MY EUROPEAN grandmother came to Baltimore at 17 and promptly married and gave birth to my father.

When my mother became ill when I was very little, my grandmother, a widow, was delighted to have me for company. And I was delighted beyond words to have her. Throughout her life, she taught me a great deal about a great deal.

About twice a year, if my grandmother got terribly overwhelmed, and she felt things were out of control, she adopted the southern tradition of "taking to her bed" with "the vapours."

Here's what happened: She put her prettiest sheets on her bed, which she covered with a special blanket trimmed in lace.

She put on a lace nightgown and brought a tray to her bedroom. On the tray was a pot of tea, her favorite cup, her Yiddish newspapers and several movie magazines, as well as a box of Swiss chocolates. From the afternoon that "the vapours" began to the next evening, my grandmother didn't answer the phone or the door.

When I lived with my grandmother from age 3 to 6, I would curl up next to her eating candy and reading her movie magazines. We discussed who was beautiful, inside and out. Between these selections, she read to me from her favorite columnists, who, like her, had come from the "old country" to her beloved new country. The world and its pressures melted away like the luscious chocolates in our mouths.

My grandmother died after my older daughter was born, but I have continued our tradition of "the vapours." However, my style is a bit different from hers - and not as glamorous.

I do put pretty sheets on. But I wear my husband's undershirt. On my tray are tea and my favorite cup but absolutely nothing as thought-provoking as my grandmother's Yiddish newspapers.

I bring only the people-oriented inside sections of the newspapers we subscribe to. My most scandalous indulgence: I buy the National Enquirer, the Star, and the New York Post.

I also have a huge Reese's peanut-butter chocolate bar. I rent "The Way We Were" and take "Casablanca" from the shelf. They all go on the tray, along with my tattered copy of "Valley of the Dolls."

When my daughters were little, they joined me as I joined my grandmother. They each got a mini-tray with Cheerios, milk and a banana. Then they joined me for candy and movies. No phone, no doorbells answered, no interruptions from late Friday afternoon until Saturday noon.

My children are grown now, and I am a grandmother of three. My husband has grown to understand these occasional "vapour" states, when he is completely on his own. He knows he is invited to watch the movies, and that I will even share my candy. But no phone, no door, no plans, no serious discussions, including absolutely everything other than the items on the "vapour tray."

Those of you who know that I'm a therapist may be scratching your heads wondering if I really have the right stuff to help others. Maybe even muttering, "Is this woman crazy?"

So let me tell you what I have learned about this. I've never met anyone who didn't have some crazies to deal with in our lives.

You know the type - the ones who believe they have all of the answers about everything and are perfect themselves. Who refuse to hear or discuss any opinion that's not their own, and who never allow themselves to feel sad or confused.

Which leads me to my definition of mental health: being brave enough to face your individual crazinesses and confusions, to learn where they come from and what to do about them, and to do your very, very best not to hurt others because of your own limitations.

My prescription for keeping sane: Every once in a while, a day or so of "the vapours" - or a comparable way to retreat into yourself and turn off the world - is a very good thing.

And yes, I completed my most recent one just after Kerry was defeated. I gave myself a few days to be utterly miserable, then turned to my tried-and-true vapours. I am myself again. Despite everything, all will be well. It is just up to us to make it happen.

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