“I went grey at 12, my eyesight went at 17. I've been a crock from very early on.” — Marian Keyes

I know of people who don't believe it, but depression is an illness, but unlike, say, a broken leg, you don't know when it'll get better.

Here's how it is: I feel guilty about every single bite of food that goes into my mouth.

Bizarrely, I actually feel safer the older I get, like people will expect less from me, and I can become more and more invisible, yet more and more eccentric.

Love is an emotion. It can't be seen or touched, and it is experienced differently by everyone, therefore it is difficult to measure.