Beyond Blue: February 2008 Archives

If anyone deserves an Oscar for exceptional acting, it's a depressive. My guardian angel, Ann, told me the other day that she has spent more than half of her life pretending to be a happy person.

"People have no idea I suffer like I do. When they learn about my manic depression, they shake their heads. Because I appear to be so content and jovial."

Ah yes. "Fake it 'til you make it." My epitaph.

For at least 18 months, forty-five of my fifty-minute therapy sessions went to acting lessons: how to feign a stable and functional person until I became one.

Two days out of the psych ward (the second time), I played the part of an author who was throwing a successful pub date party for the release of her book "The Imperfect Mom" (which had been compiled pre-breakdown). I wanted desperately to be this person, so I visualized myself with a few good months behind me, confidently discussing the stories I had gathered before an audience of prominent editors and respected writers.

With sweaty palms and a racing heart, I sent out close to 50 electronic invitations (evites) to the classy list of contributors--like journalist Judith Newman and Baby Einstein founder Julie Aigner-Clark--and to all my publishing friends in New York, most of whom were clueless about my previous year in hell.