I don't remember my initial reaction to being diagnosed bipolar. I was a young 21 year old and for the most part felt invincible. I don't remember being shocked when the doctor told me I was manic-depressive and would have to take medication for the rest of my life. The chronicity of the illness didn't faze me.
I had not yet experienced it's devastating effects I was a young 21 and I felt I could fight the illness. But as the years passed and hospitalizations increased it dawned on me that I was perhaps fighting a formidable foe, and some battles would be lost.

I was hospitalized after the birth of both my sons. There were so many subsequent hospitalizations that I have lost count. The most recent was the worst though. I was in the hospital for 9 months and don't really remember the first 3. I do remember the last 6 months of my stay.Most of my memories are horrific. Mental hospitals are not the ideal places to heal a broken mind, and so I suffered. I remember crying myself to sleep as I listened to the screaming on the ward, and the sound of orderlies trying to get patients under control. It was a nightmare. Nothing however could prepare me for what would assail me when I was released.

I was released to a board and care in Long Beach. It was a filthy pit. My room was disgusting, filled with dirt and the smell of rot. The people there were rotting as well. Most were in a stupor and those that were aware of their surroundings spent their time asking for and smoking cigarettes. I saw many clients during med time simply spitting the meds out .In no time at all the police would be summoned  to hospitalize the client under a 51-50.

I soon left that board and care and lived in several others until moving to my present location. I was miserable. At least my present circumstances don't assault the senses . It is clean and I have my own room. I have a television and internet. It is still a long way from where I want to go but it is a step in the right direction.

My reaction now when I think about bipolar disorder is a mixture of fear and loathing. I now know what a devastating impact it can have on a life and I hate the fact that I have it. I am afraid that I will have another episode. I am afraid of what is going to happen to me. Everyday I struggle to hang in there, but I am getting tired. The stigma "out there" is nothing compared to the self stigma that attacks my self esteem. I am no longer cavalier in my attitude towards mental illness. It has kicked my ass many times and will probably kick it again before all is said and done. The best I can do is to fight it on every front and above all take my meds. Hopefully my best will be good enough.