From the Introduction:
On a cool night in May 1989, I sat on a motel bed, counting lethal dosages of medications. Nearby lay a fifth of rum to wash them down, and a .357 magnum pistol. The alcohol would more than double the pills' effect; the bullet would be instant. I pondered which to use. Either way, my self-inflicted death would be painless, almost comfortable!
________________________________________________
Many times during the previous six months, I'd contemplated ending my life, and reflected on the effects that would have on others. Those reflections were painful, frightening, depressingly lonely, and guilt-laden. I envisioned the reactions of my family, relatives, friends, and fellow church members. It seemed unreal to be planning my own funeral. As horrible as my suicide would be for those who cared about me, my anguish was so bad that I no longer cared. I just wanted out of my life; out of any more torment.
________________________________________________
Those six months of hospitalization initiated me into a strange, scary new level of others' psychic pain, plus my own major depressive episodes, extreme manic agitation, and ongoing suicide thoughts, plans, and botched attempts. My diagnosis was "bipolar disorder," which is often called "manic-depressive illness," a life-threatening condition involving extreme mood swings: elated or agitated manic "highs", and despairing, suicidal "lows".
________________________________________________
Bipolar disorder is one of the major mental illnesses. The psychiatrists also identified me as a "rapid-cycler", one whose moods shift four or more times a year. My emotions could undergo extreme changes weekly, daily, sometimes hourly, from high energy and agitation to no energy and suicidal thinking.
________________________________________________
The pages ahead have a threefold purpose:
- To show how devastating and potentially deadly clinical depression and bipolar disorder are;
- To provide practical, helpful information on restructuring a life shattered by these disorders; and
- To inspire people affected by these mental illnesses (and their families to move beyond a mere endurance-survival mode to enjoy wellness and productivity.
________________________________________________
Bipolar Disorder: Rebuilding Your Life is a true story of my life and my ongoing recovery from past traumas, depression, and bipolar illness. These pages describe the pilgrimage and, perhaps most importantly, the battle for my mind and soul. It has been a long fight. I've chronicled some of my struggles with emotional and sexual abuse, work and insurance conflicts, and my ordeal with serious, chronic mental illness. Some of this story was painful to write, but I felt compelled to do so. This a "how it is" book as well as a "how-to" book that describes the tools I've found helpful in healing and rebuilding my life.
________________________________________________
From Chapter 4, The Beginnings of an Eating Disorder:
To endure the constant emotional upsets at home, I fought for survival using any method I could. One tool I used was dividing my life into a public "nice guy" and a private "bad guy". Our family knew me as a hot-tempered and foul-mouthed, while at school I was seen as a fun-loving, friendly boy. Because of my two-sided personality, I suffered terrible guilt over being a "phony". It was like having a Jekyll-and-Hyde personality, but it helped me endure.
Another escape mechanism I used at home was my temper. Angry outbursts enabled me to express some degree of individuality. Mom's unfair punishments, betrayal of confidences, and protracted silences made me seethe. I could bottle things up only so long, then took revenge. Often, a minor event triggered a violent temper explosion. Enraged, I threw lamps and chairs across the room. put my fist through doors, and splintered kitchen cabinets. Sometimes, in exasperation, I swore at mom, and I even slapped her a few times.
From Chapter 6, Good and Bad Spiritual Influences:
Our family never got actively involved in church, but we attended a Presbyterian church in State College semi-regularly. I remember attending Sunday school, then sitting in the worship service with Mom and Dad. Both Sunday school and worship bored me to death.
________________________________________________
My knowledge of Christianity was shallow at best. I knew the golden rule, and that Jesus was supposed to have been a kind man who helped people. I had been taught in Sunday school that He died on a cross alongside two other men, but I didn't understand why. I never understood anything about the people the Sunday school teacher talked about: Paul, Timothy, Matthew, and others. That was the extent of my biblical knowledge until my first year of college.
From Chapter 8, Bulimia Begins:
I'm sure that to schoolmates and others I appeared to be enjoying myself, but I couldn't truly "feel" many emotions other than anger and sadness. It was like being dead inside except for feeling a deep sense of loss. In the midst of some of life's funniest situations, hilarious jokes, and sentimental situations, my emotions were numb. To survive the constant wounding at home, I'd shut down inside.
Feeling nothing was better than endless pain. I continued to delay coming home after school--any diversion would do. One way to escape my loneliness, hurt, and anger was practicing bulimia. I started bingeing and vomiting food I'd bought at stores and restaurants. I don't know how this gorge-purge habit originated; at the time, I thought it was because I wanted to qavoid classmates' comments about my pudginess, maintain a good wrestling weight, and have a better physique.
________________________________________________
I wondered whether having been sexually exploited by Mom and Gram had robbed me of normal youthful sex exploration. I concluded that my loss of sexual innocence had blunted the excitement of discoveries about women. When classmates giggled about girls' figures or what it might be like to have sex, I laughed with them. Inwardly, however, I tensed with sadness, knowing I'd already experienced a lot of what they'd been talking about.
Mental health specialists note that one of the lesser consequences of being sexually molested is that most abused children grow up believing that they are bad. I suffered an irrational fear of being exposed as a fraud: If you knew the real me, the one whose mother had done sexual things with him, you'd never want me as a friend. I worried constantly that someone might discover and reveal my "secret". I continually felt I was hiding something about myself; a deep, awful, indefinable stain; finally, in junior high, I realized that it was mainly the sexual abuse by my mother. I yearned desperately to tell someone about my "badness," but I was terrified of rejection. It was exhausting having to pretend I was a nice guy while thinking I was really a phony. Guarding this enigmatic inner badness was hell--and terribly lonely.
From Chapter 18, Problems Adjusting to Work:
The memory of cleaning out my office is still vivid. 
I gave away some six hundred books to seminarians and friends. It took hours to pack the remaining hundreds of books and cabinets of files, and make dozens of sweaty trips, hauling them home in our minivan to store in the garage. After the last box was loaded, I walked upstairs for one final look at my former office. Nothing left but an empty desk, a sofa, three chairs, and a dozen filing cabinets. Bare wooden bookshelves lined the walls. That once-warm, well-furnished room was suddenly empty, sterile. My ministerial career is over. No more counseling, or preparing sermons, or officiating at weddings, baptisms, and funerals. I've given it my best shot, but just couldn't make it. This ghoulish illness has ruined my career. I hate what it's done to me and my life.
From Chapter 26, Taking Responsibility for Recovering; The Role of Faith:
I realized that if I didn't shed the attitude of powerlessness over my illness, I'd never make progress--and I could very easily die. As long as I viewed my life as having handed me the curse of an incurable mind malfunction, I'd continue to see myself totally victimized by its tossing me about like a helpless cork in the ocean...
A fellow manic-depressive told me, "It wasn't until I realized it was up to me to get my moods under control, and that there was no magical cure, that I began to turn the corner on the road to wellness." His words motivated me to take charge of my treatment. Though I understood the seriousness of my brain disorder, I didn't surrender to it. Hope started to flicker: If I try hard enough I can get on top of this. I started accepting my illness, and moved slowly from a defensive survival mode to a proactive one.
The treatment I get must be tailored to my needs. I don't care if the doctors call me uncooperative," or "treatment-resistant." I'll have to experiment with what works best for me. If it means trying new doctors and different medications, and changing dosages until I succeed, I'll keep trying. Whatever it takes, I'll do it!
From Chapter 27, The Benefits of Professional Counseling:
Friends help greatly, but a good therapist is essential for anyone living with bipolar disorder, especially for those who've also been seriously traumatized. I wouldn't have survived my illness, let alone recovered enough to rebuild, without professional counseling. Being listened to and receiving wise advice helps with fears, guilt, self-esteem, and relationship problems. It aids in recovering from relapses, and lowers stresses that can trigger manic or depressive recurrences.
From Chapter 34, The Forgiveness Process: Finding How to Let Go of Resentments
Forgiveness doesn't mean your abuser was right or that you must excuse someone's wrong behavior. To for give means choosing to stop holding a grudge, or punishing in some way. Absolution isn't a one-time event. It starts with a decision, but it's a process that sometimes must be repeated over and over until the forgiver is free from all desire to retaliate. Forgiving my parents, relatives, and the church people who'd wronged me took years. After honestly examining the harm done to me, and after much counseling, prayer, and introspection, I chose to begin forgiving them.
From Chapter 41, The Medical-Biological Model of Treating Mental Illness: Medication is the Main Way vs. the Recovery Model
Like so many others, I'd started thinking that if my illness had an unalterable biological basis, then it would be useless to try to change. Further study of manic depression confirmed my research, personal experience, and the conversations I'd had with hundreds of people living with depression, bipolar disorder, and the other mind disabilities. What I discovered was both a relief and a challenge.
The prevailing "medical-biological model" for treating mental illness focuses almost entirely on giving medications, and advocates the use of limited psychotherapy to encourage "medical compliance" (pill-taking). Even if meds worked optimally, no amount of them could teach me--or others--how to take disappointment, criticism, and other stresses in stride.
This medical-biological view tends to endlessly continue the idea of being a perpetual victim of a genetic "chemical imbalance." Sadly, the pill-related approach to alleviating mania and depression wasn't working for me or for may other sufferers I knew. When one medication failed, as was often the case, I had no alternative but to try others or simply give up.