Just remember that those who feel profoundly depressed are those whose happiness is likewise intense. What's so wrong with that?

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?

Sleep was a vehicle for passing the time, for avoiding the present. It was a trolley for the depressed, the impatient, and the dying.

Misery is a routine you can learn to live with. It's like rain. Once you're soaked to the skin, you can't get any wetter.

One thing is undeniably clear. We have all had bad experiences, we have all had tragedies in our lives which help to shape who we are.

The parts of my mind that apply logic and understanding had somehow abandoned me, and something primitive and instinctual took control.

It felt like this was never going to end. The world wasn't going to stop crashing down until there was nothing left of me but dust.

In the silence of night I have often wished for just a few words of love from one man, rather than the applause of thousands of people.

One reason we're not winning the fight against depression is that our available treatments leave so many in partial recovery limbo.

In her glamorous quest for the darkest light and the lowest high, she now found herself wallowing on the bottom of a filthy garbage bin.

Sometimes giving up feels like the easiest thing to do. But then the easiest thing has never produced more than a garden full of weeds.

Why not risk your life, if you don't want to live anyway? Why not risk your life if you'll never be happy no matter what you do?

Bad enough to be ill, but to feel compelled to deny the very thing that, in its worst and most active state, defines you is agony indeed.

In someone's darkest hour your simple act of kindness may imitate the sunrise, and to sad eyes you become their only source of light.

My life felt so cluttered and obstructed that I could hardly breathe. I inhabited a closed, concentrated world, airless and without exits.