My failure to ease the concerns of this man – and the others in the room – pained me. I told the room how I facilitated a support group, and that it was virtually impossible for our group to attract and retain young people. I explained that teens and young adults desperately want to fit in and do the things their friends do. They don’t want to be told they’re different, not quite normal. They don’t want to hear that they may have to take meds the rest of their lives, especially ones that make them feel like fat stupid zombie eunuchs. They don’t want to be lectured to on how wise it is to go to bed at a reasonable hour while all their friends are partying.

I told them how my illness manifested in full measure in college and how I wound up dropping out and having to go through a number of lost years in my life. I told them how I was so deep in denial I that I didn’t seek help until age 49, time enough to have wrecked my life several times over.

Unfortunately, kids have to make their own mistakes, have to fall flat on their faces, often a number of times. Hopefully, they will eventually learn their lessons, while there is still something in their lives to salvage, before they have put their families through too much pain.

Never give up on your kid, was about all I could say. Never abandon hope. Your child is entitled to enjoy a full and productive and rewarding life. I can say this with credibility and great passion. I have bipolar, after all, yet – despite everything - I seem to be doing fine.

But I had no magic answer for that poor man or the others in the room. He was powerless and so was I. Against ignorance, even the gods cry out in vain. I didn’t know. I just didn’t know. Sometimes, I really hate this illness.