I grew up with a father and two brothers diagnosed with BiPolar Disorder, at that time called Manic Depression.  They would swing from full on manic to full on depression.  I’d never know who we’d wake up to, nor what would set whom off.  There would be the fun times, especially with new people, just one big happy family. Everyone getting along at the same time, everyone being playful with other.  Happy times for sure. Then without warning it would change. My father would out of nowhere become another person. Everything would anger him. He’d be physically aggressive, destroying things, and turn hateful and verbally abusive.  We were warned there would be consequences if we told anyone. We lived in fear, always walking on eggshells and always happy when a new friend would come on the scene so we could see the happy daddy return, at least for awhile. With new people on the scene, he’d go into performance mode, the life of the party, the ladies’ man. That was the fun daddy.  Behind the scenes it could be another story.  He could be lying immobile and unresponsive on the couch, for days.  He could be making crazy calls to everyone, threatening suicide.  Then just as soon as it began, it could be over.  He’d be back to his charming and fun and engaging self and that personality of his was so big we always forgave him. And we always got burned again. And we always forgave again. During a lucid moment, my father clearly saw what he’d put everyone through. His answer, as my younger brother’s for the same reason, was suicide. Therapy could have saved their lives. It could have given them the understanding they needed about their compulsions and tools to overcome them. It taught me to be thankful when I have a happy someone in front of me and to honor the unhappy someones by allowing them to be where they are yet stand available if they ask for help.