I began to measure things in absence instead of presence.

The biggest fear of my life is living. My second biggest fear is dying.

Having a normal person around me made it poingnantly clear to me that I was out of control.

My students know I have a life, they know I've written about my life. They know some detail, probably more than they know about their physics teacher, but I would've told them anyway!

My parents say that even as a very, very little kid, the way that I acted was dramatically different from other little kids.

I threw up again that night, half-afraid that my eyeballs would explode. But it was, by far, more important that I get rid of dinner. Of course, by then, throwing up was the only way I knew how to deal with fear. That paradox would begin to run my life: to know that what you are doing is hurting you, maybe killing you, and to be afraid of that fact--but to cling to the idea that this will save you, it will, in the end, make things okay.

So many means of self-destruction, so little time.