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The dating world isn't easy for any single person. Actually getting to meet prospective partners, finding the right chemistry, coordinating schedules, and planning compatible activities are just a few of the steps to negotiate along the way. Throw in a diagnosis of mental illness and the complicated mix becomes even more so.

The sound advice both my psychiatrist and psychologist offered was this, "Take it slow. Let someone get to know you first before you discuss your illness." I tried to follow their suggestions, but the pressure to withhold a part of myself that had so shaped my life's path became too much to bear. And, more importantly, I feared spending months getting close to a man only to face rejection when he learned about my schizophrenia. So I disregarded the cautionary advice.

After I felt we had moved beyond the introductory phase of getting-to-know-you -- when being on our "best behavior" had moved into the "being comfortable" mode but before many months had passed -- I would tell the man of the moment about my diagnosis.

Sometimes I was met with kind humor, such as "It isn't catchy is it?" asked with a smile. Sometimes I was met with a confession: "I've suffered from (and here you can fill in the blank with cancer, colitis, bipolar depression, depression, or heart disease)." And on more than several occasions I encountered the rejection I expected because even my best efforts to explain biochemical disorders could not overcome my dating partners' fears bred from ignorance. After the rejection my friends would console me with murmurings of "it's better you know now." I knew they were right, but the disappointment left a sharp sting anyway.

One day two and a half years ago, after a long stint with no dates, my married friends introduced me to a male acquaintance they knew. We all went for a walk together, with the married couple discreetly walking 10 yards ahead. The male acquaintance and I found ourselves engaged in a conversation that eclipsed time. Four days later he called to ask me out to dinner. By then I knew I had made a rare connection with this person and my anxiety mounted. Sure he seemed great, but could he really accept me?

My anxiety got the better of me and I knew this time I had to discard my "wait 'til the comfortable stage" rule. I decided to talk about my schizophrenia at dinner. I believed if we had made the connection I suspected, my illness wouldn't matter. And if I had fooled myself and this wasn't someone special, I wanted to spare myself the heartache.

Although I've disclosed my illness to friends, colleagues, and former dates over many years, I had never felt as scared to talk about it as I did that night. I wanted to believe true love could be possible for me. I was afraid to find out that it wasn't. That night as we waited for our dinners to be served, I mustered up my courage and said, "You should know I'm on medication for schizophrenia."

The man looked back and said, "It's okay. You're safe with me."

I had never heard a date respond that way before. And it turned out that man was right. For that man became my husband and now, two and a half years later, his words are still true. And I believe that if this can happen for me, if you want it, it can happen for you.