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

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

I start to get the feeling that something is really wrong.

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.

But day after day of depression, the kind that doesn’t seem to merit carting me off to a hospital but allows me to sit here on this stoop in summer camp as if I were normal, day after day wearing down everybody who gets near me. My behavior seems, somehow, not acute enough for them to know what to do with me, though I’m just enough of a mess to be driving everyone around me crazy.

Woke up this morning afraid I was gonna live.

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