The drug I take is called schizophrenia, among other labels, which I desperately want to put away. I want to put the drug of schizophrenia down, and I want to put down the stigma surrounding its label.

Thoughts. Thoughts bombard my head, my brain. My psyche

I keep moving ahead, as always, knowing deep down inside that I am a good person and that I am worthy of a good life.

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

Love me, hate me, hurt me or kill me. I keep fighting.

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

You can’t be beaten by something you laugh at.

We all have problems, but let's not kid ourselves: it's how we deal with them that makes the difference.

What if you had such severe schizophrenia that your life was just one hallucination after another? And what if people kept trying to drag you back out of those hallucinations, to prove that you weren't living in reality and that reality was nothing more than a psych hospital? Would you go?