...painfully Curious...about How It Feels To Fall.

When You Deal With Nonfiction You Deal With Human Characters.

I Grew Into It. It Grew Into Me. It And I Blurred At The Edges, Became One Amorphous, Seeping, Crawling Thing.

Crazy Isn´t Always What They Say It Is. It´s Not Always The Old Woman Wearing Sneakers And A Skirt And A Scarf, Wandering Around With A Shopping Cart, Hollering At No One, Nothing, Tumbling Through Years In Her Head. No. Sometimes It Is A Girl Wearing Boots And Jeans And A Sweater, Arms Crossed In Front Of Her, Shivering, Wandering Through The Streets At Night, All Night, Murmuring To No One, Nothing, Tumbling Through The Strange Unreal Dimensions In Her Head.

Because I'm Not, In Fact, Depressed, Prozac Makes Me Manic And Numb - One Of The Reasons I Slice My Arm In The First Place Is That I'm Coked To The Gills On Something Utterly Wrong For What I Have.

I Threw Up Again That Night, Half-afraid That My Eyeballs Would Explode. But It Was, By Far, More Important That I Get Rid Of Dinner. Of Course, By Then, Throwing Up Was The Only Way I Knew How To Deal With Fear. That Paradox Would Begin To Run My Life: To Know That What You Are Doing Is Hurting You, Maybe Killing You, And To Be Afraid Of That Fact--but To Cling To The Idea That This Will Save You, It Will, In The End, Make Things Okay.