I Think You Have Waves Of Awareness

But Then Back On Lithium And Rotating On The Planet At The Same Pace As Everyone Else, You Find Your Credit Is Decimated, Your Mortification Complete: Mania Is Not A Luxury One Can Easily Afford. It Is Devastating To Have The Illness And Aggravating To Have To Pay For Medications, Blood Tests, And Psychotherapy. They, At Least, Are Partially Deductible. But Money Spent While Manic Doesn't Fit Into The Internal Revenue Service Concept Of Medical Expense Or Business Loss. So After Mania, When Most Depressed, You're Given Excellent Reason To Be Even More So.

If I Can't Feel, If I Can't Move, If I Can't Think, And I Can't Care, Then What Conceivable Point Is There In Living?

Each Way To Suicide Is Its Own: Intensely Private, Unknowable, And Terrible. Suicide Will Have Seemed To Its Perpetrator The Last And Best Of Bad Possibilities, And Any Attempt By The Living To Chart This Final Terrain Of Life Can Be Only A Sketch, Maddeningly Incomplete

Children Need The Freedom And Time To Play. Play Is Not A Luxury; The Time Spent Engaged In It Is Not Time That Could Be Better Spent In More Formal Educational Pursuits. Play Is A Necessity.

I Think Wanting To Write Is A Fundamental Sign Of Disease And Discomfort. I Don't Think People Who Are Comfortable Want To Write.