It's probably a bad sign that the other night, out of the blue, Karl asked me why I went off my antidepressants a few years ago.

Sometimes the weather seems to reflect my mood like a mirror.
The raindrops hitting my windshield are like my own tears.
But less cathartic.

There is a nasty little voice that lurks in the back of my brain, and every once in a while, it likes to whisper in my ear. It says things that I know aren't true. Not even a little bit true. But when it starts talking, I can't stop listening. And there is no reasoning with this voice. I tell it to shush. I present all sorts of evidence to prove ( Read more... )

Some days I feel like I'm made of glass. And sometimes I think I'm just looking for someone to break me.