The Assumption That Rigidly Rejecting Words And

St. Andrews Provided A Gentle Forgetfulness Over The Preceding Painful Years Of My Life. It Remains A Haunting And Lovely Time To Me, A Marrow Experience. For One Who During Her Undergraduate Years Was Trying To Escape An Inexplicable Weariness And Despair, St. Andrews Was An Amulet Against All Manner Of Longing And Loss, A Year Of Gravely Held But Joyous Remembrances.

I Have Had Manic-depressive Illness, Also Known As Bipolar Disorder, Since I Was 18 Years Old. It Is An Illness That Ensures That Those Who Have It Will Experience A Frightening, Chaotic And Emotional Ride. It Is Not A Gentle Or Easy Disease.

Suicide Carries In Its Aftermath A Level Of Confusion And Devastation That Is, For The Most Part, Beyond Description.

Children Need The Freedom And Time To Play. Play Is Not A Luxury; The Time Spent Engaged In It Is Not Time That Could Be Better Spent In More Formal Educational Pursuits. Play Is A Necessity.

We All Build Internal Sea Walls To Keep At Bay The Sadnesses Of Life And The Often Overwhelming Forces Within Our Minds. In Whatever Way We Do This--through Love, Work, Family, Faith, Friends, Denial, Alcohol, Drugs, Or Medication, We Build These Walls, Stone By Stone, Over A Lifetime.