There Is, In Fact, An Incredible Freedom

In That Six Months, So Much Happened That Death Seemed, Primarily, Inconvenient. The Trial Period Was Extended. I Seem To Keep Extending It. There Are Many Things To Do. There Are Books To Write And Naps To Take. There Are Movies To See And Scrambled Eggs To Eat. Life Is Essentially Trivial. You Either Decide You Will Take The Trite Business Of Life And Give Yourself The Option Of Doing Something Really Cool, Or You Decide You Will Opt For The Grand Epic Of Eating Disorders And Dedicate Your Life To Being Seriously Trivial.

We Turn Skeletons Into Goddesses And Look To Them As If They Might Teach Us How Not To Need.

Because I'm Not, In Fact, Depressed, Prozac Makes Me Manic And Numb - One Of The Reasons I Slice My Arm In The First Place Is That I'm Coked To The Gills On Something Utterly Wrong For What I Have.

There Was A Time When I Was Unable To Get Out Of Bed Because My Body, Its Muscles Eating Themselves Away, Refused To Sit Up. There Was A Time When The Lies Rolled Off My Tongue With Ease, When It Was Far More Important To Me To Self-destruct Than To Admit I Had A Problem, Let Alone Allow Anyone To Help.

My Students Know I Have A Life, They Know I've Written About My Life. They Know Some Detail, Probably More Than They Know About Their Physics Teacher, But I Would've Told Them Anyway!