Now your stack of books isn't full of books that seem relevant to your experience; they're full of books that seem like they might describe the people in your world. You start reading about these other disorders and considering whether your friends and family exhibit the symptoms. Is mom's glass of wine or two at dinner a sign of a drinking problem? Is your best friend's issue arriving anywhere on time a sign of depression?  Does your boyfriend's lack of ability to commit to you a sign that he has issues with intimacy?

The obvious issue, of course, is that you can't exactly give the people you love book as gifts that imply that they have a mental health problem. So you sit and stare at the stack of books, wondering how to get them into the hands of the people who might really have a problem. Eventually, you compromise and get everyone books about how to be happier, more at peace, or less stressed. You figure everyone, no matter what issue they may struggle with, wants to be happier or more content, and definitely less stressed.  You give the gift books: the pretty little books with pictures of flowers and leaves on them, and little designs inside. The ones that give meditation instruction and inspiring quotes from the Dalai Lama.

You don't give the serious self-help books for diagnosable conditions, although you will, eventually, end up speaking their language, and you'll never truly get over a propensity for diagnosing yourself or others.