Lonely, depressed, confused, and spending hours a day contemplating
suicide in my little eight-by-eight den. At the age of forty-two,
this is what my life has become. At the age of thirty, I had a
nervous breakdown and overdosed on several bottles of medication.
The next day my wife found me unconscious on the floor, and I was
rushed to the emergency room, after which I spent several days in
the hospital. Then I was taken to a mental institution. During my
month-long stay there, I was diagnosed with a bipolar disorder. The
rest, they say, is history; but in my case, the rest is misery.
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