Lonely, depressed, confused, and spending hours a day contemplating suicide in my little eight-by-eight den. At the age of forty-two, this is what my life has become. At the age of thirty, I had a nervous breakdown and overdosed on several bottles of medication. The next day my wife found me unconscious on the floor, and I was rushed to the emergency room, after which I spent several days in the hospital. Then I was taken to a mental institution. During my month-long stay there, I was diagnosed with a bipolar disorder. The rest, they say, is history; but in my case, the rest is misery.