I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been "analyzed." Instead, all I could see were question marks.

To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.

Not being perfect hurts.

All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.

I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.

Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.

I knew you'd decide to be all right again.