Mental illness seems to be a communication problem between interpreters one and two.

What is it about meter and cadence and rhythm that makes their makers mad?

I am not a nurse escorting six lunatics to the ice cream parlor.

I needed to be alone, I felt. I wanted to be going on alone to my future.

My chronic feelings of emptiness and boredom came from the fact that I was living a life based on my incapacities, which were numerous.

Disease [is] as one of our languages. Doctors understand what disease has to say about itself. It's up to the person with the disease to understand what the disease has to say to her.

Are you crazy? It's a common phrase, I know. But it means something particular to me: the tunnels, the security screens, the plastic forks, the shimmering, ever-shifting borderline that like all boundaries beckons and asks to be crossed. I do not want to cross it again.