My Story: Black, Beautiful, And Living With Bipolar Disease

“I’m not crazy.”

“I am NOT crazy.”

“I’m not crazy, I think.”

“Maybe I am crazy.”

I have said all of these words and maybe more to avoid accepting the fact that at the age of 24 I was diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder. At that time I was recently married, the mother of young sons, a recent college graduate looking to go into law school as well as a small business owner. That meant I couldn’t be crazy because in the Black community, being mentally ill automatically gets you blacklisted.

I can’t believe that I made it 35 years without a single incident with the police that could possibly affect me for the rest of my life. But there I was, on my mother’s birthday, sitting in jail for an alcohol-induced physical altercation with my boyfriend. I knew I crossed the line and had allowed my mood swings to get the best of me. I ruined the romantic weekend that he planned for us by harping on something that happened almost a year ago. I was in a tailspin because of the stressful weekend that I had dealing with both my sons and my business (emotions were high, finances were low). I was a mental wreck and I knew it. He hoped that going away for the weekend would allow me to calm down and gather my thoughts — but I just couldn’t. My mind was a mess. Every little thing set me off and I didn’t want to play fair, so I drank the restaurant’s three-drink limit and everything I had been feeling came out verbally and physically.

I had completely lost control of my life.