DuPage, IL, Mar. 31, 1990

"You mean I'm a manic-depressive?" Anne broke into a smile. She jumped up off her chair, thought better of it, and sat back down.

The psychiatrist quickly said, "We don't use that word any more. You have bipolar affective disorder and . . ."

As the psychiatrist continued Anne thought to herself, "So that was it all along!" She felt the strongest sense of relief she had ever felt in her 41 years of life.

Rochester, NY, May 18, 1973

Anne wasn't sure what had happened. After she had eaten the brownies, her thoughts had taken over her mind, repeating horrible things to her over and over for almost six hours. She was OK now, but she was worried that she might have a mental illness. She made an appointment with a psychiatrist to find out.

The psychiatrist asked her, "When you pass a picket fence, do you feel as if you have to count the posts?"

"No," Anne said, thinking, "He's checking me for obsessive compulsive disorder. If I did count posts, does he really think I'd tell him?"

"Do you hear voices inside your head?"

"No, but --"

"Do you think you have all sorts of illnesses?"

"No. I'm a very healthy per --"

"Do you cry all the time?"

"No."

"Do you often get strong urges to hurt people?"

"No."

"OK," the psychiatrist said, standing up. "You're sane."

"But I should tell you about the episode I had!"

"There's no need for that. You're sane."

And he left.

Six years later, in Los Angeles, CA

The psychiatric social worker asked Anne why she had set up the appointment. Speaking carefully because it's so important that your therapist get the right first impression, Anne explained that she was having a hard time finding a good man, that the men she met thought that her values were unrealistically high. Finally, the man she was currently dating had insisted that she see a therapist.

"Whenever I mention religion to him he gets pretty tense," Anne said.

"You're pretty tense yourself," the PSW said with a smile that looked cynical to Anne.

"Oh, I know. But he's worse."

"If you want a man who doesn't take issue with your religious values, why don't you look for a man in church?"

"I did. But I can't seem to find a smart man in church."

"You do seem to be painting yourself into a corner."

Not one of the PSW's questions delved into what Anne was really like -- her fears, loves and dreams. How would she ever find out if Anne had a mental illness that was preventing her from finding a husband if she wasted her time arguing about how she should, or should have, run her life?

Four years later, in Chicago, IL

"Every time I go to Mass I start crying and have to leave before it's over," Anne said, trying hard  not to cry right then.

"Do you have any idea why?" the priest asked.

"I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that I'm 35 years old and still haven't been able to find a husband." She was making some threads she had picked off her socks into a perfect circle on the priest's desk.

"You're in a lot of pain," he said. "I can give you ideas on where you can find intelligent Catholic men, but other than that I don't know what I can do."

Four months later, in Chicago, IL

Anne saw a clinical psychologist. This time she came right to the point: she couldn't find a husband and wanted to know why. The psychologist told her to repeat the sentence, "I'll be alone and like it all my life," as often as she could and come back in a week.

The following week, the psychologist asked, "So, how did it go?"

Anne said, "Every time I say that sentence to myself, I start to cry. In fact, for the last couple of days, I've been crying even when I'm not saying it."

"I see," the psychologist said.

"What do you mean, you see?!"

"So, last week we were talking about your search for a husband, and --"

"Wait a minute! Why did you tell me to repeat that depressing sentence over and over?"

"That was to come to terms with your loneliness, to find out what's there," he said. Then he left the topic of the repeated sentence and would not return to it.

One year later, in Chicago, IL

Anne had done a lot of work on her thesis proposal. Her thesis advisor read it and told her that her "thinking" was "scattered, disorganized, almost schizophrenic." He gave her a patronizing smile and said, "I'll have to sacrifice a lot of my time and try to teach you to conceptualize."

Anne cried for a day or two and then found a new thesis advisor.

Two years later, in Chicago, IL

Anne still had not found a husband. But she had just finished a course in abnormal psychology. She had charted her sleep patterns and found that they were cyclical. She had the chart on her lap as she talked to her counselor (an MSW).

"It really looks as if I have cyclothymic affective disorder," Anne said. "Wouldn't that explain why I'm depressed so much of the time?"

"No, I'm sure it wouldn't. I think you probably have PMS." The MSW had Anne go back to the library and research PMS. Anne forgot all about affective disorder.

Three year later (March 25, 1990), in DuPage County, IL

Anne was tired -- tired of being depressed, sleepless and unable to find a husband. She did not care any more what the psychiatric professionals thought of her. She decided to say whatever came into her mind. And what came into her mind was that nobody, including the psychiatric social worker she was talking to right now, stayed happy for long. You always have to pay eventually, and you wind up miserable in the end.

March 31, 1990, in DuPage County, IL

The psychiatrist asked Anne if she meant what she had said to the psychiatric social worker last week.

Anne decided to stick to her guns. "I meant every word of it. Some day he's going to be very unhappy, because he's so happy now."

"You have bipolar affective disorder," the psychiatrist said.

"You mean I'm a manic-depressive?" Anne broke into a smile. She jumped up off her chair, thought better of it, and sat back down.

The psychiatrist quickly said, "We don't use that word any more . . ."

"So that was it all along!"