Hours after I had caught the bus to return home, a man named Derick got on, dressed in all yellow. When he sat next to me, I knew this was a sign from God that we were going to be married and change the world together.

Some of the memories are hazy. I do remember spending the night in many hotel rooms, trading my car in for a convertible, and buying a ring with my parents’ credit card. When we got to my house we gathered up my stuff and set out.

We were following what God had intended for us. We were taking it one step at a time.

The first step was to get married.

I tried calling my parents several times to give them the good news, but was never able to get ahold of them. While this was happening, my concerned parents contacted law enforcement, who were able to find me because of the places I had used my parents’ credit card and the locations I had called from.

What happened next is very vivid. Derick and I were fast asleep when we heard pounding on the door and someone shouting, “FBI!” From that point on, I never saw him again. Eventually my parents showed up, and after that, the memories simply don’t exist.

While praying at the age of 13, God had revealed to me what my purpose was. I was supposed to be the first female president, and he would guide me along the way if I stayed faithful and became a teacher, then a doctor, and then went back to school to study law. When and how was not revealed to me.

In 1984, at the age of 17, I was diagnosed with manic depression, which is now known as bipolar disorder. It’s a serious brain disorder wherein a patient can be delusional, euphoric, spend money they don’t have, be sexually promiscuous, and have an increase in energy and less use for sleep. This is called mania. The other symptom of the illness is known as depression, wherein the patient’s sleeping and eating habits may change, they may have difficulty getting out of bed or taking a shower, and they don’t talk to anyone or find joy in anything. Patients often feel like their life isn’t worth living, and the people who know them wouldn’t miss them if they were gone.

Prior to my diagnosis, I had been depressed on and off since I was 13. I would cry constantly, couldn’t concentrate, and couldn’t complete the simplest of requests. Because of this, my parents stopped sending me to school.

I would miss a couple of weeks at a time, but when I returned, I was always able to catch up in a matter of a few days, maintaining an A average. Looking back, the doctors now know that those were manic episodes.

The day I was diagnosed I was at a friend’s house. He called my parents because I was doing very strange things, and he was concerned. My memories of that day are foggy, but I do remember thinking that I was cleaning the world by cleaning his mom’s house.

Hours later, I was curled up in a ball in the emergency room, being given a shot that knocked me out.

When I woke up, I was in a room in the intensive-care wing of a psychiatric hospital. This would prove to be the first of countless visits to various psychiatric facilities. I don’t remember too much of the first few days during my time there, but I do remember being very disoriented. I wandered into other patients’ rooms, took a lot of showers, talked a lot to the other patients and staff, and looked forward to the very limited times I was allowed to speak with my parents on the phone.

From that moment on, I considered myself to be a “crazy” person. Due to the stigma of mental illness at the time, our family kept it very hush-hush that I had spent time in the hospital. My mom and dad lost friends, I ended up going to a different school, and—due to my mental-health issues—my sisters did not get as much time from my parents as they deserved. The majority of my relatives distanced themselves from us, not wanting to know anything about the illness that would plague me for years to come.

As the years went by and I was forced to face the challenges of bipolar disorder, I did manage to accomplish a lot. I graduated from high school and college. I was a manager at a movie theater, worked as a trainer at Disney World, taught for nine years, and became Teacher of the Year in 2003! However, my illness took its toll and my doctors forced me to go on disability after being hospitalized 16 times in one year. It was very devastating and made me feel like a failure.

I decided that I would not let this defeat me. I went on to teach myself how to be a digital marketer while working at my father’s company. This would prove helpful when I started blogging under the pseudonym “Bipolar Bandit.” I set out to not only educate others about bipolar disorder and tell my story, but I was also hopeful I could help others along the way by offering tips.

This led me into mental health advocacy—it’s work where I truly feel like I am making a difference.

I started a Facebook group called “Advocates for People with Mental Illnesses” and a page called “Mental Health Advocates United” where I have joined mental-health advocates from around the globe. We have sent countless emails and letters, made thousands of phone calls, and met with politicians. We also have told our stories to the media, spoken with celebrities who have mental illnesses, and had events drawing attention to mental illness. Our goal is to raise awareness, end the stigma, and change the way people with mental illnesses are treated.

Although I am not officially working, I feel like I am accomplishing things by helping others in ways I never dreamed I would. I still battle the demons of the illness every day, but I am blessed with a very supportive network of friends and family.

Michelle Clark is a mental-health advocate who uses her years of lived experience to educate, inspire, and encourage. She founded the Facebook group Advocates for People with Mental Illnesses, whose mission is to get in touch with people of influence to help end the stigma and better the system.