The day began well. I jumped out of bed with anticipation, after sleeping soundly through the night. (That in itself was a huge accomplishment, as I had only slept between 2 hours and 6 hours for weeks on end.) But my life soon started to go awry.  First I had what I call a “freak-out” with my brother.  (Others  close to me call it a psychotic outburst) My younger brother called me and said some upsetting things to me.  I started yelling at him, which is something I regret now.  However, my husband had asked my brother to take a break from calling me, as he wasn’t understanding what I was going through in terms of dealing with my bipolar stuff. As my brother disregarded Craig’s request, he was, in fact, triggering me which really angered me After we had a horrible argument on the phone, I thought the worst part of the day was over. (I went into another room to shout at him, so that my kids weren’t in the same room, but it’s a small house, so of course they heard, but I reassured them after our argument as best as I could.)

That morning I was hosting a “2005 baby” playgroup at my house, so an onslaught of babies, toddlers and mommies soon filled up our 1000 square-foot home. We also had a visit from a photographer at our local paper, the Santa Cruz Sentinel. The support group I created, for women with bipolar, was being profiled in the paper and the writer wanted a photo of me and my family.  So after everyone had left the house, I started to pick up frantically so that when Craig came home, it would be nice & neat. After having gone out for a hike during our playgroup, he returned, and before he said hello or anything kind to me, he snapped at me.  I lost it.  I started screaming at him, and he picked up the phone to call the police, as over the past week he had been telling me that if I got out of control, he would call the police in the hope that I would be hospitalized and forced back on the drugs that had been so toxic for me.  I got so furious with him that I started punching him. (I regret this – especially since I grew up with domestic violence and swore my own children would never be around such madness.) This was the first time I had ever hit him during our nine years together. I even ripped his T-shirt.  Four police officers appeared at our doorstep in record time. They separated me and Craig, one kind officer hung out with me and our kids, and he started to interview me about what happened. Long story short?  I was told that the polcie wanted to bring me to our local hospital’s behavioral health unit for an evaluation.  I agreed, and complied with them.  Craig took the kids to our babysitter, so he didn’t have to watch me get handcuffed in front of our home, with three squad cars flashing their lights ominously at me. Before I got handcuffed, I realized there was a very good chance I would be put on a “5150″ (a mandatory 72-hour hold for observation) and so I asked if I could bring a book, or any of my bipolar health supplements, and they said “You won’t be needing that.”  The fact that I was denied taking my own treatments would later prove to be very frustrating and damaging to my mental health.   More to come soon!