I believe that my first Major Depressive Episode happened when I was in High School. I woke up one beautiful day, the sun was shining as I looked out of the window. But I felt dry, hollow, dead inside. I eventually was diagnosed as having Bipolar II Disorder, but my journey there was long and hard. Even then, it took me years of spiraling downward, ever more crazed, my illness gaining some sort of incredible force each episode, until I finally sought the kind of help that I'd needed decades before.

My parents had been told by the British School of Brussels, that if I were to remain enrolled, I would be required to see a psychologist. Being the sensible Brits that they were, they offered me the choice of that, or attending a boarding school, then named Wadhurst College for Young Ladies. I was ten and opted for the latter.

It took them until the third time that I was institutionalized to visit me in the hospital. By this point, I was undergoing Electro-Shock-Therapy, which I'd elected whilst in a mental ward suffering from suicidal depression. It was not a choice I would make normally. After twenty-two "treatments" I was still a mess. Only I couldn't remember anything, which took many months of hard work to repair.  To this day, there are massive holes in my memory. This would be the only visit my parents would make, despite many stays over the next eight years.

I know two young women who are fighting mental illness with everything that they can bring to it. In their case, they are blessed to have their deeply concerned families along to help them.

My friend "Nola" was 302'ed (involuntarily committed) recently and ended up in what I can only say was a fabulous ward at Pennsylvania Hospital. When I went to visit her, I met her parents, who'd driven in from Chicago to be by her side. She's been released, and went to stay with them until she's stable enough to return to Philadelphia.

My other friend, "Ellen", left Philadelphia to be in the care of her family. Her illness is dark, complex and twists her mind into hearing and believing things that aren't of this reality. Right now, this has created too much stress for her to be able to function without support.

My path to wellness was only possible because I have incredible friends in Cricket and Betty the Siggi. Betty once gave me a corny plaque, which stated, "Friends are our chosen family". In my case, this is bittersweet and so very true.

I'm mentally quite well, which is a nice change from, say, the beginning of the month.  I am not so great, physically.  In fact, I'm in a fair amount of pain.  But after the initial E.R. diagnoses of "ruptured ovarian cyst" about a year and a half ago, I'd always thought that the mild to downright knife-like stabbing pain was, I dunno, scar tissue?  Lucky for me, I live with my best friend of twenty years, Cricket.

Now, she may present as a well balanced, well adjusted woman of the world, but there are some tell-tale signs that may give a hint to the twisted, I'm Not A Normal:  Piss Off Ya Mainstream Twit woman that has saved my arse, my life, my sanity and often, my cats.  She is whom I learned the ability to speak honestly with about my feelings, (with the help of my Cognitive Therapist Doctor Ruth Greenberg), because she has always been able to handle me at my most psychotic, depraved, self-mutilating, depressed and self-loathing self.  She has also rejoiced in my small steps toward mental health and well-being, without any pressure on me, except that I try.  Sometimes, that meant that she asked me to get out of bed, for just one hour of the day.

But.  She's got four tattoos, which include one on the back of each hand.  A nose piercing, smallish ear-plugs and a seriously funky sense of fashion.  Her pick-up, which I'll be driving at the end of the month, as she has a new Prius, has a sticker on the side window, which is shaped in a black heart, with the legend (same script as the "I Love Lucy" show), stating "I Love Lucifer."  Some people fail to see the humour in it.  What's most telling, is her choice of best friends.  There's me.  And then there's Betty the Siggi who is a brilliant, but seriously crazy woman in her own right.

Betty is who you want on your side.   A Social Worker, with degrees in everything from psychiatry, EMDS, massage and the application of paranormal insight, she is a bloody terrier.  When I had flown the mental coop, back at the end of the last century, she was the one who moved my SSDI file from the wrong desk, to the top of the right desk.  By phone.  And think how hard it is for you to get anyone on the phone.  She's a formidable advocate of the children driven to psychotic states by their fuck-wit families.

But.  She was actually able to tell me how to make Shit Soup.  Yep.  She's a "Siggi"!  Now that's a word that I'd never heard, but from her.  She grew up in Trenton, in a rough neighbourhood.  Apparently, it's in reference to her Scicilian parents. I digress. She was pissed off at her neighbours in the lovely suburb where she lives, whom she thought had wronged her. Her idea of a good return on that, was to make Shit Soup and pour it all over their yard.

She'd kind of lost me here, on a couple of points, like how she knew which neighbour did what and why she wouldn't just talk to them, (after all, she's got degrees in that kind of stuff)! But what confused me the most, was why on earth would you wreck a good pot, stink up your kitchen and concoct Shit Soup on your stove, just for the sake of revenge? So, naturally, I had to ask, "How do you make this Shit Soup?"

I won't give you the knowledge, but it doesn't involve bringing loads of crap into your kitchen. You may wreck a garbage can, but hey, a small price to pay compared to scatting up your La Creuset copper bottomed soup pot. She never got out of bed long enough to do it though, which worked out. About a month or so later, she ended up chit-chatting over vin rose with the evil neighbours. They made great friends, and she discovered that they weren't the folks who'd done her wrong!

Where's this going? Beats me. My father, Snidley Senior once remarked that trying to get me together, was like trying to herd cats. Silly man! Herding's for cattle and pride is for cats. Anyway, Cricket and Betty persuaded me to get the consistent pain checked out. I think maybe when you're used to so much mental pain, the physical stuff seems like just one more thing that you have to live with. Which right now, after many tests, may be right.

Except. Cricket doesn't believe that I should give up.