Among the many, many changes being proposed to the DSM is one that I consider ridiculously brilliant: A separate, standardized questionnaire to assess the risk of suicide among teens.

It’s ridiculous because everyone knows that teens are different but for some reason teens are often screened as though they are adults. For example, teenage boys are less likely to have depression, more likely to abuse alcohol and often exhibit aggressive behavior before a suicide attempt. Teen girls often have depression but are less likely to abuse alcohol. For both, suicide is often spontaneous and impulsive. Meanwhile, adult suicides often follow detailed planning, worsening of depression, heavy drinking, increased anxiety, and agitated behavior.

The recommendation for a separate assessment scale for teens is brilliant because the proposal recommends testing teens without verbally asking questions. Instead, teens will tested on paper or on a computer. It seems teens are reluctant to verbally answer personal questions asked by adult authority figures. (Imagine that.)

Finally, the proposal recommends that the results are recorded in a teen’s medical records. Seems like common sense, but apparently, doctors don’t always record the results of a suicide risk assessment in medical records.

“While clinicians must currently evaluate individuals in their care for suicide risk, there are a number of different scales in use and the evaluation is sometimes not included in the written record,” said David Shaffer, M.D., a member of the Disorders in Childhood and AdolescenceWork Group. “The use of a single research-based scale and accompanying record of assessmentmay help clinicians better assess suicide risk as well as provide important information forresearchers to help us more accurately identify and treat those at greatest risk for suicide.”

How could this proposal possibly be controversial?

Step 9: ”Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.”

What I heard Tiger Woods say today was not a ploy to win back his wife, kids and sponsors. It was not penance. It was not superficial. It was a 9th step.

I have no proof that Tiger is in a 12-step treatment program besides what I have seen and heard. Tiger was in a Mississippi treatment center for 45 days. Among the staff is a renown expert in sex addiction whose treatment plan is based on a 12-step program. By going live on international TV, Tiger made  ”direct” amends to his legions of fans, critics, business partners, employees and  friends. He could have taken an easier, softer way and made an amends via a press release, email or blog. But that would not have been a “direct” amends. A “direct” amends is humbling and often humiliating.

A 9th step prohibits laying blame on others. You won’t hear a “yeah, but …” in a 9th step. It is about honestly assessing our role in a wrong and taking responsibility for what WE have done and not the harm others have done to us. So if your wife comes at you with a golf club and bashes in the back window of your SUV after she learns that you have had multiple affairs during your marriage, you don’t blame her. You look at YOUR side of the street and the harm YOU have done.

I sat down and talked with several suicide survivors last night. By “survivor” I do not mean they had attempted to take their own lives. By “survivor” I mean they have survived the suicide of a loved one.

After listening for a couple of hours, I realized that the word “survivor” has never been been more aptly applied to a group of people. And after listening to these people for a couple of hours I can unequivocally say that I will never, ever try to kill myself again. Ever.

I felt uncomfortable among them, not just because their stories were terrible. It was the visceral carnage every suicide leaves behind and how it affects even the most routine, mundane tasks we all perform in our daily lives.

I went to the symphony Wednesday night. I haven’t been to the symphony in years. I don’t know why, because I love the symphony and I can walk to the performing arts center (and you can get a ticket really cheap if you wait until the last minute and they haven’t sold out).

Anyway, I got to the symphony a few minutes before it began and, of course, my seat was in the middle of the row and everyone had to get up so I could get in. I was tired from working all day and didn’t need any more dirty looks. I really wasn’t in the mood.

And then it happened. I looked at the program and saw two of my favorite words: cello solo. A beautiful young woman from Vienna took the stage in a flowing emerald green gown, sat on a little dais and began to play her cello.

I went back and read article in the Journal of the American Medical Association that started the debacle called “The Newsweek Article.” I am even more convinced that circulation trumped sound journalism in the Newsweek article.

Authors of the study published  in JAMA base their findings on the results of six, randomized placebo-controlled trials of TWO ANTIDEPRESSANTS. Let me say that again: TWO ANTIDEPRESSANTS.

“Expensive Tic Tacs”

That phrase keeps rolling around in my head…

“Expensive Tic Tacs”

That’s what saved my life?

“Expensive Tic Tacs”

I just finished reading the controversial cover story – ANTIDEPRESSANTS DON’T WORK – in Newsweek‘s Feb. 10 edition. I don’t know where to start. How about

IS THERE AN EDITOR IN THE HOUSE????!!!!

I had a big D’uh moment yesterday.

I woke up with a nasty cold and decided to work from home. I had a lot to do and so to stave off a nap-a-thon I had two cups of caffeinated coffee when I got up. I have weaned myself off my morning mainline of joe. It wasn’t easy. I couldn’t trick my brain into thinking the decaf was regular. Funny how an addict’s brain knows the real deal.

Anyway, by late morning my bed was looking mighty tempting so I pulled out a liter of Diet Coke leftover from a party. I recently quit caffeinated diet soda (pop) which I used to keep me awake in the afternoon.

After lunch I began to feel weird. I noticed my hands were a little shaky on the keyboard. I was bouncing from one task to another, then forgetting what I was looking for in a dump of data. I was actually getting a lot of work done but the pace felt wrong. I wasn’t comfortable in my skin. It was the frickin’ caffeine!

D’uh.

Bipolar and caffeine don’t mix – at least not in my body. I know when I am working on a story that I am really into that I get jazzed. Yesterday I was working on two stories that I was really into, so I was  double jazzed. Not a good idea to suck down a stimulant when I am already naturally pumped by the nature of my work.

But I assumed I would need a pick up – which I obviously did not need. Instead of listening to my body, I told it what it needed. I felt yucky and I looked like I was six months pregnant after drinking nearly a liter of Diet Coke.

It’s my addict/alcoholic thinking – “Yea, you better pound a few now because you’re going to need it later” – coupled with my bipolar disorder, which doesn’t need a jump start. So, I am drinking a cup of decaf right now. Ix-nay on the ofee-cay …

I went to the Ryan Litch Sang Bipolar Foundation’s annual dinner dance in Palm Beach on Sunday night. I did not know a soul besides Joyce and Dusty Sang, Ryan’s parents, whom I met a couple of years ago when I wrote a story about the Sangs’ efforts to raise money for research into early onset bipolar disorder and to help find an empirical test for bipolar.

At age five, Ryan began exhibiting symptoms of Bipolar Disorder, a serious mental illness which manifests itself with recurring episodes of mania and depression. Unbeknownst to everyone, Ryan had decided to stop all prescription mood stabilization medications because he did not like their powerful side effects.

He believed he could control his illness, a decision all too common with Bipolar Disorder. When Ryan suddenly entered a manic episode, he had nothing to help stabilize his brain chemistry. He had not slept in days, and in order to sleep, he self-medicated. Tragically, Ryan passed away in his sleep. Ryan was 24-years-old.

It was a swank affair – black tie, champagne and lots of beautiful people  with eye popping bling. Ruh-roh. My idea of jewelry is the permanent henna tattoo that wraps around my left wrist. I felt a teeny bit intimidated with my fake diamond earings, my one and only snazzy dress and my rental car. Thank God for Crest Whitestrips. At least I could stand there and smile if I nothing else.

But, no, as soon as I was introduced by my gracious host, I felt fine. “Christine has just written about book about her depression, bipolar and alcoholism…” Wow. That kind of intro usually provokes stammering and raised eyebrows. But not here. Everyone at this party had been touched by bipolar – whether a child, sibling, parent or other loved one. We all shared this one, very private secret about which we rarely speak. We all “get it” – as I like to say.

The walls fell down and, man, did we talk. It was so amazing to hear others tell their stories – what worked for them and what didn’t, …