I am bipolar. When I was first diagnosed 4 years ago I would say that I suffered from bipolar disorder – no wonder I spent most of the time depressed. I actually prefer the old non-PC term of manic depressive: it conjures up a much more accurate image of the torrent of energy surging in and around me at the upper end of the scale, and as for depressive: well, there is little to say … too depressing. I’ve been MD for years – since I can remember: from deciding one day (6 weeks before my A-level exams) to leave school, to walking into an Audi dealership 16 years later, standing by the new TT convertible and saying to the assistant ‘I’ll have this one, please’. In between were years of overspending (40 shift dresses, anyone?), overconsumption of alcohol, hiding in bed for whole weekends before being forced out to function ‘normally’ at work and a general rollercoaster of a life. It was the most fun – nothing was impossible, but it was heart-wrenchingly miserable: sometimes all within the course of one day. The diagnosis came initially as a relief, then as a millstone. I was clever, bright, had never taken drugs but was now tarred with the mental illness brush. It didn’t seem fair… and of course it isn’t fair – but what is? Today I accept the label as something required to treat the chemical imbalance in my brain – it does not remould me. In fact, I have met some truly remarkable people through this imbalance: friends and professionals (my GP and Community Psychiatric Nurse are heaven-sent). I have found out who my true friends are (isn’t that always the way?!), but I also think that I have become a better, less judgemental person.