I had a long telephone conversation yesterday with a friend of mine from Alabama. Sadly, she is in the middle of a nasty divorce and her husband who, I'm convinced, is evil, is trying to prove she is "crazy" so he can pretty much come out of the ordeal smelling like a rose and having more money than God.

Now, before I go any further, Wilma (not her real name) is most assuredly not crazy. A little 'tetched in the head' maybe, but not crazy.

Wilma and I have been friends for twenty years and she is one of the kindest, most hard-working, funny, intelligent, absolutely gullible people I've ever met.

This, I believe, is how A.H. (not his real name) has managed to convince her she has indeed lost her sanity. For as long as I can remember he has berated her, her abilities as a wife and mother, and lorded over her his status as a leader in the community.

Wilma is depressed. She is on yet another round of anti-depressants and last month was found by her eldest son in the corner of her bathroom hacking away at her wrist with a set of car keys. Luckily, he got her to the hospital in time to repair what little damage she had done to herself.

Wilma, God bless her, was the one who took me many years ago to that very same hospital, that very same psychiatric ward, when I was in diet pill withdrawal. She stayed with me until hubby came in from out of town. I'll always love her for that. I was only there for a couple of days but it was a stay that changed my life.

Come to think of it, I may write a book someday entitled "Everything I Know About Life I Learned in the Nut Ward."

First of all, I learned "crazy" is a relative term. Most of us consider ourselves to be well-adjusted, normal people—especially when compared with those who fill the waiting rooms of psychiatrists all across the C.S.R.A.

Well, I hate to burst your bubble, friend, but we're not. Not a one of us is so 'together' we can't be pushed over the edge by an unexpected trauma or by the unkind, cutting remarks of a family member or socalled friend.

My brief stay in the mental ward of Jackson Hospital, Montgomery, Alabama, taught me life lessons I won't ever forget. I'll never forget Susan (her real name), the wife of the principal of a local high school who was brought in the night I was admitted.

Susan, for some reason I have yet to understand, had set fire to four high schools before she was apprehended and brought to Jackson, incoherent and looking like she'd been in a bar fight.

Every time Susan saw me she'd say, "You're beautiful." Proving, of course, she couldn't possibly be crazy.

Then there was Mrs. Winters, an elderly lady in a wheel chair who spent her days asking visitors for the silver papers in their chewing gum wrappers. She was wallpapering her mobile home with them, she said.

Todd, a handsome seventeen year old kid, was there trying to come off of barbiturates. He kept everyone on the floor in stitches with his jokes and innuendos. But the bruises on his arms told a story that belied all the humor.

Back to Wilma. Wilma told me she had seen the doctor on Friday and he told her she was suffering from "involutional melancholia," loosely defined, she said, as middle-aged depression.

Maybe the doctor is right. Then again, maybe she is suffering from constant verbal abuse heaped on her by A.H., the man to whom she's been married for 42 years and who promised to love and protect her in sickness and in health.

A.H. and his lawyer continue to call Wilma "crazy." You'll never convince me of that and should I be called as a character witness I'll do my best to refute that diagnosis.

I know I'm rambling but the truth is this: We're all a little nuts, every last one of us. As one of my favorite authors said, "We're surrounded by people who have [crazy] smeared all over them but they just won't admit it."

They don't mind taking it upon themselves though, to label others. A.H. is one of those people. Maybe a weekend at the funny farm would do him a lot of good. I may suggest it.

In the meantime, let me give you a few tips, dear hearts, as to how to relate to someone who's depressed. And remember; don't take yourself so seriously—or that person could be you.

Some things NOT to say:

1. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and get on with life.

2. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

3. Look around. There are people who are so much worse off than you.

4.You have everything. I can't understand why you're not happy.

5. Look what a beautiful day it is!

6. What do you have to be depressed about?

7. Happiness is a choice.

8. You think you've got problems!

9. Why don't you just pray about it?

10. Take a hot bath.

11. You don't look depressed.

12. You'll be a better person because of it.

13. A person your age should be having the time of his life.

14. Get off your behind and just do something!

15. Believe me. I know exactly how you feel. I was depressed once for a few days.

16. You need a hobby.

17. This, too, shall pass.

18. If you'd throw out those pills the doctor gave you, you'd feel better.

19. You're the only one who can change the way you feel.

20. That which does not kill us makes us stronger.

This is by no means an exhaustive list. It's just a few thoughtless statements that come to mind.

If someone's life is sort of poopy right now, the best thing I can tell you is: Whatever advice you may give him or her, remember: Poop is poop, no matter how it sparkles in the sun.

Life at best is hard. Don't make it harder by labeling others. Think of Wilma. There, but for the grace of God…..