I am a word-fetishist. I adore words. They are my playthings. They are my blankies. I generally mold them, shape them and occasionally break them at my leisure. But I also respect words. I respect their meaning and their use outside the bounds of current politically correct, self-help thinking, but somehow the rest of the world wants to complain because I call a spade a shovel.

Normally I try to grab the reader's attention in the first few lines of the piece so that you'll want to read the rest. Something snappy, touching or pithy. Normally I try to make sure it's an interesting subject. Usually I try to provide some sort of universal appeal to the piece or at least a good quip. But today, quite frankly, I'm talking about me.

Here I am. Writing. In public. About being crazy. Here I am. Being crazy. In public. Under scrutiny. I’ve been writing about being bipolar for seven years now, in a very closed, anonymous environment. People didn’t know my name, or see my face. By design. Anonymity has a way of allowing the truth to flourish.