Mood Disorders Are Terribly Painful Illnesses, And

Others Would Say To Me, 'it Is Only Temporary, It Will Pass, You Will Get Over It,' But Of Course They Had No Idea How I Felt, Although They Were Certain That They Did. Over And Over And Over I Would Say To Myself, 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?

I Think That For Thousands Of Years People Have Made The Observation That There Are Certain Kinds Of Extreme Depressive States That Seem To Be More Likely To Produce Philosophers, People In The Arts, Unusually Brilliant Scientists.

I Think Wanting To Write Is A Fundamental Sign Of Disease And Discomfort. I Don't Think People Who Are Comfortable Want To Write.

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.

There Is An Assumption, In Attaching Puritan Concepts Such As 'successful' And 'unsuccessful' To The Awful, Final Act Of Suicide, That Those Who 'fail' At Killing Themselves Not Only Are Weak, But Incompetent, Incapable Even Of Getting Their Dying Quite Right.