It’s been six years since my last full-blown manic episode, and once in awhile I think to myself that I must’ve made more of those than there really was. I also can’t believe I was ever so depressed that I needed to be hospitalized for my own safety. I’ve been stable for quite some time, so the sharp edges of those episodes have been mercifully blurred by the passage of months and years since I experienced them.

So have I accepted the fact of my illness? Yes. I know my stability is dependent on meds and therapy, and forever will be. Like it or not, it’s here for the rest of my life and I will ALWAYS have to deal with it. I didn’t ask for this and certainly don’t want it, but that doesn’t make the slightest difference. It took a long time for me to go through all the phases of grief, and I’d often regress to an earlier stage when I had an episode. But eventually things worked themselves out, and today I can say I’m in full remission. 😊