I'm not back to top myself. It was suggested exactly one million bajillion times in comments, over email, and, unfortunately, on my voicemail, that I not attempt to outdo my previous opening lines.

For what it's worth, I agree. Ever since I did that one stupid thing that I did that has everybody all freaked out, I've grown accustomed to the phrase, "You mean, I can do that?"

While I still think the basic rationale behind my reasons for wanting to die are entirely sound, I didn't realize how quickly they could be made irrelevant with a few simple bits of information.

I'm not sure if I said this in the last post, and I don't want to go back to find out (hey - that post freaks me out, OK?), but the easiest way to describe my outlook on the day when I did that stupid thing that was so stupid is to say that it wasn't so much that I wanted to die, but that I really wasn't in the mood to live. It's a subtle distinction, but it sums everything up nicely. I chose what I felt was the last sensible option, but the only reason I thought doing the unspeakable act so tragic that it has taught the children to sing on seven continents is that I didn't have any other options.

Maybe you can relate.

I've been dealing with "clinical" depression for over half my life now. It should be understandable that things looked bleak. The way I'd been dealing with it isn't much better.

For years now, I've continued working through these awful periods. I've kept up at work, kept writing here, kept doing whatever else was tossed my way, and it's because I didn't know I had the option to, you know, to, like, to things in a healthy way.

If you've ever done it, working through a terrible bout of depression is, well, terrible. I mean, I'd rather have my genitals removed in the delicate, surgical fashion that is common to the manner of the great bears of the Pacific Northwest than try to do it again.

Every single bloody day is this royal effing pain in the ass. You don't have the energy, mental wherewithal, motivation, or whatever to get your work done. Worse, if you're at all like me, then you'll also feel guilty about it. While I wouldn't say that I've been doing exactly what I'd have done with my life had I done what I wanted, I have been very thankful for the jobs I've gotten. Given conversations I've had with many other people, I'm also very fortunate to have had these jobs. I think that's where the guilt comes from. I see myself in the position of having this amazing career, but I'm miserable. I also know that I wouldn't really be miserable if I could just get some chemicals shifted around in my head. On paper, even at my most depressed, I saw that I've been one lucky bastard.

After getting hired on at Microsoft, I expected the depression to just go away, but it didn't happen. i got the best jobs I've ever had, and, again, I was miserable. This is especially tough when your job is to go out, rally up the troops, get most people excited about Microsoft, and leave a few intensely bitter and angry toward you (personally).

I've been surprised, then, as people have been popping up all over with suggestions and ideas on how to best deal with the problem of my crazy.

That's where the "You mean, I can do that?" comes in.

I wrote recently that I had been diagnosed as being bipolar five (5) times. By that, I don't mean to say that I've been bipolar five (5) times. I think I've only been bipolar once. I mean that I've been diagnosed, like, five (5) times. That's what I mean, and that's alls I'm saying. OK? That's alls I'm saying.

While I talked a little about the first three (3) diagnoses, I deliberately held off on talking about the last two (2).

I did this because the means by which I got those last two (2) diagnoses was rad. Rad, I tell you.

RAD.

My cousin and I were going over my many different options. It had been strongly suggested that I be hospitalized. My cousin agreed. I agreed, too. It sounded like fun. I had never been locked up for being nuts. There's a first time for everything, of course. Or, where something like this is concerned, there usually isn't a first time, but I bet there are all sorts of things that have happened to you for the first time that have yet to happen to me. Herpes. That's item number one. While it isn't statistically probable that you've got it, the odds are still scary enough that I'm willing to bet you do. Readers of my site in general: Herpes people. All of you.

(OK. Keep it together, Rory... just need to make it through this one stupid post...)

Cousin did a lot of research. He found a few hospitals that sounded like they'd actually be quite pleasant. I'm not going to name the one we chose, though, as it turns out the admissions guy slightly misrepresented the place to us. In retrospect, we aren't even sure that he was talking about the hospital (or that he even worked there).

This is what I expected:

- The option to be an outpatient so that I wouldn't have to sleep in a room with other people like me.

- At least one hour a day with a psychiatrist (this is what I was hoping for).

- Group activities that I could either attend or... not.

- A degree of freedom (note to any would-be lunatics: remember to always define your vague metrics before making decisions against them - this goes for a "degree," a "bit," a "smidge," and other popular measurements we use on a daily basis without having first understanding what, if anything, they mean).

It also sounded like a good match because of the clientele. The top three customers for this place were the US military, Boeing, and Microsoft. It sounded like I was going to be among other troubled geniuses. To understand what I really got, simply remove the words "other" and "geniuses" from the previous sentence (to fully make it work, you're also have to have to somehow convert "troubled" into a noun, but I think you'll get the idea without that grammatical exercise).

If I had to be hospitalized, this was the way to go.

When I got there, I was a little surprised. I didn't need a mental hospital - I needed a day spa.

Each person around me had some kind of mutant deformity. Smallheadism, bigassism, weirdbumpism, and other conditions that appear superficial, but which also render the victim slightly retarded and prone to navigating the hallways through a trial and error process that appeared to have been a kind of physical sonar that involved the face meeting sharply with the wall. Upon detecting  the hard, flat, tall object (still talking about the wall here), the mutant would then rotate on his third foot to try a slightly less painful vector. I call this the "Roomba Method of Navigation." In an IQ test, the other patients might not have scored positively when pitted against a highly skilled automated vacuum cleaner that is this method's namesake.

Contrary to what I expected, I felt worse. Every second in that place was bringing me down. I butted heads with a staff member who thought that the reason I was uncomfortable was that these people reminded me of myself. While they were certainly crazy, I have a few exceptional talents that single me out from that crowd, among them the ability to recite the alphabet in at least one direction, a deep understanding of the math science called "addition," and also an arrogance that I thought put me head and shoulders above everybody else.

I wasn't afraid that I was similar to these people - I was worried that one might stay up past midnight and turn into a gremlin, or multiply when water was spilled on its fur, and that I was going to have to clean up the mess. You remember how the gremlins ate chicken in the movie, don't you? If you don't, then you're lucky. It was a gross display of barbarism.

Then there was the problem of my raw sexual magnetism. What if one of them tried to breed with me?

Finally, and this is the thing that had me most terrified, these seemed like the kind of people who wouldn't think twice about using your toothbrush. For all I know, their madness was airborne and they were contagious. I didn't want their drool (which they had in ample supply) anywhere near my toothbrush.

I decided not to go back.

The final nail in the coffin of Crazy School was the early afternoon when I was asked if I'd like to attend "Art Therapy" class. I explained that I already have a few creative outlets. Thanks, but no thanks. No Art Therapy for me.

Apparently not believing that I was sure about my decision, the Art Therapy teacher outlined the hour for me.

I would receive safety scissors, a glue stick, some construction paper, crayons, and be allowed to express my inner whatever with it all.

"It's not actually art," she said. "It's a way to express subconscious turmoil. A lot of it comes out looking like vomit soup on paper."

She's going to have to work on her sales pitch. I was with her up through the construction paper, and I had my Oregon Trail diorama all thought up, but she lost me at "vomit soup on paper."

I went home and expressed my subconscious turmoil by eating Indian food while playing video games. It was like vomit soup in my condo.

I did get something good out of the day, though, which was a couple hours with shrinks. I was notified that, unlike what I had previously been told, I wouldn't be getting daily time with shrinks (meaning that it was going to be vomit soup all the way through the paper of my convalescence).

The couple hours I did get were very helpful. I didn't come to them with a list of all the things other shrinks had said about me, as I didn't want to prejudice their diagnoses by getting them thinking I was a particularly flavor of crazy simply because other shrinks thought it was the case.

I saw the two shrinks separately, and while I didn't share previous diagnoses, I did share my entire history as far as depression, meds, treatment, and so on went.

Both shrinks arrived quickly at bipolar. Not what I wanted to hear, but I was more or less open to anything at this point. I thought I would have been the simpler unipolar type of nut, but not so. I was 50% more polar than I had previously believed.

I went home with prescriptions for two popular bipolar meds. One for the short-term, and one for the long-term. For those interested, that would be lithium and lamictal.

I didn't think I'd feel any better, but I've got to say that lithium, so far, has blown me away. I've still got "issues" and stuff, but I actually feel like I'll eventually be able to get fixed rather than have to bump myself off because of a lack of hope.

And that's that. There's been much more to the story, as you can probably imagine, but that's all I want to say for now. I'm overwhelmed.

Also, I haven't said it yet, but thanks for all the comments, emails, and voicemail. I don't think I've responded to any of it yet because I'm intimidated by what you people have managed to do to my inbox, but it was all very kind. It gave me some perspective, too. Do away with my good looks, wit, money, talent, charm, fine physique, awesome hair, taste for fine fragrances, and all you have left is an ordinary guy.

With your help, I might one day regain something of my self-worth :)