In the Beginning

     Working in the field of mental health and addictions, one would think I could recognize the signs and symptoms of bipolar disorder when they presented themselves.  On the contrary, I was completely oblivious to what was happening to me.  You see, in the beginning of my manic depression story I was happily married and gainfully employed as a clinical social worker.  Truly, I had all that I had ever dreamed of.  The only telltale sign of my impending illness was this nagging drive I had to pursue more and more accomplishments.  It's as though I could never be satisfied with what I had.  Ultimately that telltale sign would lead to my painfully agonizing demise. But we will get to that.  Its important to realize that in the beginning I was a happy, healthy productive member of society.  

     I lived in an average house, but it was in no way average to me.  To me it was home.  A home that I treasured returning to at the end of a long work day.  It was a place I belonged.  A place my husband (at the time) and I had created together.  Both having come from challenging childhoods, we had surrounded ourselves with the safety and security we never had.  That leads me to the most important aspect of our home...it's contents.  We had a beautiful white and grey cat whom we had obtained during the early years of our relationship, an adorable yorkie-pooh who was gifted to me by my then loving husband, and of course there was the miraculous birth of our dearly beloved son who completed the family so perfectly.  

     As far as a career, I oversaw a residential facility.  In no way was this just a job to me on the contrary my career was a huge part of my identity.  Having worked at the same organization for 15 years it was also a place where I felt respected and secure.  Everyday I woke up and looked forward to my day at work.  After all, I was blessed with the opportunity to contribute to the lives of others in a meaningful way and get paid for it.  

     So that was the beginning...