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

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

It didn’t and doesn’t turn out well. There is no happy ending to the story of sorrow if you are born with a predilection for despair. The world is, after all, a coarse and brutal and cruel place. It’s only a matter of how long you can live with it.

Sometimes I wish I could walk around with a HANDLE WITH CARE sign stuck to my forehead.

I start to get the feeling that something is really wrong. Like all the drugs put together – the lithium, the Prozac, the desipramine, and Desyrel that I take to sleep at night – can no longer combat whatever it is that was wrong with me in the first place. I feel like a defective model.

The voices in my head, which I used to think were just passing through, seem to have taken up residence.

Sometimes it feels like we're all living in a Prozac nation. The United States of Depression.