I’m realizing the inadequacy of relationships, personal kindnesses, and hotline numbers alone. — When I think about the things that have allowed me to survive periods of suicidality, I think of people. Family. Friends. Doctors and nurses. Therapists. I think of loving gestures that helped me during particularly vulnerable and high-risk times. The four leaf clover from my aunt and uncle when I…

I’m speaking out as I work toward silencing the voice in my head — I am walking through the snow before sunrise. Pristine, untouched—the first snowfall of the year. Branches bend as the flakes continue to accumulate. Little by little over time, they become powerful. They break what’s in their way. They speak. I have been told it is my turn to speak. I…

“While bipolar often feels like my adversary, I’ve spent much of the last year defending and explaining my illness.” — Every two weeks, I take an hour-long bus ride to the psychiatric unit on the edge of town. The bus is always empty; I settle into a seat and crack the window. I try to read, but reading has become more difficult this year. I usually end up staring outside…

“The pain of realizing how many damn candles people have been lighting in my honor and how few I have been lighting for them.” — I used to be afraid of walking home from the metro after dark. I know we live in a safe area — colorful rowhouses line both sides of the street. Cobblestones. Benches. Parks. Coffee shops. Doormats disingenuously welcome unexpected visitors. “The metro is only ten minutes away,” my husband said…

I “came out” with bipolar disorder a year ago this week — during National Suicide Prevention Week. It was the most important thing I’ve ever done. Over the last year, I’ve had to lie less. I’ve had to hide less. When I was hospitalized in June, I was able to…

I grew up thinking poetry was a normal professional field. I thought being a poet was something you’d casually mention at a cocktail party, a mundane fact that would be met with a polite, slightly bored smile. “Oh, great — my daughter is, too,” the host would say, turning to…

“We need you here. Stay.” …We walk slowly and he holds my hand, points out different types of trees and birds on branches. The light is colorless and shines directly into my eyes. They hurt. But he is talking, and I know suddenly that I am not nearing the end…

The other night, my husband and I arrived home to find a letter slipped under our door. It was a long note in jagged cursive from our neighbor, an elderly man who lives alone. “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Miller, I notice you get the Washington Post. I cannot afford such…