This past week I have been in New York with my father and brother, visiting my father's brother's family. His name is Uncle Alan, he is married to Barbara, and he has two daughters, Mandie and Steph. Mandie is getting married tomorrow, and we came for the wedding. 

The last time I visited this side of my family was when I was fifteen. I had a few very troubled years from the time I was fifteen until, well to be honest, this past year.

My mom was dying, my dad was a jerk, and I was a rebelling teen. My dad had sent me to New York the December before my mother died, when I was fifteen. He had sent me there for three weeks as a form of punishment. My family in New York are orthodox Jews and they live in a kosher home. It was a miserable time, and all I wanted was to be back home with my friends and my mom.

In the time since I had last visited, I have kept in contact with my family, but only vaguely over facebook. They are all teachers and therapists. My dad does not believe that I am actually bipolar. He disagrees with the fact that I take medicine to manage it, and nearly every time I mention my meds he says something along the lines of "I'd really like to have a discussion with your doctor", in a negative and doubtful tone. He has also hidden my diagnosis from my family. 

When I spoke of my bipolar today in the car, and explained to them the horrible depression I went through, the mood swings, the fights with family and friends, and the lack of a bright future, it clearly adds up to a correct diagnosis. 

I am still in shock that I got through it all. I really, truly believed that I was never going to be able to live a normal life. Nearly everyday I would write down in my journal that I felt like I was losing my mind. That I knew I was never going to stop having all of these problems. Mainly, that I wanted to die. I didn't want to kill myself, but I wanted to die. I would take the bus to school, praying and hoping for a car accident. I just wanted something to happen so that I wouldn't feel that way anymore.

Ten months later, something happened. I got on medication, I regularly saw my doctor, I got a job that I love, a boyfriend that I love (and that loves me), and I couldn't be happier with my life now. It seems so clear--- I am better, and I was sick.

Ironically, my dad thinks that my bipolar diagnosis is "all in my head", which, it is. But it's not something I gave myself... it's just there. 

Saying my story out loud to my family just confirms how well I am doing... and I'm so happy.

And they are happy for me too.

I have such a bright future, and it's because of the meds and the doctors and my boyfriend (who my dad also hates, once when Waleed left for Texas my dad asked me if I was sure he wasn't a terrorist-- like really Dad?)

and it's working!

Oh, and on an even brighter note-- I just found out that my work is sending me to AWP in Seattle, in February, to represent Piper!