When I was in second grade, I wrote out, in list form, all the reasons I should die. The loneliness of my depression was anguishing in my childhood; I was an awkward and sad child one moment, often made fun of and extremely lonely, but the next, I was gregarious, outspoken, running the entire pack of neighborhood kids and immensely fearless. The extremes only progressed and grew worse by my teenage years. When depressed, I stayed in bed a lot; I cried, I could hardly get myself moving for anything, often at the frustration of my mother who didn't seem to want to understand (still doesn't, but that's a different story.) When manic, I was fidgety, spoke with high, almost rapid energy; I was promiscuous and often turned from high energy to high rage; in my first year at a junior college, I stayed one week before withdrawing from all my classes, taking the adjusted refund and taking the money to go shopping. The worst of it was in my twenties, though. In two years, I had slept with a shocking amount of people. When I was depressed, I stayed in my apartment for a week and didn't change out of my clothes. I, once again, stopped going to school; sometimes these episodes changed so alarmingly often that I didn't even know what day I was in. When I was depressed, I ended up cutting, which is something I would never think to do normally. When I was up, I was taking a new person almost every night to my bed. I spent a lot of money; I broke a lot of relationships. I knew it was time to seek help when my husband told me he didn't think he could stay with me anymore. I put him through hell (I even had an affair, which I feel guilty for now), and the pressures of BD were finally starting to ruin more important things in my life (i.e. my marriage, my job). I'm glad I did, because while it's not perfect, seeking the help I desperately needed has improved my marriage and my own personal stability.