Am I a sad person?

I constantly worry if I am worthy of breathing or of venturing to the grocery store. I worry that I will be fired from my job. I worry that the stories I write (for that is what I am, a writer) are too dangerous and depressing. I worry that I can't be more financially supportive of my two beautiful daughters. I worry that my cats and dog get bored. 

My writing is where I stretch my imagination and explore the terrible worries. I have been writing stories and novels for some forty years, with a ten-year stretch of poetry in the middle. Without writing, I would fail to understand the choices I have made that have led me to sitting on the porch writing this blog. I have to remind myself that I have fought tooth and nail to be where I am today. Although I worry, I have been the happiest for the past ten years or so, which correlates with how long I have been religious about taking medications that soothe the chemicals in my brain.

To be up front, I live with bipolar affective disorder and am treated as such. At my lowest point, when I was 33, I was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder. I was a royal mess, having just earned a master's degree in public health at Yale a few months prior. I lost a lucrative job, my wife divorced me, I imploded, and my breath was taken away. With the help of my grandparents, it took me some five years to recover and begin living again, but I was not taking the pills as prescribed and lingered in the shadows of mental illness for many years after.

A sad story to be sure, but through most of the worst years, I continued to write, trying to figure out the world I lived in and how to move forward. A story I've written called "He Paid It No Mind" suits my position when I was not taking my meds, wandering, lost, taking my punishment with a grain of salt, with no clear idea of where I was headed, my brain dull and lost.

Since I embraced the idea of medications, I have thrived in a way never before possible. My first idea of killing myself occurred when I was just ten years old, taking apart my father's shaving razor, removing the blade, and wondering what to do. That was just the beginning, becoming later in life a mantra that I did not deserve to live. But now, fully embracing my diagnosis and taking little pills, I am still surprised that for the past twelve years or so I have held a steady job teaching English at a local university. I have two of the most wonderful daughters and have a great relationship with my second ex-wife, who departed not being able to endure my moods. I have five very interesting cats and a dog who worships me (It seems that way, and I hope it is true). I've written and published (some self-published) thirteen novels and five story collections and have published some fifty stories in small journals. Writing is a joy and comfort, although many of my stories are very dark, and some are humorous. Here is a link to my books.

So, I write. I enjoy the lives of my two daughters. I am kept company by my dog and cats. I have a house that keeps me warm, which I formerly thought impossible. Although some twenty years behind my peers and friends due to life lost to mental illness, I cling to what I have and am grateful. So, am I a sad person? In some ways, yes, perhaps in terms of pity, but compared to what could be, I am as happy as I have ever been and look forward to each new day,