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.

I want to explain how exhausted I am. Even in my dreams. How I wake up tired. How I’m being drowned by some kind of black wave.

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.

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.

And it seemed hard to believe that these people who were so close to me couldn’t see how desperate I was, or if they could they didn’t care enough to do anything about it, or if they cared enough to do anything about it they didn’t believe there was anything they could do, not knowing—or not wanting to know—that their belief might have been the thing that made the difference.

Pick a man, any man. Every guy I fall for becomes Jesus Christ within the first twenty four hours.

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