LITMIR.BIZ

      Was it the drugs, the genetic predisposition, or the trauma? Likely, all of the above.

      My parents, Marcia and Martino, were impoverished, had two kids, and were using illicit drugs. I was born premature and addicted. Each had manic depression, now called bipolar disorder.

      They coped with their mental battles by using drugs and alcohol. They would leave my brother Jordache and me unattended, lying in our own filth, screaming, barely clothed, to score. They left us just one too many times. On that day, at a seedy motel, the clerk heard our cries and called the police, and we were then taken into child protective services. It was a gift, our first.

      Clearly Jordache and I were predisposed to bipolar disorder. The question remains, did we have a chance? How much did neglect, malnutrition, and abandonment have to do with my condition? How much did the drugs in my system, in utero, contribute to the eventual onset of bipolar disorder?

      After Jordache and I were placed into foster care, he developed bronchitis and died. Feeling even more abandoned, I developed a detachment disorder, which would follow me into adulthood. Even today, I battle with anxiety, detachment disorder, and abandonment issues on top of bipolar disorder.

      I bounced around from foster home to foster home. Day after day was spent vomiting and having ongoing diarrhea. I was every foster parent's nightmare. Finally, at nine months of age, I was placed into the loving arms of Patrick and Debi Hines. They were my second gift, my greatest blessing next to getting taken in by child protective services.

      Soon after I was placed in their care, Patrick and Debi decided to try and adopt me. They fought a two-year court battle to keep me.

      Patrick hired the best lawyers he could find to retain custody and won. He and Debi proceeded to adopt me. They cared for me throughout this time and were there throughout the progression of my bipolar disorder I with psychotic features. Even though our lives were rough when I struggled most, we got through it and have come out on the other side.

      I will never know to what extent my traumatic infancy, the drugs that entered my system before birth, my predisposition to a mental health condition, or any other factors may have contributed to my getting bipolar disorder. There is no way to measure those things that changed my brain forever. There is no way to tell which played a bigger role or when they overlapped.

      For now, I remain confident that no matter my suffering, I will prevail. The chronic suicidal thoughts will not kill me. I won't let them. I have far too much to live for. After my suicide attempt and survival, I know I deserve to be here. I have made a promise to myself and to my family. I will never attempt to take my life again. I will live until the ripe old age of 110, fighting for my mental wellbeing, and I will die in my sleep, holding my wife’s hand, just as in the film The Notebook (which I’ll never admit to having seen, or cried during, twice).