I closed my eyes and abandoned myself to my grief. It felt better, somehow, to be helpless. I didn't feel ashamed.

Thoughts race, as if, in a mind devoid of memory, each idea has too much space to grow and move, to collide with others in a shower of sparks before spinning off into its own distance.

I feel like he's taking advantage of me. Advantage of my illness. He thinks he can rewrite history in any way that he likes and I will never know, never be any the wiser. But I do know. I know exactly what he's doing. And so I don’t trust him. In the end he is pushing me away, Dr. Nash. Ruining everything.

There were never going to be any happy endings for me. I know that now. But that is all right.

It's so difficult, isn't it? To see what's going on when you're in the absolute middle of something? It's only with hindsight we can see things for what they are.

Work. Write. Read. Keep putting words on the page, because that's the only way you'll get better.

Is it possible to both want and not want something at the same time? For desire to ride with fear?

I am an adult, but a damaged one.

With him everything is a test, affection is measured, that given weighed against that which has been received, and the balance, more often than not, disappointing him.

There are memories I a better off without. Things better lost forever.

I will never abandon you. I love you too much.

I want him to be happy. And I want you to be happy, too. Even if you can only find that happiness without me.

I cannot imagine how I will cope when I discover that my life is behind me, has already happened, and I have nothing to show for it. No treasure house of collection, no wealth of experience, no accumulated wisdom to pass on. What are we, if not an accumulation of our memories?

Do you trust me? The question is usually asked before an admission that such trust is misplaced.