was introduced. I was interested in psychology and hypnotism but wasn't in the psychology class. I just went along on their field trip out of curiosity and was unprepared for what we were to see. Fifty screaming, naked women smearing themselves with feces and menstrual secretions, urine and feces on the floor, no furniture or curtains on the ward, some catatonic patients having sat in the same position for so long their muscles had atrophied-and the attendants showed off the patients as if they were freaks in a carnival. (This is reminiscent of a form of entertainment at Bedlam Hospital in London, where patrons would tip the attendants for the opportunity of watching the mentally ill patients.) I was deeply traumatized by this experience. I could not believe that these were human beings and that they lived in these terrible circumstances. As an idealistic teenager, I decided I wanted to help these people. My father encouraged my compassion by observing that the mentally ill were the "lepers" of modern society. I now knew that I wanted to be a doctor who helped mentally ill patients.

I was the oldest child and the family "hero" to whom the family turned in time of crisis. I was called home from medical school to break down the bathroom door to prevent my younger brother Donn from killing himself and to make arrangements for his psychiatric hospitalization. He suffered from "manic depression." This was six years before lithium was approved in the United States to treat bipolar disorder. Donn felt that he had failed as a patient, and his last words to me were "Three strikes and you're out." Donn barricaded his hospital room during his third hospital stay and hanged himself while his psychiatrist was talking to him through the door. I tortured myself with guilt thinking of the times I had been mean to him or "one-upped" him. I've never been able to read his suicide note, although I knew that it was kept in my parents' top dresser drawer. Our family was so guilt ridden when he died that we had a closed-casket funeral. We rationalized that we wanted to remember him the way he was-in actual fact, we couldn't stand to look him in the face. Our family felt alienated from others who hadn't shared our traumatic experience and who, we thought, couldn't understand our feelings. We felt we had failed Donn as a family. As a result, my parents; my youngest brother, Dick; and I felt overwhelmed with frustration, sadness, shame, and guilt that we could not save him. Both Dick and I had a strong desire to try