I'm not crazy or dangerous, just a bit eccentric and lonely.

Time heals all wounds. And if it doesn't, you name them something other than wounds and agree to let them stay.

What people don't understand when you've already been a suicide and pulled through is that after the sadness comes fear: Where is my mind going with this? I don't want to die. I do not want to die. When you don't have so much control over your own thoughts, over the myriad voices in your head, you don't know where they could go.

But I saw the pain and sadness in everything, and swirled it round my mouth like a fine wine.

If killing yourself is not an option anymore, you have to sink into the darkness instead, and make something out of it.

A lot of the time in my recurring dreams, before I was diagnosed, iconic people would either be good or evil figures. I remember dreaming really basic stuff like trying to navigate the London underground, but then Paul Newman would be the only one who would direct me to the right trains. And I'm trying to remember who would direct me to the wrong ones.

From such a young age, I was raised and have raised myself on film to such an extent, that it has sometimes bled into my reality. There are times I've felt very Mulholland Drive, where people's dream worlds overlap with each other.