It all starts with understanding your story

After 35 years of keeping secrets, psychosis made me speak. Who knew a suicide attempt would save my life?

I think it started with a diagnosis and a palm full of pills. Or maybe it started with the long, cold walk to the bridge thinking of nothing but failing to fly. Or with my little hand wrapped in his cigarette stained fingers. I know it got worse with every frat house fuck, with every pound I sacrificed to my jealous skeleton, with every drug that cradled and rattled my brain, with every red cut I carved into my skin, and with every dumb, dangerous idea that my illness made brilliant. I remember the nights driving with my eyes closed because I was too divine to crash and buying eight George Forman Grills as a sound investment for my future. I remember furiously believing in God and swapping secrets with Mother Teresa, Princess Diana, and Jesus. And that leaves me, a mentally ill Jewish atheist who got lost and found in labels, trauma, addiction, and psychosis.

Over the years I’ve asked myself, what made me crazy? But maybe the question I should have been asking was: do I want to get better?

After 35 years of addiction to my bipolar disorder I’ve finally accepted that while I’ll never know the cause of my illness, I do know the ending.

I’ll be ok.

For more of my story please read my memoir “Instability in Six Colors”