The so-called “War on Drugs” has been going for almost as long as I can remember. For years, the US government has poured billions of dollars into programs designed to help decrease America’s dependence on illicit substances. While I typically do not get into public debate on this topic, I felt the need to share my thoughts on this controversial issue.

When you think of September, what comes to mind? Crisp notebooks, new backpacks, sharp pencils with brand new erasers, reconnecting with friends, running around at afterschool sports and activities, enjoying recess and gym. Or Remembering the ADHD medication, morning madness, battling homework, trying to pay attention, talking with teachers, scheduling this year’s 504 or IEP meetings.

This July, I published a book, The Third Sunrise: A Memoir of Madness. It was a long three-year process sprinkled with bouts of depression and anxiety, but happiness as well. I had always wanted to write a book about my experience with mental illness and addiction. The reality of it--exposing my life on paper--was much harder than I had originally thought. I suppose I was a little naïve?

When my son, Ben, was in the first stages of recurring psychosis from schizophrenia, we were waiting for him to get "sick enough" to finally earn a bed in a psychiatric unit (don't get me started on this). During that period, we had many encounters with our local police officers while Ben, and the rest of the family, were in crisis. I am so happy that these officers were trained in mental health crisis intervention. I am thankful for their kindness and empathy toward Ben, Ali and me which made our traumatic situation more bearable. Even more importantly, their CIT (Crisis Intervention Training) made it possible to avoid the trauma-upon-trauma pile-up of emotions that could have escalated the crisis instead.

People with a first-degree relative (say, a mother or father) with bipolar I have a seven times greater chance of having bipolar disorder themselves. Offspring of a parent with bipolar disorder have a 50% chance of having another major psychiatric disorder. And if both your parents have bipolar disorder or another major mental illness? Well, I have no idea how that works out by the numbers. In short, if you’re bipolar and having kids, there’s a very good chance that your children will have a mental illness too. So the question is this, if you know that your child will have a mental illness, should you be having children in the first place?

Through much of our conversation together, we've discussed setting boundaries and telling your abuser what you will and won't do when she behaves abusively. Today, I want you to realize that the words you speak are for you only. Your abuser doesn't listen to them anymore than she listens to anything else you say.

In a fit of anger, I threw away my scale in January. The temptation to buy a new one was very strong, but I knew I needed to move beyond obsessing about numbers in order to achieve true recovery. Therefore, I haven't known my weight in almost eight months. Until today. And surprisingly, I'm okay with it.

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Popular animals have long been associated with products, institutions and causes to draw attention, increase likeability, and help fix key ideas in the public imagination. One need only mention Smokey The Bear to make the case convincingly. Sporting a broad-brimmed ranger hat and gazing with unblinking, unforgiving eyes, Smokey warned us that we were the only ones capable of preventing forest fires. One had the sense that Smokey was not a bear to be trifled with, and yet, showing his vulnerable side he revealed that – as tough as he was – without our cooperation he, and his forest companions – deer, moles, ticks, woodchucks, badgers, marmosets, Thompson’s gazelles, beavers, polecats, and salamanders – and moose – were in serious trouble. This concept, that an enormous, fierce bear was depending on little old us, had currency – and the campaign lasted not just for years but for decades. We liked Smokey, and we wanted to help him.

My anxiety shot through the roof when I became a parent. Everything seemed a little more important. I had a huge responsibility to keep this other human being safe and happy. Not just responsibility, but a strong desire to give him the world and never let him suffer.