Rogue Waves: Love in the Wake of Bipolar Disorder – New Unpublished Memoir Extract by Lisa C. Peterson

Joint Winner of The Letter Review Prize for Unpublished Books

Doug & Lisa – September 9, 2013: The McCloud Falls

In September of 2013, after seven years of dating, Doug and I rented an RV and took a trip we referred to as, “Around Mount Shasta in Seven Days.” The journey was supposed to rebuild trust after Doug’s secret and self-imposed “medication vacation”—which had put him at risk for a manic episode. Hiding that little experiment from me was intentional, so I’d been pissed. Yet, despite the deception, I still loved Doug. My true nemesis was his bipolar—a sneaky, menacing foe that made me want to create a buffer around myself—one with an escape hatch in case I decided to flee. That contingency plan formed the cornerstone of my delusional sense of agency over a disorder that cared nothing for my thoughts, opinions, or feelings. So, with the function and dysfunction of my internal systems in place, I’d agreed to continue our relationship. But what I didn’t understand, as we bumped down the road on day three of our adventure, was how this particular vacation would test both my level of commitment and my desire for control. 

Unzipping my pack, I surveyed its contents—sunscreen, camera, water bottle, my lime-green emergency whistle, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Did you bring a map of—” I tugged at my seatbelt, “wherever we’re going?”

Doug smiled and dimples formed high on his cheeks. 

“Come on, at least give me a hint,” I said, rubbing my thighs. 

Doug turned toward me, winked, and placed his hand over mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. Then he refocused on the road.

Doug was an impromptu kind of guy welcoming moments that unfurled in spontaneous uncertainty. I was the opposite. Although I appreciated nature’s unpredictable moods—the way light shifted over a landscape, and weather altered the texture of air—I didn’t like human-designed surprises. So usually I took charge—gathering directions and supplies, plotting trails and timing. 

But Doug had insisted on hijacking this one day.

Humid air wafted in through open windows, and outside, Mount Shasta jutted icy peaks into a blue sky. During this trip, we’d circumnavigate that dormant volcano—at least that was the surface mission. Doug had an additional goal, one that involved something tucked inside his own pack. 

Trying to quiet the tension pulling at my chest, I focused on the massive volcano dominating our landscape. Hot magma likely churned inside its core, waiting for a chance to erupt. I shook the image from my head. To fully embrace whatever Doug had in store for us, I needed to quiet the fire in my own belly. 

Doug parked at a trailhead. “Welcome to McCloud River Falls!” He turned to me and grinned. “You ready for an adventure?”

Friggin’ dimples. Sitting below Doug’s hazel eyes, they inspired a mix of humor and warmth with their odd placement—elevated, fitting for his personality. 

And contagious.

Inhaling fresh pine, I released my urge to micromanage, hoping whatever Doug had in mind would provide a salve for old wounds. “Bring it!”

At the edge of the river, I bent to touch cool water. But before I could dip my fingers, Doug grabbed my hand. “Too many people here. There’s a special place I want to show you, so we have to keep hiking.”

A narrowing path hugged the river, and our fellow adventurers dwindled with each step up in altitude. In retrospect, I recognize the irony of traveling in the reverse direction of the flow, a laborious ascent to experience the adrenaline of falls. The aqueous cycle mimicked our broken trust—the water’s descent raging and rapid, its return to the sky subtle and slow.

We heard the rush and crash before we saw the veil, white with motion and deflection. So beautiful, drops of water using their collective force to carve back a mountainside, creating pebbles and sand as they chiseled a new design. Boulders surrounded a pool at the base of the falls, and we clambered over them to reach a flat section near the water’s edge. 

Doug kicked off his shoes and flung his socks in the same general direction. “This used to be one of my favorite fishing spots.” He peered into the clear water. “And I see lures sparkling down there now.” 

Light shimmered on the water’s surface, but even straining my eyes I couldn’t spot anything resembling fishing lures below. 

“You can’t see them?” Doug teased as he stripped off his shirt and cannonballed into the pool. “They’re everywhere!” 

Doug’s discarded shirt lay crumpled on the rocks, distorting its image of a surfboard attached to a bicycle and garbling its motto, “live simply.” 

My flowy red blouse stuck to the sweaty spots where my pack had circled my shoulders. Swimming would be refreshing. I removed my boots, tucked my socks inside them, and emptied my pockets—lip balm, breath strips, and a clip to tame my wavy hair. Then I eased myself into icy water. “Holy Sh—asta!” 

My breath quickened and I released short grunts as I swam in circles, trying to warm myself. “You’re nuts!” I yelled to Doug, before scrambling back to dry ground.

His wet face shone with reflected light. “Like many things in life, once you get used to the temperature, it actually feels good.”

As the sun lifted water from my goose-bumped skin, Doug climbed a patch of rocks underneath the falls, his limbs bending and stretching, his chestnut hair dripping and chaotic. Raising his arms, he embraced the rush. 

When Doug rejoined me, his smile was wide, even though his message was grim. “There are so many lures down there and one’s stuck in my hand.”

“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” I pictured a bloody extraction and a trip to the nearest urgent care, a possible tetanus shot. 

Doug extended a closed fist. “Wanna see?” 

Bloodshed seemed inevitable. Nonetheless, I feigned bravery and leaned in. 

Doug uncurled his fingers. “Look at the beautiful lure I found.” 

His open palm revealed a ring, white gold with small individual diamonds riding waves until they met at the center, resting together after a bumpy journey. 

Believing he’d just found it, I grabbed the ring from his hand. “If it has an engraving, we might be able to locate the owner.” Not seeing any tell-tale markings, I glanced around, trying to spot a woeful-looking ring loser. 

Doug remained calm. “It’s yours; let’s see if it fits.” He took the ring, turned my hand over, and started to slip it on. 

“I can’t wear someone else’s ring,” I said, thinking he considered this a “finders keepers” situation. 

“No, it’s yours. I love you and want you to be my wife.”

“Are you serious?” I squirmed on my rocky seat. We talked about this. I didn’t want to get married. I didn’t want a legal document tying us together, making it difficult to escape if I panicked. I shook my head—no, this must be part of an elaborate charade inspired by finding the ring.

“Yes.” He reached into his pack and unfolded the paper he’d tucked inside—a crumpled map of the campground where we’d stayed a few days before. Turning it over, Doug began reading a quote. 

I heard it in pieces: “love…simply…together…”

“Wait, are you proposing?” My chest throbbed, stiffening my limbs. 

Doug laughed, then cleared his throat. “Yes.”


“Yes, marriage, you goober.” He looked into my eyes. “I don’t want us to live separately anymore. I want to share our futures, together.” The ring rested on the tip of his pinky finger, splitting the distance between us. “So yes, I’d like us to get married.”

The air around me grew still. When Doug had gone off his meds, yet again, I’d slammed the door on our relationship. Then, gradually, we’d started over—unlatching the lock, oiling the hinges. During this trip, we hoped to allow light back in through the cracks. 

But marriage? 

The sun shone in a spotlight I couldn’t escape, and pebbles scratched at my shorts as I shifted my weight, inhaled, fought for words. 

I didn’t want Doug to know the images in my head included the hospital alongside the hugs, the disarray next to the dreams, the angry confrontations juxtaposed with the warmth of his skin when we made love. A bitter taste lingered on my tongue as Doug’s psychiatrist’s voice entered my head: “Lisa, if Douglas does not comply with his medication, will you stay with him?” Her voice turned to echoes—Will you stay, will you leave, stay, leave, what if, what if…

I didn’t want to tell him it was her voice I heard. I didn’t want him to sense my doubt, my uncertainty about whether I could always stay, through sickness and health. And when I lowered my head, he was the one who spoke. “You don’t have to answer now.”

And in the silence that followed, all I heard was water, crashing and crashing, down.

Doug & Lisa – August 9, 2006: Paradise Grill (The Beginning)

Years before I met Doug, I was a competitive ice skater. And I’d dated. A lot. Both endeavors involved entering contests in which I was pitted against others and ranked. In preparation for these displays of awkwardness, I’d style my hair, apply makeup, and triple-check for unsightly panty lines underneath carefully selected outfits. And while my skating career eventually faded, decreasing my risk of physical injury, the advent of online dating expanded opportunities for emotional distress. 


RadMan45 seemed like an all-American guy, with a horse and a house and a truck. A few weeks into our relationship, he told me he loved me and introduced me to his parents. Although I wasn’t yet ready to reciprocate with the word, “love,” we became exclusive. 

One evening, when the streetlamp struggled to illuminate the alcove leading to my porch, I heard a rap at the door. My dog, Bijou, barked and ran toward the sound. I startled and cowered away from the noise. But it was insistent. Rap, rap, rap. I opened the door, cautiously, just a crack at first. Monterey Bay mist seeped into the room alongside the hint of floral perfume, and through the haze I spotted a hunched, shadowy figure. 

“Sorry to bother you.” The woman’s voice was polite, apologetic. Then she started to stammer. “What I’m about to say might sound crazy, but I’m not crazy. It’s just…I had to see for myself.” 

I didn’t know what to think, but once she suggested it, “crazy” sounded pretty accurate. 

She said RadMan’s real name. “I found an old MapQuest with this address in his glove compartment, along with the receipt for a grill.” She raised her eyes to mine. “Do you know him?” 

With little time to think or to process, I simply answered her question. “Yes, he’s my boyfriend. We’ve been dating for three months.” 

“Oh really?” She tilted her head, and her tone turned sarcastic. “Well, he and I have been together for two years.” 

Although her hands remained clutched in front of her, the change in her voice hit me physically, as if she’d slammed a flat palm against my chest.

I shook my head. It couldn’t be true. Then odd moments trickled into my mind—all those “out-of-town” business trips; the time he said he was sick but insisted that I not bring him chicken soup; the way he asked me to park inside the garage at his house. And the grill—he’d given it to me last month. As cogs turned and clicked, I tried to gauge the woman’s level of sanity and anger—as well as her potential for violence. 

As I squeezed and released the doorknob, her stiffness dissolved, and she raised her hands to cover her face. “I thought we were going to get married.” 

Disjointed memories threaded and swirled. Has he been deceiving me all this time? 

When the woman’s fingers dropped, her eyes were watery. She looked so cold and vulnerable standing there on my front stoop. My grip on the knob loosened and I opened the door wider. “Come on in.” 

Once inside my living room, I noticed how she resembled…me—late 30s, sandy blonde hair, trim physique. What the hell? Does that f’er think we’re interchangeable? I clenched my fists and jagged fingernails sawed at my palms. How could I have been so gullible? 

We sat bookended on my couch, with Bijou-the-Bichon between us. After comparing dates, we realized RadMan’s “work trips” were merely ruses that allowed him to alternate between her house and mine. I twisted a piece of Bijou’s curly fur around my finger. I did not consent to this…polygamy. 

“What should we do now?” the woman asked.

I reached for my phone. “We call the lying sonofabitch.” 

He answered, as usual, all sappy-card-like. “Hi honey.” 

I forced my voice to match his—saccharine-sweet. “You’ll never guess who’s sitting on my couch.” 

By the end of the conversation, he was the one crying. It’s not that I was trying to be cruel. I don’t mind fighting for a relationship. Everyone has their faults and quirks, including me. Knowing that, I’ll do my best to work through rough spots with my partner. But I also know when to call it quits. So, I offered RadMan no sympathy. Instead, I severed the relationship. 

I should have severed my relationship with the dating website, too. But I didn’t. Determined not to let that two-timing a-hole intimidate me into relationship retreat, I forced myself to return to the land of vanity photos and unrealistically perfect personas. 

SurfBikeHike: forty-three, divorced father of two, Silicon Valley high-tech sales rep.” 

Photos revealed a man with muscular legs, wavy hair, and a seemingly carefree attitude. 

Hmm. Trying to contain my skepticism, I took a deep breath, assumed my best what-the-hell attitude, and clicked. 


The sun had begun its gradual descent over the Pacific Ocean on the evening of August 9, 2006, backlighting happy hour at Capitola Beach. After squeezing into one of the few coveted parking spots, I closed my eyes to soothe my anxieties. This man will be different.

In my younger years, I’d craved the attention of men, lots of different styles and varieties of them. My adrenaline surged as I explored their personalities—and their bodies. I thrived on the anticipation that built as intimacy grew—the electric tension in the shrinking space between us before that first touch sent a jolt of energy through my body; the soft sensuousness of that first kiss, the blossoming thrill of a new romance. 

Now, I wanted something different—stability, a long-term commitment. Yet I’d failed to nurture any relationship past the five-year mark. I feared entering, and spending, my forties alone. Nonetheless, I refused to settle—not for a lying sonofabitch, and not for anything less than a partner willing to share himself, and accept me, in a genuine exploration of intimacy. 

Using the mirror on my car’s visor, I examined my hair. Tell-tale roots weren’t yet visible underneath the highlights. So, I fluffed my bangs, powdered my nose, and applied lipstick, hoping to emulate my dating website photos. 

Forcing my shoulders back, I opened the door to Paradise Grill, the spot SurfBikeHike chose for our first in-person meeting. Our virtual communication had been brief. While I emailed long narratives, SurfBikeHike replied with one or two sentences peppered with misspellings. Our phone conversations proved equally challenging. SurfBikeHike lived in the Santa Cruz Mountains and his cell reception was horrible—every time we tried to talk, it sounded like he was in a fishbowl. Nonetheless, I’d agreed to this date. I wanted to see if SurfBikeHike lived up to the allure of his online profile and the hints of warmth and humor, despite the blips and garbles in our communication.

Standing near the hostess station, I scanned the room. From my right, a man approached, and the pics from his profile were now animated with movement and life. 

“SunsetStrolling?” His voice was deep, but kind, and it rose a little at the end of my screenname. 

I stuck out my hand. “Yes. Hi. SurfBikeHike?” My voice rose too, and I couldn’t help but smile when I looked into his eyes. His hand closed around mine and a tinge of excitement traveled up my arm as he shook.

“Yeah, my screenname sums up a lot about my extracurricular life.” 

“Except the underwater expeditions,” I said. “It’s nice to hear your voice outside of the fishbowl.” The connection of, not only our eyes, but also some invisible force between us, locked and held. 

SurfBikeHike tilted his head back and laughed. “Yeah, the gargling effect on my cell. It drives my kids crazy.” He shrugged, with an adorable what-can-you-do expression on his face. “Between that and the dyslexia in my emails, it can be hard to make a good impression without meeting in person.” 

“Dyslexia?” With my career in education, I should have recognized the signs. 

“Yup, hence my favorite motto: ‘Dyslexics of the world, untie!’” 

Seeing him in front of me and hearing his voice, made me want to place my hand on his arm, share in his laughter. Instead, I said, “Lisa.” It was a total non-sequitur and my voice squeaked as I tried to recover. “My real name. Now that we’ve met in person, you can call me Lisa.”

The glimmer in his eye and the slight tilt of his head let me know he’d noticed my awkwardness. But all he said was, “And you can call me Doug.” 

The smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the aroma of beach fires as the waitress led us to a room with garage-style windows that opened to the ocean. I ordered a Chardonnay and Doug opted for Merlot. When the drinks arrived, Doug raised his glass. “So, you once shared the spotlight with a mouse?”  

I clinked. “Yup, I’ve fallen among the finest.” After college, I toured with Disney on Ice, and I’d listed that fun fact on my dating website profile. “In a live show, Goofy doesn’t get all the flubs.” 

Doug raised a brow. “Do tell.” 

I described a western-themed number, in which I wore a frilly square-dancing dress. “The choreography was fast and fun. Except one time, I caught a toe pick and fell forward, onto my belly.” Doug’s chin dropped slightly. “The ice was really wet that day, so I slid, superman-style, in the opposite direction of the other skaters; that big poufy skirt just fluttering behind me.” 

Doug laughed. “Graceful.” 

“Your turn,” I said. “What keeps you in trouble?” 

“Well, I raced against Lance Armstrong once.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, we were in the same peloton, neck-and-neck. Except he was on a road bike, and I was on my mountain bike, which should have seemed odd, but didn’t—until I came to.”

“Oh, so it was a dream.”

“Well, kinda. I really was competing in a bike race and the pack surrounding me was tight. Then I hit an unexpected drop, flew over the handlebars, and smashed my head on the ground. Knocked myself right out, ended up with a concussion.” He smiled, and I noticed his dimples, the way his rising cheeks almost eclipsed his eyes. “But while unconscious, I was right there with Lance. Could have beat him too, if they hadn’t woken me.” 

I backhanded him on the arm, like a buddy would do. 

Back and forth we went, sharing stories. But the tone changed when I asked about his kids. His whole body softened, and his gaze shifted away from me. As Doug described how much he loved being a father, warmth spread throughout my core and a sense of longing tingled in my chest, constricted it just a bit.


Over the next few days, there were emails, phone calls, and then another date. Doug suggested an Italian restaurant and sent me the address. But I had trouble finding the place. So, I was rushing toward the door when I spotted him sitting on a bench outside. Seeing him there threw me off balance. As I tripped, spilling the contents of my purse across the sidewalk, Doug grabbed my arm to steady me. With a single chuckle, he said, “Nice entrance.” 

At the end of the night, Doug walked me to my car. His entire disposition allured me in ways I couldn’t yet explain, his eyes containing a depth and intensity I wanted to explore. So, I leaned in for a kiss. 

Doug turned away. “Gotta go.” 

I watched the tread on the bottom of his shoes, alternating with each step as he jogged toward his Jeep. Insecurities crept in. He probably never wants to see me again. 

Thankfully, there was a third date and that time, sitting in my Honda Civic outside the winery where we’d listened to live music, Doug leaned in, and I felt the soft sweetness of his lips on mine. The instinct to pull away fought my desire to move closer. Nervous energy from allowing him into my personal space fueled adrenaline that threatened to stiffen my body. Instead, I forced my muscles to relax as I returned his kiss, pressed my body against his. 

Sometimes, with other men, that first contact disappointed, and all the passion deflated in an instant. Doug’s touch ignited a fire whose flames burned but didn’t destroy—a source of energy that emitted heat and light. 

And I wanted more of that.

Doug – May 9, 2007: Neurochemicals

I don’t blame Doug for not telling me earlier. After all, he’d transgressed no law, instigated no fight, wished no wrong toward another. There was no guilt to assign, no penance to be paid; the disorder was simply his reality. Often it lay dormant or percolated imperceptibly below his surface. Other times, it fought to emerge as Doug tried to stifle it—a master and servant relationship with flip-flopping roles. Sometimes Doug played master, controlling his illness with medication and lifestyle choices. But the disease was sneaky—it creeped, it crawled, it hid, it exploded— gradually, or sometimes suddenly taking over, relegating Doug to host and servant. 

Regardless of the disorder’s subtle guises, I didn’t see any of its multifaceted iterations when Doug and I started dating. He told me about it instead, when our relationship was nine months old. 

“I want to take you somewhere special today,” Doug said as he drove us to Pleasure Point—one of his favorite spots in Santa Cruz. 

As Doug and I approached the clifftop, aromas of salt and seaweed intensified and mingled in the air. Grabbing the railing, he guided me down steep, uneven steps to a narrow slice of beach where ocean battered shore—a place of danger, but also of possibility, where surfers sometimes pushed boards into water. 

Doug’s skin felt warm as he took my hand, conveying confidence as he squeezed. His heart must have been pounding, yet he appeared calm as he focused on the point—a steady landmark amid changing tides. Then he turned toward me, his eyes intense. This seriousness in him worried me. Usually when we ventured to the beach, it was a fun, casual affair. But this time, Doug’s face didn’t lift as we approached the sea, dimples didn’t form on his cheeks as our feet imprinted on sand. Instead, his eyebrows creased and the muscles at the side of his jaw clenched. When he smiled, it seemed strained; and when he said, “I love you,” his voice cracked. 

Usually, these words passed easily between us. Yet this time, there was a tentativeness, as if a “but” was also forthcoming. I tilted my head and tried to return his smile, even as my anxiety rose. “I love you, too.” 

Sunlight glistened off Doug’s skin, creating shadows behind him. “I don’t want you to worry, but I need to tell you something and it’s kinda personal.” 

Doug telling me not to worry immediately activated all my worry genes, and I shifted my weight on the sand. We’d grown so close, shared countless intimacies. What made this disclosure so sensitive? I leaned in, nervous, but also curious. “It’s okay, you can tell me.” 

Doug lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “I want our relationship to continue, so I don’t want us to hide anything from each other.” He hesitated and his shadow swayed. “I just hope this isn’t too big of an obstacle for you.” 

“Honey,” I said, jiggling his hand and releasing a nervous laugh. “Come on, spill.” 

Doug’s chest filled and lifted, then his words and breath became one as he said, “I have bipolar disorder.” 

I struggled to stay calm as I absorbed his words. During the brief time we’d been standing there, different scenarios zoomed through my mind. Is he breaking up with me? Did he cheat on me? Has he done something illegal! This particular revelation never crossed my mind. Gazing into his earnest, vulnerable eyes, I thought, Oh no.

I tried to keep my face flat, devoid of emotional clues, while images of ocean tides swirled in my head. What does this mean for him? For our relationship? I had a couple of friends with bipolar disorder, so the content of the conversation was not unfamiliar. Yet I hadn’t seen any tell-tale signs in Doug. I knew bipolar could have devastating effects on people’s lives, and this time, the disorder would impact me more directly. 

Yet as I watched the naked honesty open on Doug’s face, I nodded, with an increasing sense of resolve. It’s okay, I can handle this.

Interlacing my fingers with Doug’s, I asked, “When were you diagnosed?”

Doug rubbed his foot back and forth, creating a divot in the sand. “I had my first episode in high school. But it didn’t resurface again until my thirties.” 

The sandstone behind Doug revealed tales of ocean ebbs and flows, stories etched into the color and texture of each layer. Cool breezes lapped at my skin, reminding me to stay in the present, even as my mind yearned to retreat, take additional time to sort through tangled emotions. 

Doug turned away. “There’s still such a stigma, so I’m selective about who I tell. Some people treated me differently once they knew.” He shrugged. “I don’t get that. I’m still just me.”

In the water, a surfer paddled toward an unsettled ocean, underwater obstacles accentuating the crests and troughs. If he caught a wave just right, he could enjoy a long ride, surfing the rim in front of the break, that perfect zone where adrenaline reigned. But if he didn’t judge the power and speed correctly, the wave’s crash could push him underwater, roll him around, leave him disoriented and breathless.

The wind lifted Doug’s hair, shifting and resetting its chestnut curls in ever-changing patterns. I squeezed his hand. “I’m still here, with you. What can I do?”

Doug’s whole body seemed to exhale. Then, he began talking like usual, using his hands and body for emphasis as he elaborated on the specifics of how bipolar affected him—hypomania typically came first, with benign symptoms such as long bike rides, an increased desire to be outside, and a general sense that things were off, or, as Doug described it, “tweaked.” Doug explained his relationship with his psychiatrist and his “inner circle,” friends and family members who knew about his bipolar and helped him watch for signs he often didn’t see in himself—decreased sleep, increased energy, general irritability. Doug skimmed over the manic phase of his disorder, as if it were an anomaly, before mentioning the downside. He’d suffered a long depression in high school, but since then he mostly just experienced small dips after a high, thumping down to a less exciting but relatively shallow trough as an episode receded. 

Later, I’d discover for myself that if left unchecked, Doug’s hypomania could escalate toward full-blown mania, with ever increasing physical and mental activity. At that point he entered a narcissistic bubble that was difficult to penetrate. At first, all that energy felt creative and productive. But as it churned, agitation took over and his surging mental stimulation peaked at an invisible fulcrum that could tilt toward psychosis. When that happened, Doug envisioned doomsday scenarios that, in his frenzied mind, made perfect sense. He felt an intense need to escape, go off on his own—into the wilderness to camp, live off the land. Before I met him, he’d been arrested a few times, his bizarre behavior frightening those around him. But his jail stays were short-lived, officers realizing that he needed to be confined behind different walls, a location where medication, not incarceration, would bring him down. 

Although Doug didn’t elaborate that day at Pleasure Point on the complete arc one of his bipolar episodes could take, he did mention that he’d spent time in a psychiatric ward.

“I don’t like that,” he said. “The hospitals. Keep me out of the hospital if you can.”

Part of me was nervous about these, as yet unknown aspects of Doug, and my stomach clenched as we talked. Yet the way he described his hypomania, standing before me, rational and sane, his hand soft in mine, it didn’t seem that bad—like something that would be both recognizable and manageable should it arise. If I saw signs, I’d tell him. We’d visit his psychiatrist, and she’d prescribe additional medication to stabilize his moods—no future hospitalizations necessary. I felt like I knew what to look for and what to do. But what I didn’t realize then was how insidiously bipolar disorder would creep into our lives, or how Doug would conspire and collaborate with it once it did. 

Lisa C. Peterson holds an MFA from UNR at Lake Tahoe, where she served on the editorial staff of the Sierra Nevada Review. Her other degrees include a BA and an MA from Stanford University as well as an MS in Library Science from UNC Chapel Hill. Lisa’s work has appeared in Hypertext Magazine, HeartWood Literary Magazine, Writer’s Foundry Review, Sport Literate, The Writing Disorder, The Closed Eye Open, Sierra Nevada Review Blog, and elsewhere. For kicks, Lisa has jumped from a plane, skated with Disney on Ice, and traveled to every continent except Antarctica. Currently, she lives in the Colorado Rockies with her husband and a dog who looks like a cross between a cat, a dog, and a fox.