Others would say to me, 'It is only temporary, it will pass, you will get over it,' but of course they had no idea how I felt, although they were certain that they did. Over and over and over I would say to myself, If I can't feel, if I can't move, if I can't think, and I can't care, then what conceivable point is there in living? ✨ Kay Redfield Jamison (2014). An Unquiet Mind: A memoir of moods and madness, p.70, Pan Macmillan

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