In Depression, Your Capacity To Feel Just

Love, Like Life, Is Much Stranger And Far More Complicated Than One Is Brought Up To Believe.

The Chinese Believe That Before You Can Conquer A Beast You First Must Make It Beautiful. In Some Strange Way, I Have Tried To Do That With Manic-depressive Illness. It Has Been A Fascinating, Albeit Deadly, Enemy And Companion; I Have Found It To Be Seductively Complicated, A Distillation Both Of What Is Finest In Our Natures, And Of What Is Most Dangerous.

There Is A Particular Kind Of Pain, Elation, Loneliness And Terror Involved In This Kind Of Madness... It Will Never End, For Madness Carves Its Own Reality.

One Is What One Is, And The Dishonesty Of Hiding Behind A Degree, Or A Title, Or Any Manner And Collection Of Words, Is Still Exactly That: Dishonest.

If I Can't Feel, If I Can't Move, If I Can't Think, And I Can't Care, Then What Conceivable Point Is There In Living?