It’s almost noon on a weekday, and I’ve just woken up. I’ve overslept, but somehow I still feel restless. As my eyes adjust to the afternoon sun, I realize this will probably be the happiest moment of my day. In a flash, I am fully aware that I’m in a depressive state, again. A ton of invisible bricks drops onto my chest and the air leaves my body. It’s been about a decade since I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder — bipolar II to be exact — a type of mental illness characterized by cycling between mania and depression. And yet the arrival of a cycle
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