I was in denial for a long time after my diagnosis. I knew in my heart of hearts that it was the right one, but I was devastated. I'm the only one in my family who's ever been diagnosed bipolar (although I'm sure my mother had it as well) and I was so ashamed at first. It was when I found out I'd been diagnosed with bipolar 1 in the hospital that I finally accepted that I really was sick, I wasn't making it up, and I had to allow myself to be treated accordingly. Before that I'd fought meds tooth and nail, dismayed at the fact that the number of them kept rising. But I finally realized that it didn't matter how many I was on, I would take as many as I needed to get my illness under control and keep it that way.

Do I like any of this? Hell no! But it's best to face things squarely, and living with bipolar means I have to be honest with myself. I've grown a lot during the past five years.