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It took me until age 27 to finally seek treatment for depression. Turned out I'm bipolar type 2, which means I'm mostly depressive, with just a bit of "hypomania" with "mixed states" - basically, depression on speed. Before that, I struggled with feeling suicidal a lot. I won't go into that too much... it's just the background of this story. Ten years ago, I was coming home pretty late on a Monday night in March, and, after parallel parking, I turned off the car engine, pulled the key out of the ignition, and someone opened my door (the lock wasn't working at the time). "Give me some money," a voice snarled. A gun (a revolver, warm grey, maybe 65 on the grey scale) flashed somewhere near my thigh. "I don't have any" came out of my mouth as instinctively as a scream probably should have. I hadn't had any money all weekend... but... oh yeah, a friend of mine had just given me a twenty for a couple books. I was selling my self-published poetry books at $8/each, and I had two titles out (the third's release date was already announced), and since I hadn't had money all weekend, I didn't have the $4 change to give my friend. So I had a twenty. "Oh, wait—" I took out my change pouch and produced the money. "Give me some more," the voice said through clenched teeth. "I don't have any more. Here's my wallet," I managed. All this was automatic. My mind was where my body should have been—somewhere around the third floor of the staircase leading to my fourth-floor apartment, fatigued, happy, and ready for bed. "Give me some more," the voice was more and more forced-sounding, angry...

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