Years of depression have robbed me of that—well, that give, that elasticity that everyone else calls perspective.

Sometimes, I get so consumed by depression that it is hard to believe that the whole world doesn't stop and suffer with me.

No one who had never been depressed like me could imagine that the pain could get so bad that death became a star to hitch up to, a fantasy of peace someday which seemed better than any life with all this noise in my head.

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

I am fortunate to have been well paid for an almost pathological honesty.

It's like Samson and Delilah: watch your back, because trouble could be the person you're sleeping with.

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.