The trauma of my 1973 hospitalization haunts me when I become hypomanic or manic. I hospitalized myself in 1987 when my dad died.  I announched to my future psychiatrist on call in the Emergency Room, "I am manic. My father just died; he molested me when I was 12. If I had a lover in New York I wouldn't be here." I announced the themes of 5 years of twice-a-week therapy in my first sentence.  I was hospitalized in 1989, 1990, 1994, and 1996. Most of the time I hospitalized myself, seeking shelter from my unhappy marriage. All of the hospitalizations were a disaster. I would have been so much better off in a Manhattan hotel.

How am I manic? I infrequently get blazingly manic now and don't do the fun stuff I cowardly describe first. I am not violent; I don't go on spending sprees; I don't sleep with strangers; I don't drink or drug myself. I go into Manhattan; I don't hop on a train, bus, or plane to nowhere. Absolute strangers perceive me as friendly, charming, fun. At most they might think I have had a few drinks too many. For the only times in my life, men hit on me.. Manhattan is the best psychiatric hospital in the world. I wander into churches and find the right person to talk to. I absolutely believe in God and see grace and synchronicity everywhere.

Before the internet, when I was manic, I occasionally went to the bar across the street, requesteda glass of water, fed the Jukebox, and danced. I made absolutely clear no one could touch me or dance with me. The rest of the timeI can't and won't dance. When I was a little girl, I took ballet lessons and fancied myself a living-room ballerina. The spectacle of ballet moves to "The Times They Are a Changin" or "Baby Light My Fire" attracts attention even if the dancer is overweight and 50. To vary my act, I might dance to "Light My Fire" with a book or two on my head. I use my miraculous medal as an accessory. No one believes there is water in that glass.

I do exactly the same thing in the loony bin. I have also danced in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in the roof garden at the top of the Met, in Penn Station, at the top of the Empire State Building. I dance with books in New York City. The Empire State Building performers were the Divine Comedy, Pride and Prejudice, and the Brothers Karamazov. In the loony bin I prefer to dance with the green journal of the American Psychiatric Association. That is the joy of mania, being utterly free of inhibition, being utterly immersed in the music.

It is harder to write about the dark side. When manic I unconsciously act in a way that others will experience to some extent the pain I am experiencing. The pattern has shown up in therapy. My second husband and I have transcendedthat pattern for the most part. Now that my parents are dead, my relationships with my brothers is perfectly good, though rather casual. My manicness contributed significantly to the death of my first marriage. It has scarred my relationship with my daughters. Everyone has been a good forgiver. The depth of my sorrow, guilt, apology has not prevented it from happening again.

I am obnoxious, sarcastic, arrogant and cruel when I am manic. I seem especially sensitive to my loved one's vulnerabilities and use that sensitivity to hurt rather than to help. I have inflicted lasting scars with what I say and with what I write. Being around me evokes uncharacteristic, possibly frightening, behavior and emotions in other people. Bizarrely, stranges confide in me when I am manic. I believe my fears absolutely. I am terrified of car and plane crashes. In 1973 I was obsessed with nuclear war.

My former psychiatrist once told me he could have had me discharged from the loony bin the day I was admitted, if he could have convinced a plastic surgeon to sew up my mouth. Taking away my pen and now my keyboard would be equally essential. The loony bin is a catastrophe because there are so many people caught up in my manic witch's spell. The staff perceives me as an evil witch, my fellow patients as a white witch. Psychiatrists can't decide.

I re-experience the ways I have been hurt in the past and react as if they are happening in the present.The only times my first husband threatened violence in any way, shape, or form, I called the police and convinced them I needed an order of protection. That is very ancient history, but I am still deeply ashamed and guilty. Afterward, I always remember exactly how I behaved when I was manic. It might seem like possession to other people, but it isn't feel like it to me. My manic actions are appalling to the good Catholic girl I still am.

After trying to be the perfect employee, always asking for more responsibility, performing superbly, never taking a sick day, never being late, I tell off my bosses in extensive (and often accurate) detail and fight battles I can't win. I usually quit my job, but several times I have been fired. I am perceived as a troublemaker, not mentally ill.  I am probably blacklisted in the Nassau Library System. Librarianship was not an optimal choice for a manic depressive.

I do assume most of the blame and guilt even though I sometimes suspect (when manicy) that I sometimes take other people's medicine and undergo therapy for them. Emotions were not expressed in my family of origin except by biting, sarcastic humor. This was particularly true in my first marriage. My husband's anxiety and depression were never treated. Marriage therapists speculated that I went crazy for both of us, because my craziness was always a short round trip.

When I am not hypomanic or manic, I am passive, conscientious, agreeable, in the running for best mother or grandmother of the year. Since I never make suicidal threats or gestures and manage everyday functioning, I understand why people relax when I am depressed. Being unemployed, not writing, not exercising, overeating, not listening to my favorite music seem a small price to pay. If I have a job, I always show up. I might not have the initiative I have when hypomanic, but I still am considered an excellent employee. I am never fired; I never quit. I am never hired either.

Only my wonderful husband sees the full picture. There are many positives associated with hypomania and mania. Everyone but my husband tends to assume I am getting manic when I write, reach out more, join a gym, lose weight, seem happier. Realizing that when I switch to the manic side of the bipolar spectrum evokes the anger that is so wounding. People's assuming that positive behavior is manic can tip me off the ledge. Bipolars don't seem to be allowed the normal range of human emotions. Saintly or crazy seem the options.

Two years after I was diagnosed in 1985, my psychiatrist convinced me that the best treatment of my illness was to return to work and school. My children ranged from 14 to 5. Trying to do this was an traumatic for all of us as my illness. Only my mother's constantly availability made it possible. I got two master's degrees in 6 years. and worked at least part-time, mostly full-time. In 1993 I was intake coordinator for a prestigious mental health clinic, saw ten private patients after 5, and took two courses. A psychiatric nurse pointed out that my schedule required me to be manic. Once in the hospital we had to draw a pie chart of how we spent our time: I had managed to extend the day to 36 hours by doing many things simultaneously.

I am sure family therapy including the girls, should have been an essential part of my treatment. My husband and I were in couples therapy for a long time. It wasn't that effective because he needed to appear the golden boy in front of the therapist, than savage me on the way home. I suspect family therapy without me would have been particularly useful. People tend to talk about me rather than explore their own problems and conflicts.

I found it extremely wounding that my mother continued with Alzheimer's Disease support and advocacy after my dad's death, but never made any attempt to get involved with mental illness advocacy or support groups. That she only found out and admitted the truth of the incest after my dad died made her decision particularly hurtful. Yet I never confronted her on that, and usually I had no trouble confronting my mother.

My husband Peter hosted on his server for 13 years, BPSO, an online support group for significant others of bipolars. No one else in my family has joined. I fear that they  see my illness as a medication problem and seem to blame me for not taking the right medication, even though I have taken pills since 1985. Peter and I met on Pendulum, an online bipolar support group. His first wife became psychotically violent, divorced him, and has not spoken to him in 14 years. Ours is a rather inspiring love story. We met at the only time in both our lives where we could possibly have fallen in love. A year after I met Peter, I discovered on the internet the first drug that was genuinely helpful; I found a psychiatrist who would partner me in experimenting with it. I have been taking lamictal ever since; there have been no more hospitalizations.

My loved ones' and my own relative comfort with my functional depressions and fear of my hypomanias is at the heart of my inability to claim my writing and my writing dreams. Throwing out my writings is not seen as a depressive symptom. I fear that my daughters tend to regard my blogging as a hypomanic symptom, particularly if I write about my illness.