I grew up in a middle-class family with parents who divorced when I was thirteen. I think my mother probably has bipolar disorder but is undiagnosed because she generally consumes approximately five glasses of brandy a night. I've never seen her drunk. She's been married four times and has worked in a variety of countries and settings much akin to Ms. Hepburn on the African Queen, who rowed her rubber raft across the Chesapeake Bay with the comment "those big ships don't slow down for you" - but she doesn't think she has bipolar.

I had psychotherapy on and off from age 13 when my mother "just couldn't handle me anymore". I had a great psychologist who listened to endless rages and mood swings. When I felt good, of course I didn't show up. When I was suicidal he'd see me twice a week. I told my mother I was going to kill myself and she said, "I think everyone feels like that when they're a teenager."

I had several good years in high school and college, due in part to a boyfriend who was extremely stable and had a calming influence. I started studying and found out I was actually very smart. School was easy when I was in the right mood.

Since I was seven or eight, I wanted to be a doctor, but I didn't want anyone to see my school transcripts. Hence an excursion into graduate school and an extremely hypomanic/manic phase with all the associated behaviors. I was able to get by with "general studies" courses in graduate school.

When I was 24, my life completely fell apart. I hit bottom like I never had before. I became increasingly anxious. The only way I could study was by doing biofeedback in the middle of the living room floor while listening to Pachelbel's "Cannon". I could usually calm down enough to focus around four in the morning so I could get my homework done or cram for a test. At that time, I didn't know anything about manic-depressive illness and apparently, neither did the doctors who treated me.

I started having panic attacks. At night, as soon as my head hit the pillow I would start feeling electrical shocks go through my body and I couldn't stay in bed. Finally my husband took me to the emergency room. I was given several tranquilizers, which did nothing. I was convinced I had a lethal neurological condition and the doctors were too stupid to figure that out.

The next day after pacing all night I was admitted to a psychiatric ward. It felt like going to prison. I had no personal belongings. I only saw my psychiatrist for 10 minutes before my admission and I never saw him during my two-week stay. I was never told what my diagnosis was.

I have since been hospitalized three times. I think I saw 10 psychiatrists before I was correctly diagnosed. I have been on every antidepressant known to man. I was finally diagnosed correctly when I was in medical school and doctors were learning more about mood disorders.