It was the summer of 1995, and I was still getting used to my bipolar diagnosis. I was extremely symptomatic then—shooting high into the heavens one day, plummeting down to my own private hell the next. No amount of drugs or therapy seemed to be able to keep me grounded. My doctors and friends were starting to panic because when I was down, I was suicidal. My constant mood swings made it impossible for me to hold down a job, so my finances were in a dire state, which only exacerbated the stress.

Finally, my writing teacher came up with an idea. I’d been in her writing group for many years, and it was as much about therapy as it was about writing. She was a born healer of sorts—a woman with extraordinary insight into the psyches of all those who were lucky enough to belong to her groups. So I trusted her, and when she suggested I come to the Esalen Institute where she was teaching that summer, I agreed. Nothing else had worked, so what did I have to lose?

Esalen is a renowned healing center located in Big Sur, California. It was the vanguard of the Human Potential Movement in the ’60s, and thirty years later had lost little of its reputation for taking in lost souls and piecing them back together again. No doubt the setting is responsible for much of the magic—it’s perched high on a cliff above the Pacific Ocean, with a grotto of mineral baths, and acres of untrammeled nature to delight the eye and the aching heart.

I was so depressed on the long, meandering drive up the Pacific Coast Highway, it was all I could do to keep from twisting the wheel and plunging off one of the spectacular cliffs. When I finally arrived, I told my teacher what a foul mood I was in. “Do you think I should just go home?” I asked. “I can’t write. I can’t even think. I’m of no use to you or anyone else.”

“Just trust the process,” she said, so I inwardly cursed her but unpacked my things and settled in for the night. The full moon and the star-studded skies did not delight my eyes.

The next morning, I’d cycled out of that mood and into the most awful one possible: a mixed state, where the worst aspects of depression and mania collide. Depression’s self-hatred and loathing combine with mania’s agitated energy and irritability, to reach a boiling point of pure misery. I despised everything, even the nasty flowers blooming along the stupid trails. Somehow I got myself to the class, though, and sat there cross-legged on the floor, glaring at everyone and daring them to speak to me.

I was too afraid to disclose my bipolar situation to these unknown people, so I wrote about my financial woes instead. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself, but it felt good to get those feelings out and onto the page. I read my piece aloud to the group, and one of the men said, “I don’t understand. Everybody has to do things that are hard for them. Why can’t you just work?”

Now, Esalen is supposed to be the locus of all things calm and soothing, but I would have sucker-punched him if I thought I could get away with it. Instead, I just snapped “It’s none of your damned business.” Everyone looked alarmed, and I can’t blame them. This wasn’t an encounter group, but that’s what I had turned it into. After we ended on a shaky note, my teacher took me aside.

I preempted her. “Please don’t ask me to apologize,” I said.

“You have to. That guy was wrong, but you were wrong, too.”

She spoke so firmly and looked so angry, I knew I would have to say something. But it felt so unjust, I wanted to cry.

One of the hardest things about being bipolar is the feeling that I am two separate people: the one who does bad things when I’m symptomatic, and the one who has to pick up the pieces afterwards. It doesn’t seem fair that I should suffer the consequences of what that “other person” did—that woman who wears my exact same face, but doesn’t share my moral sense of right and wrong. Fairness is very important to me, and has been for as long as I can remember. I didn’t sleep that night.

But I trusted my teacher’s instincts more than I trusted my own faltering mind. So the next morning, I told the man I was sorry for what I’d said, and asked the group to forgive me for disturbing their serenity. I felt raw, like my insides were exposed, but I also felt less angry with the world.

And I learned an indelible lesson about my mental health that day: Just because I’m bipolar doesn’t mean I’m exempt from social mores. I’m as much a part of society as anyone else, which means I have to play by the same rules, even when my illness is the cause of my transgression. It hurts—but it’s only fair.

If you or someone you love is contemplating suicide, seek help immediately. For help 24/7 dial 988 for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, or reach out to the Crisis Text Line by texting TALK to 741741.