A lot of people with bipolar (and all kinds of mental illnesses) drink. I mean a lot , and they drink a lot . There is a sweet spot between “I shouldn’t be doing this” and “This is when the bad decisions start,” a sweet forgetfulness, a freedom from the absolute fucking grind that is living with bipolar. So yeah, I drank. And once I was diagnosed and medicated? I drank then too. Did I know that alcohol and psychotropic medications were a bad mix? Yes I did. And then my psychiatrist said if I didn’t stop we were "going to have a problem.” Said it just like that, like a mob boss. He didn’t define “problem,” so I was free to fill in the blank: maybe he’ll stop prescribing my meds, maybe he’ll stop treating me altogether. Maybe I’ll end up back at square one. Oh fuck. So now I drink maybe half a beer maybe once every other month. I don’t miss the bad decisions. I don’t miss wrecking the all-important sleep schedule. I don’t miss getting sick and dangling one foot out of the ...