I tell myself that after four children my belly is already so stretched and flabby that I have to do origami to get my pants buttoned. One more pregnancy and I'd be doomed to elastic waists for the rest of my life.

I really hate alcohol. I hate it because it's linked so closely to sexual assault in our culture.

I was a lesbian for a semester at Wesleyan - it was a graduation requirement.

The statistic that 67 percent of women's admissions to the psychiatric facilities are during the week before menstruation is critically important to every woman, and to every woman who feels she suffers from depression.

Whatever my intentions, whatever the truth of my claim, I had no business giving a lecture to a total stranger.

Where would the memoir be without bipolar writers? I mean, that's what - that whole oversharing thing is really a very clear symptom of bipolar disorder. And I'm not saying that every, you know, I'm not accusing every memoirist of being bipolar. But I think in a way it's kind of a gift.

The first inkling my husband had that I was thinking about suicide was when he checked my blog.