Acupuncture is often touted as a “cure-all” for anything and everything. People seem to either think that acupuncture is an amazing alternative medicine or it is a placebo sham.

I first decided to try it in 2010 to see if it would be able to help ease my lifelong sleeping issues.

Usually I put a lot of thought into the medical providers I work with. In this case, I did not do any research into which practitioner I wanted to use; I simply chose the acupuncturist located one block from my house. It was certainly convenient, and seemed like a good idea at the time.

I recall those sessions as being strange. In addition to needles being placed all over my body, my sessions also involved smoke and fire. Sometimes, an herb would be placed on top of the acupuncture needles, then set on fire. Smoke was used in a procedure called “cupping” where glass jars were suctioned all over my back.

People often talk about running away to another, better place to escape their problems. But they are reminded that the problems remain even if they clean up and do things right this time around.

I often have thought of getting a fresh start somehow. I got that opportunity, but in an unfortunate way.

A failed suicide attempt left me completely disabled, unable to work and with a severe hypoxic brain injury that affected many aspects of my life. I had to start from rock bottom and completely rebuild my entire life.

Before the suicide attempt, I had a great job, made great money, bought a new car and had lots of friends that I hung out with often. In retrospect, I had everything and I was proud of myself for working so hard and doing so well.

Behind the scenes, I had a bad drinking problem and was constantly self-medicating my anxiety and depression.

“Manic-depression distorts moods and thoughts, incites dreadful behaviors, destroys the basis of rational thought, and too often erodes the desire and will to live. It is an illness that is biological in its origins, yet one that feels psychological in the experience of it, an illness that is unique in conferring advantage and pleasure, yet one that brings in its wake almost unendurable suffering and, not infrequently, suicide.”
~ Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness

When a person hears the word “bipolar,” his or her mind usually immediately jumps to the depiction of roller-coaster mood swings and lashing out.

Yet, this is not always the case with bipolar disorder. Bipolar can also affect your thoughts. Some people — like myself — experience a different version of the mental illness where many of your symptoms are internalized.

My illness varies from depressive apathy to euphoric mania which can be accompanied by a delusion or hallucination. I have not had the more severe experiences in about five years, thanks to therapy and medication. Though my journey to recovery was a difficult one, it is not an impossible feat.

I was a young lady who muddled her way through this world. Lost in bizarre depression and mood disorder, with a heavy load on my shoulders, I was uncertain about the direction of my future. I had thoughts of suicide from a very young age and much of my time was spent either contemplating suicide or experimenting with it.

Plummeting into darkness on occasion made me a burden. When insomnia attacks, I get frustrated and the anxiety builds up — that deep gut feeling where everything is my fault. It’s 3 A.M. and I think about all the times people have promised me that things will get better. But they don’t.

I’m in the office with the psychiatrist and he diagnoses me with the “bad medicine.” He tells me it works for manic-depressive symptoms in children. It was the dark purple kind. In other words — bipolar. But my mood disorder is not that heavily diagnosed yet.

I’d like to give a shout-out to our fantastic blogger, Zoë Kessler, who blogs over at ADHD from A to Zoë. She was featured in a Toronto Star article about attention deficit disorder, telling her personal story.

Kessler tells the story of feeling like her life had derailed after her father died. She felt like was scattered and unable to focus and she couldn’t find a way to get back on track.

Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD/ADD) is most often discussed when talking about children, teens or young adults. But the fact is, many adults also suffer the disorder and don’t always become aware of it until well into adulthood.

Zoë’s story is an inspiration. Not only did she find a way to understand her condition and get help for it, but she writes about it for the world, sharing her own personal trials and tribulations in living with ADD.

“I started writing songs ‘cause it’s kind of like a message in a bottle. You write a song, and you can send it out into the world, and the person you wrote it about might hear it too.”
~ Taylor Swift

In October 2012, Taylor Swift became the first female artist in Nielsen SoundScan history to break record sales twice. “Red,” her latest album, sold over one million copies in its first week, and she reached that impressive mark with “Speak Now” (2010) as well. Not to mention, “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together,” her catchy hit single, is taking over the radio airwaves.

Since “Speak Now,” I’ve become somewhat of a “Swiftie” listener myself (apparently that’s the name of her fan club), and I was curious to see how her stories in “Red” would unfold. While her vocals matured, and the styles of music blur between pop, country and some rather eclectic dub step, I was even more pleasantly intrigued by her songwriting. Its bold nature discloses personal details about her life, her words reminiscent of words you would only find on a page in a diary.

Is this why so many adolescents and twenty-somethings can relate to her music?

I carry a few different business cards in my purse. Because I never know what conversation I will have with a stranger at any given time.

A month ago I fetched cream for my coffee at a café in South Bend, Indiana. Naturally my family didn’t know a soul in the joint. However, by the time I returned to my table, I knew some incredibly intimate (not to mention interesting) details about the daughter of the man next to me who was reaching for a napkin: his daughter is bipolar; she was anorexic as a teenage ballerina; and she’s on some of the same meds as I am.

I ended up giving him a business card with everything but my email scratched out.

I didn’t want to have the conversation of what I do for living.

It doesn’t have anything to do with who I am.

And that’s why I get so annoyed that we have to start all of our conversations with that question.

During the holidays, we often hear stories about how much people are shopping. In fact, you can’t turn on the news on Black Friday (or the Monday after, or the day after that, or the day after that…) without hearing about holiday shopping.

What you don’t hear enough about are the people who are down and out, in need of our help. Sure, it was great there was a 12-12-12 concert for victims of Hurricane Sandy. But what about everyday folks who just have fallen on temporary hard times?

That’s why The New York Times Neediest Cases Fund warms my heart. For the past 100 years, the Fund has provided direct assistance to children, families and the elderly in New York. Each day during the months of December and January, they highlight a story from their Fund. In a city of over 8 million people, it’s not hard to find people in need.

Today’s story is about a man who worked for over a decade as a home health aide, over 75 hours every two weeks. When he was most in need due to a kidney infection, however, he found his own health insurance wouldn’t cover his medical expenses. Which in turn sent him into a spiraling depression.

Our thoughts and prayers go out to all those who were deeply affected by this storm. There are those who’ve lost much more than just power; the hurricane’s aftermath is unbelievably tragic.

Last night was the first time in a week that I didn’t have to sleep in two layers and three blankets, with my muscles contracting and my body contorting itself in a very awkward position to ward off the frigid, New York air. I was also able to turn on the light and bask in my illuminated bedroom — sans the pitch-blackness circling around me.

There was light and there was heat. We emerged from the Dark Ages.

“Fear is the cheapest room in the house. I would like to see you living in better conditions.”
~ Khwajeh Shams al-Din Muhammad Hafez-e Shirazi

“Prosperity is not without many fears and disasters; and adversity is not without comforts and hopes.”
~ Francis Bacon

“When fear ceases to scare you, it cannot stay.”
~ Gary Zukav

“Most of the things worth doing in the world had been declared impossible before they were done.”
~ Louis D. Brandeis, Supreme Court Justice

“Saints are sinners who kept on going.”
~ Robert Louis Stevenson

“Fall seven times, stand up eight.”
~ Japanese Proverb

Sometimes I’m not so sure what the point of democratic elections are.

After living in one of the largest democracies in the world all my life, I get more and more disillusioned with each passing year.

Why? Because each year the same pattern repeats itself. Endlessly.

This is especially true every four years when we go to the polls to elect our next President. Presidential candidates regularly make promises and pledges about what they can do to “fix” every problem afflicting us today.

“Just shut up, you epileptic man. You are the cause for my father’s suffering and poverty. In fact, you are the cause for all of us to suffer. You just need to die and leave us in peace. You’re suffering us. Look at me, I can’t even play football with my friends because they think I will give them epilepsy. You are a curse.”

This is my own voice almost eighteen years ago. In 1994, I subjected my late epileptic uncle to inhuman treatment and suffering.

Nearly two decades later, this voice continues to reverberate in my mind and ears. It haunts me like a ghost since I last attended a workshop on mental health and mental illness conducted by the Carter Center and the Ministry of Health & Social Wealth in Monrovia, Liberia.

Epilepsy, I learned, is not a mental illness. However, it is included and discussed as such because it is a brain sickness.

I was born to see my late uncle suffer from epilepsy. Matter of fact, the illness treated him very badly — so badly that I hated him for it.

I meted out the most severe treatment against him because of his condition. Among other things, I ‘drowned’ his head in a calabash of unfiltered water; I even publicly humiliated him. Evidently, whenever I chained him besides a fire or ‘drowned’ him in the water, he became violent. This violent response I understood as a lesson for him to steer clear of me and a motivation within him to want to die earlier to end his suffering at my hands.