Look to the living, love them, and hold on.

I think wanting to write is a fundamental sign of disease and discomfort. I don't think people who are comfortable want to write.

I realized that it was not that I didn’t want to go on without him. I did. It was just that I didn’t know why I wanted to go on

Love, like life, is much stranger and far more complicated than one is brought up to believe.

Anyone who suggests that coming back from suicidal despair is a straightforward journey has never taken it.

You become aware of an illness by understanding yourself and understanding the meaning that that illness has in your own life, symbolically and, more importantly, quite literally.

Everything previously moving with the grain is now against - you are irritable, angry, frightened, uncontrollable, and enmeshed totally in the blackest caves of the mind. You never knew those caves were there. It will never end, for madness carves its own reality.