About two or three weeks ago. a friend of mine on Facebook posted a link to an article extolling the virtues of ex-gay therapy. I responded with a quote from the American Psychology Association stating something to the effect that since homosexuality is not a disease, it is therefore not in need of a cure.

This was then answered by a different friend, and we proceeded to have a lengthy Facebook “conversation” about the subject. It ended with a private message from my friend saying I was the perfect example of someone who could be either gay or straight since I’d been married and fathered three children.

All this pushed a button I thought was long disconnected, and it sent me into a tailspin of loathful depression and anguished self-hatred. The grotesque verbal self-abuse started. I called myself names in the mirror that I haven’t uttered for years. I was scared by it and surprised.

I tried a few times to practice some of the things I’ve mentioned in here. I turned the wretched insults around and made them positives. I recited those even though I didn’t believe them. I was unable to meditate, so I slept. A lot. A whole lot. I spent several days in bed.

I had suicidal thoughts, but they were fleeting. I knew that the depression would pass and that death was not the answer. I’m too busy right now. I don’t have time to die.

There are other things that help me in those black spots that come in the life of every bipolar sufferer. Number one was medication. I took it every day religiously as prescribed. I am a firm believer that medication works when it’s taken the way it says to on the bottle.

I reached out to trusted friends and my therapist. I talked to my case worker. I used my network of support to stay connected. I didn’t stop the volunteering that I do. It was nearly impossible to push myself out the door some days, but getting out of the house helped get me outside my head and helped me feel better.

I’ve been through a rough few weeks, but I survived. I didn’t lose faith that there would be an end to the blues. The light at the end of the tunnel seemed far away most of the time, but I concentrated on the fact that there would be an end to the depression.

Today, I feel better, and that’s all that matters right now. I’ll let tomorrow worry about itself.