Nothing Good Comes Out Of Depression.

Looking At Suicide—the Sheer Numbers, The Pain Leading Up To It, And The Suffering Left Behind—is Harrowing. For Every Moment Of Exuberance In The Science, Or In The Success Of Governments, There Is A Matching And Terrible Reality Of The Deaths Themselves: The Young Deaths, The Violent Deaths, The Unnecessary Deaths

It Was As If My Father Had Given Me, By Way Of Temperament, An Impossibly Wild, Dark, And Unbroken Horse. It Was A Horse Without A Name, And A Horse With No Experience Of A Bit Between Its Teeth. My Mother Taught Me To Gentle It; Gave Me The Discipline And Love To Break It; And- As Alexander Had Known So Intuitively With Bucephalus- She Understood, And Taught Me, That The Beast Was Best Handled By Turning It Toward The Sun.

I Look Back Over My Shoulder And Feel The Presence Of An Intense Young Girl And Then A Volatile And Disturbed Young Woman, Both With High Dreams And Restless, Romantic Aspirations

I Long Ago Abandoned The Notion Of A Life Without Storms, Or A World Without Dry And Killing Seasons. Life Is Too Complicated, Too Constantly Changing, To Be Anything But What It Is. And I Am, By Nature, Too Mercurial To Be Anything But Deeply Wary Of The Grave Unnaturalness Involved In Any Attempt To Exert Too Much Control Over Essentially Uncontrollable Forces. There Will Always Be Propelling, Disturbing Elements, And They Will Be There Until, As Lowell Put It, The Watch Is Taken From The Wrist.

I Am A Huge Advocate Of Prescription Drugs Given Wisely And For The Right Reasons And The Right Diagnosis And Also Psychotherapy.