Life was so much simpler before the invasion of self-help books.  Before everyone who believed they had experienced a unique revelation concerning their own maladjusted psyche, decided they could write a formula that would cure the most deranged member of society and earn themselves a generous profit as well, we somehow managed to cope.  And we did it with a lot less stress, I might add.

We didn't have to deal with the possibility that somehow we might be suppressing our inner child, or heaven forbid, even more sinister, perhaps multiple personalities might lurk in our tortured brains.  We didn't spend our precious leisure moments contemplating ways of becoming the "total woman" or fretting that we might be suffering from the "Cinderella complex".  It didn't occur to us that self-hypnosis or yoga might correct our bulging waist lines or that chanting "Ummmm" sounds could release the power within us.

There is a plus side, of course.  At last, we can excuse the temper tantrum by mentioning PMS or referring to our hormone imbalance.  If we totally lose it and hurl a plate of food at the wall on Christmas Day, you can't hold us accountable because dinner is late and our blood sugar level is low.  If our children tie the teacher up and threaten to burn the school, they are likely either hyperactive or suffering from attention deficient disorder.

In those good old days of "Take two aspirins and call me in the morning," most of the ills that beset us fell under the mysterious heading of "Virus". The family practitioner could usually set our minds at rest by nodding knowingly and assuring us that it would probably pass in 24 hours.  Alas, those days ended when the Disease of the Month books hit the shelves.  Now, we have to deal with hypoglycemia, chronic fatigue syndrome, toxic shock syndrome, and an endless parade of possibilities that might account for the fact that we aren't feeling quite up to par.

Perhaps not everyone haunts the libraries and book stores in search of answers, but I'm blessed (or cursed) with two daughters who do. Both have assured me that they have discovered that I am the root cause of all their problems.

One daughter attributes her low self esteem to the fact she lost her identity as the baby in the birth order, when I schemed to replace her by giving birth to another child when she was ten.  She refuses to believe me when I tell her it was more a leaky diaphragm than a deliberate plot.  She's an active member of the Disease of the Month club and calls regularly to inform me that she has finally isolated her problem and will be totally healthy soon. I can't wait.

The other daughter's accusations I take more seriously. She was once confident, well adjusted, and a delight to be around.  After her obsessive compulsive husband of eight years decided he was suffering from marriage burnout and bailed, she began to suffer serious self doubts. Her friends rushed to comfort her with arm loads of literary insight to help her deal with grief and determine what went wrong. After discovering that "Men are from Mars" and we would all have been better off if they had stayed there, she was hooked.

Her latest passion is the Codependency craze. Codependency, as nearly as I can determine, has to do with needing another person to meet a need that you may have, or allowing yourself to meet the needs of a person who needs you. It's like "needing a hug" is a bad thing. "People who need people," according to the authors of these books, "are not the luckiest people in the world." In fact, they are downright sick. It seems to me, that automatically puts all parents and most married couples in jeopardy. If you've ever read their list, you probably know that almost everything that involves interaction with another human being qualifies you as a certified card carrying member of the Society of Codependents. In order not to make the dread list you would have to be a hermit,  preferably on an isolated island near Atlantis or some other lost civilization.

My once helpful, caring daughter has become so afraid of needing or being needed by someone that she can no longer talk on the telephone without analyzing her motives to determine if she really wants to have this conversation or if there is another motivation. Naturally, the problem stems back to her early childhood when I was, more or less, still in charge.

If I give financial help or other aid to any of her siblings, I'm an "enabler". If I offer a suggestion, I'm a "controller". It's depressing, but then that's not allowed either. There are numerous "how to" books to help me cope with that.

As far my daughters are concerned, perhaps there is hope for them yet. To paraphrase the wisdom of Erma Bombeck's mother, maybe when they hit menopause, it will take their mind off their problems.

As for me, things are definitely looking up. My son, the chiropractor, who is into astrology, numerology, biorhythm, and other pseudo-sciences, assures me that my problem lies in the fact that the stars aren't lined up just right for me. I should be coming into a new cycle soon that will assure me of health, happiness and material prosperity.  As long as I keep my vertebra aligned, massage my pressure points, and look into the joys of jogging, life will be sweet.