In grade school my academic and social performance was superior.

I earned my driving permit and license on time. People trusted me. I was involved in advanced placement programs; extracurriculars; church. Was first runner-up in my high school pageant. Received awards in computer competency and social studies. A musician at the top of my class. Placed in my high school's Hall of Fame and sang the National Anthem at my graduation. Only child with both parents emotionally present. Never abused. Enjoyed a close, loving family and thriving social life.

Both colleges and music programs I applied and auditioned for accepted me. Chose one, and off I went. I experienced much of the same success in college, although midway through my Bachelor's Degree I found my path to be... Complicated.

Bipolar Disorder. I wouldn't be diagnosed until later adulthood but undoubtedly inherited a severe form of this disease from my biological family (adopted) as no environmental factors could explain the suicidality and psychosis to come.

I was not the usual suspect. Bipolar I Disorder meant much more than zaniness and dispositional unpredictability (hallmarks I do not disproportionately experience as-is commonly portrayed in Bipolar patients).

Bipolar I meant life was for the living. Stay out late. Meet strangers. Don't care if you live or die. Yell at machines. Rage at passersby. Ask yourself regularly, "Is this real life?" through clouded thoughts. Wonder if anything you did really mattered because, if it was all a dream, you'd wake up soon. Don't sleep. Don't eat. Receive compliments on your weight loss. Travel nearly four miles on foot despite not being athletically conditioned to do so. Feel fine after. Lose time. Mistake hazy perceptions for oncoming migraines even though the pain associated with a migraine never came...

I lost my sanity. I was in my mid-twenties and had been struggling to hold down a job despite being The Golden Child in the family. I'd been depressed before. Anxiety had crippled me. Manic? Never. Mania came like a thief in the night and took my career, my sense of self-security, pride, safety - thank God it didn't take my spouse or my family.

My family: these people I spent years screwing over with my screw ups. My parents went into major debt to put me through college only for me to struggle to apply my degree due to my breakdowns. People who always shouldered my financial burdens - who stood between me and homelessness. Hunger. Loss of life and opportunity. I knew there was something wrong, and I sought treatment. Diagnosis: generalized anxiety and depression. Not to minimize what the sufferers of anxiety and depression experience, but I knew it was more than those neuroses. Something had been wrong for years, but I didn't have a name for it. I had my name, however - I could blame myself, and I did. There was no disorder in those days to cry foul at.

This successful, exuberant, oyster-for-a-world girl

turned into a calloused, scarred, simultaneously-fragile woman relearning how to live.

I was not the usual suspect. Bipolar Disorder crept into my life and, year-by-year, drained me of everything I had. It turned me into an anemic personality. Without a diagnosis, I had no reason to complain and nothing to point the finger at. Inward my disappointment and disapproval went.

Now, I know better. Now, I have medication, therapy - tools with which to fight the beast. Its hold on my life is interrupted. Sadly, it will always have the upper hand - who can out reason the mind?

Life after mania - after what revealed my true diagnosis - is like surveying an area after a powerful storm has overtaken it. The landscape is permanently changed; the mind no longer thinks the same way or perceives things the same way as it did pre-event,

however, rebuilding is possible. Necessary.

To my spouse an ignorant coworker (really: they meant nothing harsh and didn't know any different) remarked at hearing I was a stay-at-home wife:

"That must be nice."

As though I were a kept woman. Later my husband explained to them I would be delighted to work. Years of crashes and resignations eventually lead to a diagnosis which meant whatever capacity I work in won't look like the traditional 9 - 5 most tolerate.

I always wanted to work. I never imagined myself not working. I didn't put myself through college because my work ethic is poor. In fact, I dreamed about being in the top of my field. My present reality, while it could be exponentially worse (what mercy God has had on me), couldn't be occupationally farther from what I wanted - what my understanding parents wanted - for my life. It's not nice. There's nothing nice about what has happened to me.

My hope for the future now lies, more than ever, in a distant future. I believe things can get better, but I no longer hold the notion life will be smooth-sailing as my adolescence was. This is not how life works for any of us, and I am now among the ranks of most people who suffer and suffer in one of the cruelest and most bizarre ways.

We weather storms perpetually and find reprieve along the way. Thanks for reading.