You leave the smallest things for me to find. They break my heart, I hope to die. It feels like you're the gun and I'm the killer. I'm holding you to my head, I hear every last thought, every pain and every failure. Every doubt and every thought of hopelessness. Waiting, I'm waiting for you to fire the gun, because I'm to weak to pull the trigger. Kill me, I beg you, you already killed me on inside.

Amy had always thought she was too vain and selfish to seriously contemplate suicide, also too afraid of pain. She realized now that when she'd thought that, she hadn't understood how painful existence could get. It could get so painful, it turned out, that any other kind of pain began to seem preferable. She felt ridiculous thinking these goth-teenager thoughts, but they were real.

The suicidal lead shame-drenched lives.

Nobody would commit suicide if the pain of being inside herself, the agony of the sleepless, tortured hours spent watching the world get smaller and uglier, were bearable or could be relieved by other people telling her how they wanted her to feel. A depressed person is selfish because her self, the very core of who she is, will not leave her alone, and she can no more stop thinking about this self and how to escape it than a prisoner held captive by a sadistic serial killer can forget about the person who comes in to torture her everyday. Her body is brutalized by her mind. It hurts to breathe, eat, walk, think. The gross maneuverings of her limbs are so overwhelming, so wearying, that the fine muscle movements or quickness of wit necessary to write, to actually say something, are completely out of the question.

When you know you are going down and dying slowly and taken your whole family with you; that is what really scares me...

... Now I'll close my eyes with all my strength
and fly away singing my baby girl's favorite song.