I had this conversation with my girlfriend the other night. We were talking about my problems with being bi-polar and she wanted to know more about my history with the illness. I'd honestly not talked about any of this stuff with her or anyone before. I was too ashamed and embarrassed to speak most of these things out loud.

    I never knew I had an illness, for starters. I just thought I was plain crazy most of the time. I never knew there was a name for it until very recently. But looking back over my life, I'd say I've been suffering from this all along. Since birth maybe? Definitely since early childhood. It's always been a part of who I am. A part I hated, but didn't realize I could change.

   The whole conversation was prompted because we'd read in a tabloid about Britney Spears freaking out and being diagnosed as bi-polar. She wanted to know if I've ever lost control like that. The sad answer was yes. I have. Police were never called and there were no children around that I was locked in a room with. But I have had 'episodes' where things were completely out of my control.

    One incident I remember was back when I was 17 years old. I had this huge fear of being alone. Rather strange for a teenage boy. I should have loved being alone, especially since I used to lock myself in my room for hours and not want to see anyone. But I knew they were there, just outside the door. If I needed someone, all I had to do was emerge from my private chamber.

    My parents planned a trip to Colorado. My brother was already living on his own. So it was just me. And not only was I supposed to be alone for a week, I was supposed to get on a plane by myself, when I was terrified of flying, and go to Seattle to visit a friend.

    When it came time for my parents to leave for the airport and catch their plane, I had a total meltdown. I lost my mind. I didn't want them to go and I certainly did not want to get on a plane myself in a few hours and fly alone. I flipped out. It was 4am and I was yelling at them and screaming right in our front yard. I'm surprised the neighbors didn't call the police.

    It ended with them driving away and me actually running after their car telling them I hated them. And then I laid down in the middle of the street and prayed some wayward driver would come along and run me over. I seriously did that. But since it was 4am, no one was around. No one put me out my misery. I was forced to get up and go back into the empty house. I was panicked and completely incoherent. I'm not even sure what I was so afraid of either. I have no clue.

    I picked up the phone and almost called 911 several times. I wanted to go to the hospital. Because if I didn't, I was sure I was going to kill myself. That's how bad it was. And I hated my parents for leaving me. How could they leave me when I was acting like that? I felt so lost and alone and confused.

    I just sat there holding the phone for about three hours. And then I got myself showered, dressed, packed, and my mom's friend picked me up to take me to the airport for my trip. No one could tell I was ready to snap. I smiled, I laughed, I put on a good show. And I got on the plane. I sat there calmly, even though I wanted to die. And when I arrived in Seattle a few hours later, I greeted my friend like I was the most sane and normal person in the world.

    It was my secret. And I pulled myself back from the brink of suicide. Somehow. I don't know how. And every day I spent in Seattle on my own, it got a little easier. And I was so proud of myself for doing it. It terrified me to make that trip, but I did it. I survived it. And no one knew how close I came to ending it all.

    When my parents got back from their trip and reunited with me, things were strained and uncomfortable. Neither of them would look at me. I think they had no idea what was wrong with me. They both assumed I was just looking for attention with my antics. But they didn't want to talk about it. And that just upset me more. I felt ignored.

    This led to another episode I'm ashamed of. I had a huge fight with them about their seeming lack of interest in me and my problems. They both kept saying I was simply overly sensitive and going through a phase. I was being irrational and over dramatic. But not once did they think I had a real problem.

    I don't really remember what happened next, but I know I started banging my head against the wall. Hard. I was trying to knock myself out so I wouldn't have to think anymore. My head was so noisy, I just wanted it to stop. And they weren't listening to me. They didn't think I needed help. You've heard of the saying that talking to certain people is like banging your head against a wall. I made it a reality.

    This got their attention. My dad had to restrain me and my mom was really upset. I had completely lost my mind. They sent me to a therapist after that. But when I went there, all she wanted to do is talk about my parents. She never asked me anything about my moods or what was really going on. She deemed me a problem child with parental issues and wrote me a prescription for anti-depressants.

    I took them as instructed for about two weeks. I didn't notice any difference in my state of mind, but I was willing to try. Then I went to a regular doctor because I was sick with something. He checked me out and informed me that my heartbeat was irregular. And he said it was a side effect from the medication. He told me to stop taking it immediately because it was dangerous.

    I stopped taking it, went back to the therapist and told her, and then she gave me Prozac. But when I read the list of side effects for that, I refused to take it. I didn't really want to die after all. Certainly not from medications that were supposed to cure me.

    And that's when I decided it was time to get my act together. I read books, tried alternative therapies, turned to my spirituality for help. I did okay for awhile. Things were looking up. I got older, and I thought I was wiser, and more in control of myself.

    Then I found drugs. That made my life a whole lot easier. I was in a car accident and I hurt my back. It was a big ordeal involving multiple cars, and everyone's insurance company wanted me to see different doctors. So I spent my time going around town to doctor's offices, and each one would give me a new prescription.

    I had every painkiller and muscle relaxer they made. I had a huge supply of them. And I realized when I took them, my life was wonderful. I'd never felt happiness like that. And my mind was so free and open, I felt like I could do anything. It wasn't hard to get addicted.

    Once my back was better, and the prescriptions ran out, I found other ways to get what I wanted. It's not that hard to get pills if you know where to look. I even faked toothaches sometimes just to get a few Vicodin to tide me over. I also knew a guy who went to Mexico routinely and brought back all kinds of pills you could by over the counter there.

    I was a total addict. And I didn't think it was affecting my life in a negative way. I thought it improved things drastically. After all, I felt good for the first time in my life and it required little to no effort on my part. It was the best time I've ever had, even if it was killing me slowly. I'm not sure I really cared back then.

    But the party had to end some time. Things spiraled out of control for me. I lost my girlfriend and suffered a huge loss in my life within months of each other. I was a mess. The drugs weren't helping me anymore. And my girlfriend left me because of them. I knew I had to stop.

    So I did. Cold turkey. Just like that. And it was the worst feeling I've ever experienced. Death would have been welcome at that point. But I wanted to live. I wanted to prove to everyone that I wasn't a waste of life. I had a future. And I wanted to see what it held for me.

    Back to therapy again. Back on anti-depressants. It took a very long time find any of them that didn't give me terrible side effects. Apparently I'm very intolerant to them for some reason. But I found one that worked and I stuck with it for about 6 months.

    I hated the way it made me feel. I was numb. I lost my creativity. I lost my drive to do anything except exist. I wasn't depressed, but I can't say I was happy either. I was alive. And at that moment in time, it was enough. But eventually I wanted more than that. I didn't want to be just alive, I wanted to live.

    So I weaned myself off the pills. For almost a year, all I did was detox from some sort of drug. It was torture a lot of the time. But I did it. I survived it. And here I am. I'm not just alive, but I'm living. And everything I've done, all the progress I've made, has been on my own. I've asked for help, and found that no one could really help me. I had to help me. It's the only way it would work.

    And my girlfriend pointed out to me that this made me one of the strongest people she's ever known. I've fought an uphill battle for my entire life. I've thwarted suicidal thoughts, depression, manic freak out episodes, drug addiction....I've dealt with people I love dying, leaving me, dumping me....and I did it all on my own.

    The boy who was so scared to be alone at all, did all of this himself. I'm strong. Stronger than I give myself credit for. I can look back at all of these events, which are only a fraction of the real story, and see nothing but weakness. I was pathetic. I was low. I was disgusting. I was addicted.

    But if I stop focusing on the events, and look at the outcomes, I realize just how amazing I really am. I've seen Hell and I escaped it. It didn't keep me. My wings are strong now and I can fly out of there. And I'm never going back again.