Would the fact I kept my “collection” tucked beneath the floorboards of my closet surprise you? I can tell you as a professional that even the smartest people are driven by forces more powerful than logic. Compulsion. Obsession. Addiction.

Now I headed into my massive walk-in closet. The left-hand bureau, made of cherrywood and appearing built-in, in fact pulled straight out. I squeezed myself behind it, then went to work on the exposed floorboards, each with telltale scratches around the edges. I’d created this hidey-hole myself, the first weekend after I’d moved into my new, luxurious high-rise apartment. My first homeowner’s project. Does that tell you something?

Tucked beneath the floorboards was an ordinary shoe box. Nothing special. Black lid, faded gray-blue sides, brand name long since worn off. The kind of battered old box that might contain faded photographs or other precious family mementos. I pulled it up, holding it in two hands, then weaseled my way back out, clutching my treasure tight against my chest.

In my bathroom now. A modern white marble, chocolate cabinets, gray and blue glass-tiled affair. I placed the box on the creamy marble countertop, next to the second sink, the one that should be used by my husband or live-in companion, or the long-lost love of my life. The sink that for the entire time I’ve lived in this unit has never had a drop of water in it.

Now I removed the black top of the shoe box to reveal a padded, silk-lined interior completely at odds with the exterior. Vials. Numerous slender glass vials, each one the approximate size of a test tube, each with a rubber-stoppered top. No mason jars for this daughter of Harry Day. The gene pool had been moving on up.

It occurred to me I’d never counted the vials. Even now, I had a tendency to take it in as a whole. The collection. I didn’t count individual pieces, amassed on and off over nearly ten years. The psychiatrist who didn’t want to know what she didn’t want to know.

I closed my eyes. Pretended I was my own patient. How many vials did I think were in the box? A similar exercise to asking the alcoholic how many drinks she thought she’d had last night.

I went with twelve. An already shockingly high number. Rounding up, I told myself, because the answer on the tip of my tongue had been eight. So again, like the alcoholic who somewhat understands she has a problem—I want to say I had three drinks, but it was probably more like five . . . Forced honesty. If I’m not really in denial, then I don’t really have a problem.

I opened my eyes, counted the glass vials.

Twenty-one.

I swayed on my feet. Had to grab the smooth edge of my bathroom countertop to catch myself.

Twenty-one.

No. How? Not possible. Couldn’t be . . .

I counted again. And again.