The last thing I needed was to be published at this point in my life. I was writing very dark fiction—full of death and destruction and sin. I couldn’t stay out of the hospital—every year between Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day, my mood went south, and I wound up suicidal. Bob was running himself ragged trying to keep up with my moods and the needs of three young children along with his obligations to his job. We stopped writing Christmas newsletters to our family and friends because there just wasn’t much good news to write about. I went through medication change after medication change to stabilize my moods. I would do well for a while and then spring would roll around again and I would be in a manic or mixed state, with depressive and manic symptoms all at once.
I started to finally even out in 2011—I was hospitalized for a very short time over Easter weekend and feel as good as I ever had once released. But I wasn’t where I had been in early 2005, and I knew it. And I was beyond mad at God about it. People had prayed for me and over me, I had been told that it was God’s will for me to be healed, and the frustration with my limitations on what I could do and what I could stand for had mounted and hardened into a doubt that God cared for me at all. Why would he have allowed this change to my life, my personality, my intellect to happen?