Seven little crazy kids chopping up sticks;One burnt her daddy up and then there were six.Six little crazy kids playing with a hive;One tattooed himself to death and then there were five.Five little crazy kids on a cellar door;One went all schizo and then there were four.Four little crazy kids going out to sea;One wouldn't say a word and then there were three.Three little crazy kids walking to the zoo;One jerked himself too much and then there were two.Two little crazy kids sitting in the sun;One a took a bunch of pills and then there was one.One little crazy kid left all alone;He went and slit his wrists, and then there were none.

I have schizophrenia. I am not schizophrenia. I am not my mental illness. My illness is a part of me.

They say I don’t exist. They say I am an extension, an indulgence, imagination of a schizophrenic person.

You’ve got to reach bedrock to become depressed enough before you are forced to accept the reality and enormity of the problem.

I am not schizoid. A little manic-depressive, maybe.''Know thyself.'' 'We try, sir.