I was diagnosed with manic depression (the name the psychiatrist at that time called it) about 15 years ago. I had never heard of it or the term bipolar disorder before that. When I was diagnosed at that time, I did look at the pamphlet the psychiatrist gave me on the illness, but discounted it completely. He wanted to switch my medication from Lexapro to Lamictal, but I basically told him I wasn't interested. I was obviously at least hypomanic at the time, which is what led him to diagnose me bipolar in the first place. I stopped taking all medication, and didn't see him again for almost 1.5 years, when all hell broke loose.

Before seeing the psychiatrist mentioned above, I had seen various general practitioners, a university psychiatrist, and a hospital psychiatrist in Taiwan. I only saw them when I was in either a depressed state or anxious/depressed state. They obviously just thought I was depressed/anxious, so gave me an antidepressant, which I took for maybe 2 days to 2 weeks max. In all cases, I believe I switched to at least hypomanic, but in a couple of cases full blown manic. I had ZERO insight into my manic states. Zero!

Fifteen years before my initial diagnosis of manic depression (bipolar disorder), I knew I was ill mentally. I was only 15 years old at the time. I knew nothing about mental illnesses at all. I remember looking in a book in my school's library and thinking I might have schizophrenia. I didn't tell anyone that. Soon after I was sent to a therapist, but I only saw him twice and everyone just thought I had severe teenage strife. Odd behaviors were ignored. I had always had periods of super energy, outbursts, and impulsivity, so everyone assumed that was "just me". My father was very similar, so that "way" was "in the family". My paternal grandmother had had very worrisome psychosis, but she refused to see a psychiatrist my grandfather took her to. She made him take her home. No one pursued additional help for her. That was sort of the family way, unless they were forced to do things.

All of the depressions/anxiety I had as a youth were to me, no different than a really severe flu. It came on, I tolerated it (maybe went to the doctor about it), it went away, I thought it was gone. It obviously did become a recurring issue, but I never thought it was a permanent illness. Before age 32, I think I only had 5 significant depressions that affected my life negatively. Looking back knowing what I know now, low-level hypomanias were actually much more frequent and long-lasting. By 32, I believe I had had at least 2-3 full blown manias, but even with them, I had no insight. I recall that both times I was fairly on my own, with no one really there to have concern enough to do anything. Again, my behavior in my life was already set at a higher level than most. It's amazing how some people just believe that is your "norm" or just only above your "norm". But my "norm" did affect my life. It affected my ability to retain and make new friends. It ruined a deep romantic relationship. It caused me to abuse alcohol. It put me in some rather dangerous situations.

I didn't accept my bipolar diagnosis until I was 34 years old. At that time, I finally learned what in the heck the disorder was. It was then clearer that my past behavior "fit" the diagnosis. If it was't 100% clear, then it became so because between 34-38 years old, and some periods after, I had the worst manic episodes of my life, many with psychosis. Then that period brought on the most severe depression of my life.

After these 15 years, I have started to understand what true stability is all about. That knowledge helps me gain more insight to even hypomanic episodes. I'll confess that sometimes the earliest stages are still not obvious, but usually they become so soon after. My family, particularly my husband, has more insight, too. Really, he was the first person to actually acknowledge I had something "wrong" when in manic phases. He said he once called my mother to express concern about my behavior, but my mother (assuming that behavior was just me, or a "phase") told him with a laugh that it would pass, and that I was often like that. Eventually, he learned his first instincts were right. My mother never knew, because she died about 6 months before my first hospitalization. My dad was either in a denial or it scared him too much. Dad never visited me even once during my 10 hospitalizations, despite living nearby. It was the same denial/fear he had when his mother became severely ill. He, himself, clearly has issues that he's in denial about.