I sat on the couch in my psychiatrist’s office with my arms crossed and steam billowing out of my ears.
“Are you on cocaine?” he asked without a hint of sarcasm.
“No,” I shot back, completely bewildered but appropriately defensive.
“Then you’re bipolar.”
Yup. That was how I was diagnosed. And to my memory, that was really the only major piece of information my psychiatrist gave me that day. There was no supplemental information given to me, no sort of enlightenment or introduction into the all-consuming project that would be managing my difficult and sometimes debilitating condition, and I left the office with what felt like a really random label and a higher dose of Abilify. I was nineteen years old, I was a chemistry major in college, I’d kicked the hell out of an eating disorder, and I was bipolar. The facts didn’t matter too much. Right?
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