As someone very sagely said during the parricide trials of the Menendez Brothers: anytime your kids kill you, you are at least partly to blame.

Depression is about as close as you get to somewhere between dead and alive, and it's the worst.

Woke up this morning afraid I was gonna live.

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

They have no idea what a bottomless pit of misery I am.

I wanted so much to forget the past, but it wouldn't go away, it hung around like an open wound that refused to scar over, an open window that no amount of muscle could shut.

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?