That is all I want in life: for this pain to seem purposeful.

I start to think there really is no cure for depression, that happiness is an ongoing battle, and I wonder if it isn't one I'll have to fight for as long as I live. I wonder if it's worth it.

And she keeps saying, how can you do this to me? And i want to scream, what do you mean, how can I do this to you? Aren't we confusing our pronouns here? The question, really, is How could I do this to myself?

Feminism is a good venue for getting yourself across as much as for getting your point across.

My imagination, my ability to understand the way love and people grow over time, how passion can surprise and renew, utterly failed me.

I thought depression was the part of my character that made me worthwhile. I thought so little of myself, felt that I had such scant offerings to give to the world, that the one thing that justified my existence at all was my agony.

Mental illness is so much more complicated than any pill that any mortal could invent