Last night, fearing a repeat of the blinding nausea of the night before, I only took three-quarters of a pill instead of the whole one. (I'm in love with my pill-splitter.) And I ate a sandwich too, even though I was feeling queasy.

Both strategies seem to have worked for the moment. Today was easier, and I feel less hopeless than I did yesterday, when I quit my chess lessons.

"I just don't know when I'm going to feel better," I told my teacher. "I can't concentrate on the game."

He was disappointed, and so was I, but it felt good not to lie. Normally I would've skipped classes and backed out by calling and saying I couldn't afford it. Instead I went in person and told the truth: I'm depressed, I'm struggling to get through it, the medication is making me physically sick. I didn't blame a phsyical illness to make it seem better. My psychiatric illness is just as "real" as any of the strictly physical illnesses I've pretended to have over the years. One time I even lied to an employer and said I was quitting my job to deal with anorexia. An eating disorder seemed more palatable (yeah, yeah) than bipolar disorder.

My chess teacher was eminently sympathetic, as I've found most people are if you're honest about things. "I've been through a lot of things in a lot of years," he said. "Call me anytime."

The frankness of the conversation made me actually feel like I might be able to continue with the lessons sometime soon. It's such a relief not to pretend. Sometimes the pretending is half the struggle.