We All Move Uneasily Within Our Restraints.

We All Build Internal Sea Walls To Keep At Bay The Sadnesses Of Life And The Often Overwhelming Forces Within Our Minds. In Whatever Way We Do This—through Love, Work, Family, Faith, Friends, Denial, Alcohol, Drugs, Or Medication—we Build These Walls, Stone By Stone, Over A Lifetime. One Of The Most Difficult Problems Is To Construct These Barriers Of Such A Height And Strength That One Has A True Harbor, A Sanctuary Away From Crippling Turmoil And Pain, But Yet Low Enough, And Permeable Enough, To Let In Fresh Seawater That Will Fend Off The Inevitable Inclination Toward Brackishness.

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

Mood Disorders Are Terribly Painful Illnesses, And They Are Isolating Illnesses. And They Make People Feel Terrible About Themselves When, In Fact, They Can Be Treated.

Never Once, During Any Of My Bouts Of Depression, Had I Been Inclined Or Able To Pick Up A Telephone And Ask A Friend For Help. It Wasn't In Me.

The Assumption That Rigidly Rejecting Words And Phrases That Have Existed For Centuries Will Have Much Impact On Public Attitudes Is Rather Dubious.