In my case, I was not frightened in the least bit at the thought that I might live because I was certain, quite certain, that I was already dead.

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

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.

Into every sunny life a little rain must fall.

Depression is about as close as you get to somewhere between dead and alive, and it's the worst.

Am I worried people will say I'm repeating myself? Sure. One thought I had was to publish it as a novel but eventually I just decided to do what I wanted to do.

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.