Honestly, I'm only in here because my friend and ex-husband, Aurelius, begged me to be. I see no point in this at all. I'm not ill, I'm just a tad eccentric. As soon as someone looks the wrong way these days, they're sick! And I never liked that they use that word for psychobabble. "Sick." Papa was sick. He was epileptic. It made him retire, and later killed him. I'm not like him, I'm the picture of health. I've never had a seizure in my life. Even with my many liaisons, I've never contracted a venereal disease. I hardly even catch colds!

What is all this? Why do I have to sit here, answer stupid questions, and wait for that doctor to realize I'm completely sane! Because my now ex-wife says I'm crazy? Well PERHAPS if she didn't abandon me in my time of need, I wouldn't have begged her to stay, none of that trial nonsense had to happen, and we'd still be happy! Because I happen to feel things deeply? Well, they may as well lock up my entire dynasty! That's how we are! We can't all be icy psychopaths like this country's politicians! And maybe I just like to treat myself, and perhaps I've had so many people because I'm beautiful and charming! Well, there's my money as well, but not the point at the moment!

Suddenly, the doctor reentered the office.

"Well," I began, "You've done your tests, asked your questions, you have my history since my family came over here 400 years ago after the Great War and Russian Revolution. Now, would you kindly tell me I'm sane and I'll be on my way? I'm terribly sorry to have wasted your time."

He didn't smile and laugh it off as I expected him to. It didn't end there.

"You haven't wasted my time, although ideally this should have been caught when you were still in your 20s," he replied, with a stone-faced expression.

"What are you talking about? I'm perfectly fine, aren't I?" I asked.

"According to my evaluation, I'm afraid you're not 'perfectly fine', Ms. Petra."

My stomach turned. He had to be wrong. He was probably only a rookie. But that's not it, he looks at the very least 40 years old. Or maybe he's just incompetent. Also wrong. This is one of the best clinics money can buy, they'd never allow scrub doctors here. But maybe it's not that bad, I could have something manageable. Like maybe prolonged PTSD. I mean, seeing my drowned sister did mess me up a little bit and I've probably just been repressing it all these years, but I can't anymore. No big deal. I'll just have to sit down and talk about it with some doctor every week. Or it's just stress, I could be overworking myself.

"You fit the criteria for BPD-"

"Ah, Bipolar. I guess I could see why you'd think that. My moods have changed, been in fluxes. Maybe I'm a tad impulsive, and it's all dreadful, but at least this could have been something a lot wors-"

"You didn't let me finish," the doctor replied. His stone-faced expression turned to something a little more sympathetic.

"BPD isn't Bipolar Disorder. It's Borderline Personality Disorder."

I froze. I'd heard about these types. As soon as those words "Personality Disorder" come into play, there's no hope. You could never get rid of them. You're just stuck with them as they ruin your life.

"N-No... There has to be mistake," I stammered, "I'm not crazy... This can't be true!"

"I'm afraid it is, and I'm afraid you fit much more than the minimum criteria, but there is-"

I snatched the paper from his hands.

"There has to be a typo somewhere," I explained, feeling tears in my eyes, "I'm not crazy! I can't be! I have a company to run, a family to care for! No, no, no! This has to be fake! This is forgery!"

I moved to tear up the charts, but before a single rip formed, he managed to snatch them back from me.

"Now, Ms. Petra... Ms. Petra... Lucretia." His tone softened.

"I need you to take a deep breath for me. Go on, in, out."

I did as he asked, and he handed me a handkerchief.

"I know this came as a shock, but we know now what's wrong, and that helps. And it seems that you have people in your life that care very much about your well-being, and know when to spot when something's wrong," he continued, "You could have been brought in under worse circumstances, or worse, you could have gone undiagnosed, and seriously hurt yourself."

"But..." I said softly, "Doesn't this mean what people say? I'm crazy... This is a part of me, so it's not going away... And you said that you should have caught it when I was younger-"

"I said it would have been ideal if we caught it when you were in your 20s. That's the average age it surfaces, but either your symptoms weren't as serious, or it was simply denial. But, now that we know what we're dealing with, you can be helped. I'm afraid what you've heard is right, there is no cure at the moment, but the more serious symptoms can be treated. I'll recommend a therapist to you, and perhaps a psychiatrist."

That should have done it. That should have given me hope. I could be helped. I'd even seek out these people and try what they ask, but it was never that simple. All I heard was you're crazy. You're crazy... You're officially crazy. And nothing could really be done about it. Nobody could know, what would they even think? Only the family knew. Valentina didn't. It would give her more reason to remind me that I'm terrible... And crazy. I could never get better. I knew they thought of me as a burden. They never said it, but I knew it. I saw it in their eyes. And at the office. They all said they'd miss me when I was forced to retire, but I knew what they really thought, the crazy old bird's finally gone, we'll finally have a sane leader for once. All I can do now is try, I suppose, not that it'll amount to that much. It could kill time until a real cure is found, if ever. And my family would be devastated by any kind of loss... Or they could be counting down the days until I go, or they can abandon me at some asylum.