Grooming advisory: my facial follicles have flourished from fine to fair to fuzzy to familiar to fundamentalist to full-fledged feral. I care.

The disease damages identity: all your mistakes and misdeeds and mortifications have damaged what you are or were or could have been, and you must mourn your ruined plans and potentials and aspirations and affectations and play the hand you were dealt. As my Harvard-educated pdoc put it, "It sucks." Then he told me to take more drugs.

Everybody hang in there. There is no cure, but nobody ever said that mental illness would be easy.