Until my psychiatrist diagnosed me with bipolar disorder and prescribed medication, every aspect of my life was broken. I rarely talked to my family, and my friends were a distant memory. Worst of all was not knowing why everything was so screwed up. The one conclusion I reached was that it was my fault. It was my fault for getting arrested twice, and it was my fault for burning every bridge I'd ever created. I hated myself, and I hated being a burden on my family. I avoided every mirror in or out the house in order to keep from looking at myself.