Mental illness, like everything else, can be more intense in D.C.

WASHINGTON -- This is not a city where human frailties are easily acknowledged.

For that reason, the story of Mark Helmke's battle with bipolar disorder demonstrates a kind of courage that is rarely seen here.

Helmke is a very likable man with a cherubic grin and a keen wit. I met him in the mid 1980s, when he was press secretary for Sen. Richard Lugar, R-Ind.

From there, he moved into the high-powered world of lobbying and public affairs consulting. In short, he became a big success.

"I lived like the typical Washington workaholic," he recalls. "Up every morning at 5 a.m. to beat the rush downtown. By the time everyone else arrived in the office, I had consumed five or six newspapers. I obsessed about what was going on the world and fretted over the political nuances."

When Helmke's tightly wound personality began to unravel, he tormented himself with the notion that he was not trying hard enough to sustain his success.

He rearranged his office every week, thinking that would put him back on track. He considered suicide. He thought that he would be acknowledging weakness if he consulted a psychiatrist. So he began to self-medicate with alcohol.

It was sometime in the late 1990s, when I realized that Helmke had disappeared from the Washington scene. The firm where he worked broke up. He was no longer quoted in newspapers. I didn't run into him anymore at restaurants or on the street. "Where is Mark Helmke these days?" I asked his friends and former business associates. No one seemed to know.

Then in January 2001, Helmke reappeared by authoring a cover story for the Washington Post health magazine, "The Attack of the Monkey Demon." It was a vivid account of his frightening encounter with mental illness and his slow, painful recovery.

What a surprise. I have known many people in Washington who struggled privately with their demons. And I have been a witness as many high-flying political careers crumbled in plain view. But I have never known anyone who easily acknowledged they were experiencing emotional problems.

The late Sen. John Tower was deprived of a Cabinet position because of his heavy drinking, which he refused to acknowledge. Former Sen. Bob Packwood admitted to drinking too much, but only as an excuse for his more offensive habit of assaulting young women. And Rep. James Traficant of Ohio is by no means the first member of Congress whose behavior has been described with that odd little euphemism "erratic."

Helmke works for a nonprofit organization that promotes nuclear disarmament. He was chosen for the job by his former employer, Lugar, who understands the long, blank space on his work history. And he recently won an award from the National Mental Health Association for his groundbreaking story in the Post.

But Helmke, who is learning to manage his strengths and limitations, doubts he will again be viewed in Washington as a candidate for a high-profile job.

"Society has learned enough about the treatment of cancer to not be overly concerned about the late Paul Tsongas' running for president," he says. "And we accept that Richard Cheney's heart disease ought not to prohibit him from serving in the second most important executive position in the United States.

"But the admission of mental illness, even for a minor player like me, comes with considerable risk. I've asked friends in confidence what my chances were. They said they would be reluctant to hire a consultant or a manager with a history of mental illness.

"While politicians and the media can all agree that mental illness is a serious issue, when it happens to one of us . . . well, that's another matter."

Of course, this phenomenon is not confined to the geography inside the Beltway. But like so many other prejudices, I am sad to say, it is often more intense here.

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