I stood in front of the medicine cabinet, staring at a bottle of pills that I had taken down from one of the top shelves. My gaze ranged over the translucent orange plastic, the controlled substance warning on the label, the childproof white cap that sometimes was a struggle for me to open…. Then I thought of my two little girls and put the bottle back on the shelf.
I went to the kitchen and waited for my husband to come down before he left for work.
“Kev, can you call Dr. Richards?” I asked. My voice was flat, almost a monotone. “I think I need to go to the hospital.”
“Okay,” Kevin said.
There was no surprise in his voice. We’d been living with my bipolar disorder for three years. By now he could sense when I was coming down from a manic