"...if you were to find a shattered mirror, find all the pieces, all the shards and all the tiny chips, and have whatever skill and patience it took to put all that broken glass back together so that it was complete once again, the restored image would still be spiderwebbed with cracks, it would still be a useless glued version of its former self, which could show only fragmented reflections of anyone looking into it. Some things are beyond repair. And that was me."

That passage was one highlight from "Prozac Nation" by Elizabeth Wurtzel, which I read recently. I was in one of my not drinking phases, which are very hard work and never seem to last (he says, savouring a beer, hmmmmm). A common theme was the running, running, running. Always running away from something. It reminds me of her. Is it (was it?) the first sign of madness?

"Yet so many depressives suffer in silence, without anyone knowing, their plight somehow invisible until they adopt the antics of madness which are impossible to ignore."