The storm howled outside, mirroring the chaos inside. A powerful gust jolted the lock, slamming the front door open. I could see my belongings strewn across the lawn. Clothing blown into the shrubbery. My favourite white cotton shirt, stirring restlessly in a pool of mud, as the wind slurred across surface. Was I really going out in this weather? I walked to the bathroom to grab "old faithful".... a box of anti-depressants. The shrew screamed again ... and again ..each time tearing into my soul ... like an alchemist witch with a dagger at the final newt. It seemed I didn't have much choice.

Was I REALLY going out in this weather? A gym pumped iron grip grabbed hold of my arm while her other fist slammed into my body. Repeatedly. Screaming .. Screaming ... Shoved to the door .... slung unceremoniously through like a cook heaves the morning's garbage. The door slammed. The lock clicked. Sheltering below an eave, I was alone. Forlorn. Abandoned, misunderstood ... mistreated.

Like a miracle, the storm abated instantly. The rain stopped, wind died. Like a sign from God. "You're better off out here". Shrubs stopped their maddened shaking. Puddles settled into calm ponds. Water poured down the gutters, sluicing away the detrius of man: cans, wrappers, pastic bottles .. leaving the street clean and new. I was feeling better already. I walked. Just walked and walked. Anything to get away from that place... away from her. Clouds scurried, and tentatively the stars came to life. I could see the warm glow from windows, where families ate together. The flickering of television crept out .. and music sometimes danced through the breeze.

The park .. I was close to the park. I knew this place from when I was a boy. Familiarity felt safe. The manicured lawns glistened with moisture, asphalt shone under lights. Flower gardens burst with blooms and the allure of fragrance tantalised my nostrils. This must be spring. In this place of nurtured abundance, the world seemed full and rich. Yet I felt so lost. Brushing the droplets from a painted seat, I leaned back and rested. Rested my heart ... soul .... mind.

Stress. I have to be careful. I knew how stress sends my system spiralling. Taking the pills from my pocket, I popped out two and swallowed them dry. Erch. There was a drinking fountain near here .. I'm sure. Quickly found, I washed the chemical taste from the back of my throat. Back to the seat. I sat quietly. The time stretched. How could I go back ... to THAT .... I couldn't. But something was stopping me from walking away.. to build something better. I was stuck.

Slowly, calmly, I took the pills from my pocket and stared at the blister pack. A fresh box... full. The foil twisted and creaked as I popped each tablet out. My hand filled. I dropped them in my shirt pocket, and continued. Job done.

I filled my mouth with half the pills and took a gulp of cold fresh water. A few stuck, so I gulped again. Foul taste. Filled my mouth again and took a larger gulp. Repeat and stir. Wash and spit to lose that foul aftertaste. Then quietly .. calmly .. walked back to the seat and sit. And wait. Disconnected. One hour. Two. Tongue thickened... muscles slackened... pulse dropped.

The fighter woke. "I am NOT going to die like this..NO WAY...I'll get to the hospital if it kills me". Not sure where the wry wit came from. I had to hurry. My stomach held enough junk to kill me. I knew it. I tried to move fast. I couldn't. The pills were beating me. Every block was getting harder .. Keep going, just keep going. I was slowing. Not even smart enough to knock on a door. How many blocks? Why did I walk so damn far? I'm fading .. I can feel it. Somehow .. I don't know how .. I made it. I kicked on the door until the bitch let me in. Terror showed in her eyes. She could see how close I was. "Don't you f-ing die on me!!"... she screamed repeatedly as she raced to the hospital. It wasn't out of care. Pure guilt. Pure self serving fear. My head was rolling. I couldn't feel much.

I just don't know for sure. Perhaps it is mostly in my own imagination.

My childhood wasn't what you'd call successful. I was bright enough but a wise-ass and a late bloomer to boot. All the tough kids would try to start trouble with me in school where, with my quicker wit, I would invariably make them look foolish. After school, however, my wit was no match for their fists.

This went on for years. I said I was bright- not wise.

And I was angry. I stayed angry until not that long ago.

I would like to say that I did well in school because it was the one place I could be successful- where I received positive feedback. This is the tale that I, as a teacher, tell my students. In truth, I succeeded at school because I had no choice. Failure was not an option. Hell, "B" stood for "beating" in my mother's home. I have since seemed to have lost those brain skills- due to age and medication (prescribed and recreational). Several times I've written something only to reread it and get that "WTF was I thinking?" feeling. Happens more and more... I'm sure you'll get the same feeling reading this.

In short, I am no longer 'bright.' But I am still a wise-ass; your garden variety nut-job.

Anyway, my success in school is proof that the fear of my mother outstripped the biology of my yet undiagnosed bipolar. Somehow I stayed focussed on the light, no matter how dark the days became.

I wasn't diagnosed until later in life- 36 or 38 years of age (I remember it began with a 3 and ended with a loop or two...memory fails me after that). My then fiance, M, insisted I see a doctor about my temper. Me, being the accomodating fellow I am, agreed. Several docs later I had the classification we've all come to know and mostly accept.

I'm happy about it. I don't hate the fact that I have brown eyes or a full head of thick brown hair so I refuse to hate the fact that I have bipolar. Hell- sometimes it really comes in handy- like when I have to paint an entire room in one afternoon and I just happen to be manic. I don't particularly care if anyone does have a problem with my diagnosis. In fact, eff anyone who can't take a joke. It's been my experience that normal people have just as much baggage as anyone with an official classification.

So I made it through high school and lettered in football (American football- the one with all the needless commercial breaks and actual scoring). I bring up the latter because the two may have gone hand-in-hand. Football gave me a safe place to be aggressive and it continued the lessons of discipline that began at home. Football made it possible to manage my bipolar without my knowing I had it. Of course, it may have delayed my diagnosis. But still- I was lucky.

Football also gave me a way to pay for college. But it couldn't do my schoolin' for me.

In fact, it was tricky to get through college undiagnosed, unmedicated and unscathed- and thats why I didn't... Scathed I was- in spades. It took me four years, three summer schools, one arrest, a couple of suspensions, and a few too many habits in vice to somehow achieve my diploma. Not a diploma in any practical fields mind you- majors in theater and english and minors in religion and education. Bipolar indeed.

With that background I naturally gravitated to special education. Which is, in my humble opinion, the finest profession for someone with MI. Eighteen years later, I am still here. That's not to say it was easy ... How I managed to hang on to my job is more a credit to the nature of that job than to my effort, I think. Somewhere along the way I learned to sprint- to go short distances while holding on to any shred of sanity. I can accomplish this in a profession with as few hours required at a time as mine. So I held onto that shred but I didn't manage to hold on to much else.

Well my computer...

When I joined BPS M had gone her own way and I had found another sucker I was very interested in. I have no desire to share the horror story that my life was ( any more than I already have)- I just knew I needed help- particularly if I wanted to keep this woman.

BPS was just what I needed. I knew I needed help but I really wasn't ready to do everything I had to. I wasn't that lightbulb quite yet- I could almost change myself. If it wasn't for the no nonsense advice of the members, mods and admins I know I wouldn't have made it.

I have since married that sucker, known here as messydesk. She is diagnosed as bipolar as well.

Yes, our life is bliss.

That is a load of shit and you all know it. Our fights are legendary- epic in proportion. They move with earthquake type intensity and yet blow over like a summer rain. Yet we know that bad weather looks worse through a window. Easy to anger at times, we are also easy to forgive and forget. After all, we must give what we hope to receive from one another. It does work for us so far, a mere six months in.

I'll update as needed.