I am an African-American female, 44 years of age. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was about 16 years old, in 1973. I had a very difficult time graduating from high school, but I did. I went to college in 1976 and that was when the illness really reared its ugly head for all to see.

My parents were in the medical field and when they first noticed my symptoms, they were very embarrassed. They knew exactly what the problem was and as my father has told me, they were unable to handle the idea of my being on the medication for the rest of my life.

I never really got proper treatment until I was about 24. Before that, I became pregnant at 20 and moved away from home. I eventually put my son up for adoption when he was 3 years old. I was in and out of hospitals over the next 10 years because of refusal to stay on meds. I moved from job to job over the next 10 years, but in 1983, I was able to find a medication that worked best for me and I was able to stay well for about 9 years.

My mother passed away in 2001 and several months after that, I went off of my medication and threatened an employee who cursed at me. Other people heard me saying I was going to kill him and I was fired from a good-paying job.

In spite of all that, I have found a medication that works for me and a support system I can rely on. Today I understand the importance of staying on my meds and getting regular blood level tests. Unfortunately, I lost my child, a college education, and a very good job. Yet, my sister adopted my son, and he is 24 years old and has given me a 4 year-old grandson. I visit them frequently, and my son and I talk a lot about the illness. Now I only have to rebuild from all of the damage that has been done, and I am certain I will succeed.