I am a word-fetishist. I adore words. They are my playthings. They are my blankies. I generally mold them, shape them and occasionally break them at my leisure. But I also respect words. I respect their meaning and their use outside the bounds of current politically correct, self-help thinking, but somehow the rest of the world wants to complain because I call a spade a shovel.

Asking for help is about as much fun as a tonsillectomy with a hose pipe and a pair of pliers. So, if I do get that far, try not to say things like "I know how you feel," "it can't be that bad," "aren't you over that yet?" No. I'm pretty sure you don't, and I'm not. I have a chronic mental illness. It isn't going to go away. Ever. Can you imagine...

Today, in the U.S., we celebrate Thanksgiving. The holiday seems to have gotten a bit lost in the push to jump-start the holiday shopping season, but it's a perfect opportunity to put our lives into perspective.

I dreamed I was at the mall, shopping with my partner. We strolled through the stores, bought a few things, and went home. It wasn't a particularly noteworthy dream but I mentioned it in passing to her anyway. "That wasn't a dream," she said. "We did that yesterday." How did I confuse reality for a fiction created by my dreaming mind? Memory is a tricky thing and dissociation complicates remembering. It's only because I have dissociative identity disorder (DID) and am aware of my dissociative memory problems that I believed her when she said it wasn't a dream. It didn't, and still doesn't feel like a memory at all.

As a kid, a friend was that special someone who shared her lunch with you, passed you top-secret notes and played with you at recess. In high school, a friend was that shoulder to cry on, to share laughs, and to get into trouble with. As adults, friends are those people that we play phone tag with and see a few times a year. The sad thing about adults is that we become so consumed with our own lives that friendships often get neglected and become a mere afterthought only once we have finished with our work and family obligations.

Keith Smith speaks out about his horrific experience of abduction and rape by a stranger at the age of 14. It's taken him years, decades, to speak out about the trauma. Read his story below and then view his interview on the HealthyPlace Mental Health TV Show,  Male Survivor of Rape Speaks Out.

Tonight, the boys and I watched "A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving" in honor of the coming holiday. When I was a kid, I developed an obsession with Peanuts, the Charles Schulz comic strip. I spent a summer poring over a garage-sale anthology of the strip, almost feeling as if I was a member of the Gang. I even had my own "Psychiatric Help" booth a'la Lucy, courtesy of my grandfather's carpentry skills and willingness to indulge. I still love all things Peanuts, but the characters have fallen out of favor with modern kids. I have to wonder--why was I drawn to them? Could it be because each character seems to have been plucked from the pages of the DSM-IV?

I have been through more bipolar treatments than I care to recall; probably everything you’ve heard of plus a bunch of bipolar treatments you haven’t. And yes, obviously, I have failed the vast majority of these bipolar treatments. And while not getting better is certainly nasty enough, it always feels like it’s my fault that the treatment didn’t work.

So it's Thanksgiving week in the US. Already! Time to get out the Sunday best, prep for the presents, parties, company cocktails, chaotic travel arrangements and family gatherings. Some of us are lucky enough to be totally comfortable with all of that - to have supportive, warm friends and family who don't rely entirely on gossip, ironic embroidered knitwear and gin to get them through the Holidays. (If you happen to be that someone can I crash the castle?) Mostly I just want to look and feel my best, to have enough happy-go-lucky, devil may care attitude to spare: In the hopes that I'll make it through to January without too much general and social anxiety, minus the always pleasant addition of 'where did my year go and why do I suddenly feel the need to make impossible resolutions' panic.

During church that Sunday, their pastor played a clip of Susan Boyle's audition on Britain's Got Talent. Although it wasn't the point of the sermon, I realized that this clip is an excellent metaphor for life with borderline personality disorder (BPD).