight.  I’m ashamed and embarrassed, and I’ve kept it hidden in friendships, high school, college, as a mental health worker, and in the cubicle farm in which I currently spend most of my time.  Only a handful of people I come out to, or those who have seen me at my worst (or highest), know my secret.

I have bipolar disorder. I prefer the old name, manic depression, it is clearer and sounds less out of order.  It is also usually what I have to follow with when I get a blank or confused stare after using the official name.

My brother suggested that I write a blog to share my stories and insights (the good, the bad and the ugly).  It’s a mixed bag.  Although I’m scared, the catharsis is appealing, and if I can shed any light on it for someone going through it, studying it, or has a loved one who needs some understanding – super.  I have semi-secretly worn this diagnosis since I was 16, and I’m coming up on my 24th anniversary.

Tonight it is late, and my most important weapon against mania is sleep.

Good night.

Taken at an art show (don’t know the artist).