I wasn't just the madwoman in the attic--I was the attic itself. The past was all over me, all under me, all inside me.

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

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

I am crying over the elusive nature of love.

As it is my good fortune to be American, I live in the only country that as a matter of policy is pro-Israel regardless of party allegiance; Democrats and Republicans equally unite behind the blue-and-white.

In a typical mental health catch-22, the alienating nature of depression tends to keep its sufferers from finding their way to the very support groups that might help them.

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.