My friend, who might be a best one, teased me all but seriously that I “have been totally a good-for-nothing”. Since my family, my friends and even my English teacher defied my belief that I can be successful, I’ve almost stopped all that are relative to writing in English.

I am affected with bipolar disorder for more than ten years. The psychological disease disables me in many aspects. I am, for example, too agitated to disrespect any of the people that I contact, because I feel unconditionally self-conceited, while in return I am strangely sneered and looked at. When it comes to the other extremity, I am too desperate to believe that I could be a little hopeful, about both my present situation and future destination.

It seems that my life doesn’t allow me a little vanity, which even a self-abased person could retain as the basis of confidence. However, I still have to meet the veto of life.

The most fierce agony is the time when I drop from manic episode to the depressed. My psyche is telling me: I can do nothing to catch up with those around who are generally successful. So many friends are graduated with doctor’s degree, or traveling as their jobs. So many friends are married while I can not have the emotional ability to sustain the labour of a job, so as to make money which can support love with a girlfriend and even a wife. I am old, while they say, “You are not supposed to live an excellent life.”

But I firmly defy the veto. Nobody will be a good-for-nothing, so there is always hope for him to be fairly good, though seldom or never distinguished. Ninety percent of the people in the world are excellent, and I can be among them as long as I push myself with the state of mind that I am an ordinary person, as all those excellent are.