I have studiously tried to avoid ever using the word 'madness' to describe my condition. Now and again, the word slips out, but I hate it. 'Madness' is too glamorous a term to convey what happens to most people who are losing their minds. That word is too exciting, too literary, too interesting in its connotations, to convey the boredom, the slowness, the dreariness, the dampness of depression.

Why does the rest of the world put up with the hypocrisy, the need to put a happy face on sorrow, the need to keep on keeping on?... I don't know the answer, I know only that I can't.

In a strange way, I had fallen in love with my depression.

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

But then I never had to worry about a crash landing because I never even took off.

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.

I don't think it matters how many parents you've got, as long as those who are around make their presence a good one.