Along with the joy of parenthood, with every child comes a piercing vulnerability. It is at once sublime and terrifying

I am becoming used to an overwhelming, grinding mixture of anger and worry.

How can both Nics, the loving and considerate and generous one, and the self-obsessed and self-destructive one, be the same person?

The hopeful part about that is when you do have that help, you will feel better. It still doesn't make this easy. Nothing makes this easy, but you can make better decisions.

When I transformed my random and raw words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into chapters, a semblance of order and sanity appeared where there had been only chaos and insanity.

Why does it help to read others' stories? It is not only that misery loves company, because (I learned) misery is too self-absorbed to want much company. Others' experiences did help with my emotional struggle.

How innocent we are of our mistakes and how we responsible we are for them.