Introduction

For many years, I have been a writer. I can honestly say, writing, has on many occasions saved my life. During the times I wasn't allowed a voice, had no voice, and could not give voice to the pain, trauma, anger, sadness, and despair of my life, I wrote. I have kept a journal for as long as I can remember, and through the years, I have managed to save most of them. I was a lonely child. Abused and overlooked, my only outlet for the chaos in my life was to write. As such, I often found myself weeping in ink onto paper. Pouring all of my hurt, grieve, and loss onto the lined pages of journals. No one else cared to hear my story; after all, children were to be "seen and not heard." And so, over time, I could only share my pain within those pages. Having grown up damaged, I developed a deep and abiding sadness; a sorrow, that even still, I am scarcely able to give voice to outside of the written word. I am now an adult. I am a mother. No longer married. I am a person who is trying to heal from the trauma of my life, and create a new one in which I am able to thrive. I am kind. I am generous. I am strong. I am weak. I am Bipolar. Manic depression has been a large part of my existence on this plane for some time. I don't quite feel things like others do. I feel things deeply; good and bad. My "highs" are phenomenal, and I never want them to end. My "lows" are devastating, and I can barely "hold on" for them to end. This is me. This is my story. This is my trying explain me to a world that often frightens, overwhelms, and misunderstands me. Welcome to my Manic Depressive Parade. PS