The first time I ever heard of bipolar disorder, I was about 17 and a freshman in college. I was taking Psychology 101, which all freshmen were required to take. I got an A in that class but had no idea that in six years I would be hospitalized with the illness.

I was a happy-go-lucky girl in my twenties. I tried to do what I thought all responsible young adults did; I got a job in sales in the Big Apple. Between college and work and all the other things I was trying to do, I became overwhelmed and stressed-out. I faintly remember my brother screaming at me when I was 24 saying, "Are you trying to kill yourself? If you keep this up you'll be dead by the time you're 30!" And by the time I turned 29 I literally wanted to die. My body couldn’t take the strain I was putting on it. My heart was always pounding as if someone had locked me on an amusement park ride and wouldn’t let me off. The adrenaline made me giddy and high and I felt I could do anything, but once the excitement ended I felt depressed. I was always rushing and then crashing.