Somehow, like so many people who get depressed, we felt our depressions were more complicated and existentially based than they actually were.

Every seventeen minutes in America, someone commits suicide. Mostly, I have been impressed by how little value our society puts on saving the lives of those who are in such despair as to want to end them. It is a societal illusion that suicide is rare. It is not.

Suicide is not a blot on anyone’s name; it is a tragedy

Confidentiality is an ancient and well-warranted social value.

I am tired of hiding, tired of misspent and knotted energies, tired of the hypocrisy, and tired of acting as though I have something to hide.

I was late to understand that chaos and intensity are no subsitute for lasting love, nor are they necessarily an improvement on real life. Normal people are not always boring. On the contrary. Volatility and passion, although often more romantic and enticing, are not intrinsically preferable to a steadiness of experience and feeling about another person.

The complexities of what we are given in life are vast and beyond comprehension.