You're never too old to be crazy.
Some of the very greatest gifts bring an inevitable downside which you cannot "cure" without curing the gift at the same time.
The difference between a healthy person and one who is mentally ill is the fact that the healthy one has all the mentall illnesses, and the mentally ill person has only one.
We must stop criminalizing mental illness. It's a national tragedy and scandal that the L.A. County Jail is the biggest psychiatric facility in the United States.
Occupying my mind with complex problems has been my best and most powerful and most reliable defense against my mental illness.
Men, I would like to take this opportunity to extend your formal invitation. … Gender equality is your issue, too. … I've seen young men suffering from mental illness, unable to ask for help, for fear it would make them less of a men—or less of a man. I've seen men made fragile and insecure by a distorted sense of what constitutes male success. Men don't have the benefits of equality, either.
So, because I have a mental illness I should disappear and hide? Ever since I went into hospital, all I have heard and read about is people telling me what they think I should do.
Tis a mad world, my masters.
That's where depression hits you most - your home life. It doesn't affect your work. I can't do this zany, wacky, funny thing any more. I haven't been like that for a long time.
I felt suicidal. I couldn't stop crying. I remember thinking, wouldn't it be great if the car crashed and I died?
My twenties were a write-off. It's a cruel illness, because you can't see it and you can hide it so well.
The absurdly neurotic role you and the rest of your kind have always attributed to me Erato, the Goddess Muse of Erotic Poetry bears no relation at all to reality. As a matter of fact, I was trained as a clinical psychologist. Who simply happens to have specialized in the mental illness that you, in your ignorance, call literature.
I realized that I had granted my illness lordship over me. In viewing my depression as a despot subjecting me to its savage fancies, I was able to escape responsibility, to indulge fully my selfish desire to let my ego flourish unfettered, not obliged to anyone. But this wasn't freedom. It was a prison-a cell separating me from those who cared for me and for whom I might have cared.
I could feel myself begin to recede, to tip and lose balance, slide toward the deeper darkness that had crept in from outside. It happened so quickly and took me by surprise; sometimes I just turned around and found it there-ah, camarade-unaware it had been waiting for me for days.
... I feel tired to death, paralyzed by this mysteriously wasted life's stubborn concentration on hopelessness and dissolution. It occurs to me that if I lie still like this for long enough, then I'll be dead when I finally wake again, and nothing can ever again torment me, beset me, or present me with evidence of my baseness and decay. That thought is the only one that can comfort me.
I wondered if I was just the sum of my brain scan, little dots clustered in my frontal lobe. Is that where the poems came from? The desire to destroy myself? This last depression had scared me. It had come on so quickly, not like the gradual woolgathering in my brain I had known before.
At the end of each therapy session, I waited for an evaluation, a clinical judgment, some kind of pronouncement on "my condition." I hoped I suffered from something serious, a clear syndrome, maybe requiring heavy medication and hospitalization. I pictured myself wearing a robe and paper slippers and looking out of a window with bars on it. I wanted to be relieved of the responsibility of taking any action to help myself.
... it is possible for even the most deeply disturbed and desperately unbalanced among us to be a beautiful person.
A delusion held by one person is a mental illness, held by a few is a cult, held by many is a religion.
Alice in Wonderland Syndrome. This is a mental illness. It is like looking through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. It is as if you are living in a fantasy world of a fable. This is an interesting and sad syndrome. I’m sure that I have that syndrome. If it’s not it, then why the heck does my every moment with the ordinary girl feel like a fable?
A visual image in the hand of an artist is merely a tool to trigger a mental image.
All of us are crazy in one or another way.
Today I had a strange warning. I felt the wind of insanity brush my mind.
The finest minds, like the finest metals, dissolve the easiest.
It was too nerve-wracking, a shocking spectacle, like seeing an old, calm friend go insane.
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