Before I was manic and diagnosed at Columbia Presbyterian hospital by a team of doctors in the summer of 2012 I was depressed. Severely depressed. To the point where my physical and mental body had no interest in anything. No activity. No thought. No body could get me out of depression. Here I was in Syracuse with my girlfriend of a few months and I couldn’t get aroused. I thought I was dying. Seriously. I was 19 and having erectial dysfunction. Here I was in a bed with a seductress, with a heavenly body so divine that other times I couldn’t contain the lust, and I couldn’t become aroused. She thought I was no longer attracted to her, but that’s impossible. This is the same woman I’ve written 300+ poems about (I’ve counted). This is the same woman I want to spend my immortal life with. And to think at 19 I was so severely depressed that I couldn’t get aroused. So while she was in class, I was wallowing in my demise as a man. I was young and growing, and I had no control over my body. My mind and ego were too weak for any activities.
I’ve never been that depressed since. But this has been the hardest aspect of my bipolar disorder. I never knew how to share this particular story. But I’ve known for a long time that sharing was sharing no matter how it occurs. And now I’m writing this for strangers, family, and friends.