I wanted to tell people, "My depression is acting up today" as an excuse for not seeing them, but I never managed to pull it off.

I found myself jealous of the people who wrote the books. They were dead and they were still taking up my time. Who did they think they were?

I feel dead, wasted, awful, broken and useless. It's not the kind of feeling you forget.

And when you say the truth you get stronger.

Dad nods, looks me dead in the eyes; slowly and regretfully, he banishes all the smiling and joking from his face, and for once he's just my dad, watching his son who has fallen so low.

She doesn't want to end up like me. At least I'm giving someone an example not to follow.

I waste at least an hour every day lying in bed. Then I waste time pacing. I waste time thinking. I waste time being quiet and not saying anything because I'm afraid I'll stutter.