When I was 16, I was diagnosed with depression. I'm now 18 and have been re-diagnosed with bipolar disorder. In between, I was prescribed so many pills, but my doctors just couldn't figure out what was wrong. By April of 2002 I had taken more pills than my mom had in her whole lifetime. I felt like this disorder was my fault and there was nothing that could be done until I read about some treatment options for bipolar disorder in a medical journal.

I thank God every day my mom didn't give up on me, but for a while it felt like my doctors did. I called my doctor and asked him if he thought I had bipolar, and he didn't think I knew what I was talking about.

But I had most, if not all of the symptoms of bipolar disorder. During the winter I would want to be locked in my room with the window covered with dark sheets to keep out the sunlight. Other times, I would stay up all night cleaning the house, cleaning my room, wanting to call people, and then about seven in the morning I would crash.

When I would go through my manic episodes, I would scream at everybody. Everyone was scared to be around me; my mom would be scared to even ask me if I was ready for dinner. I would call her names if she didn't cook what I wanted or if I didn't like it. I was never physically abusive but I was very verbally abusive toward everyone before I was correctly diagnosed and treated. I believe if I had been diagnosed properly the first time I might not have made my mom cry so many times. I told her I hated her and wished she were dead. I called her names and tried to make her feel like she was worthless because I thought I was worthless.