It's toughest to forgive ourselves. So it's probably best to start with other people. It's almost like peeling an onion. Layer by layer, forgiving others, you really do get to the point where you can forgive yourself.
I'm going to be 58, and I'm a woman. In this business, that seems to be a bigger crime than being mentally ill.
I'm living out a childhood fantasy. Our house is in a historic district of a small town that I used to read about in storybooks.
I'm not sure I want all my neuroses cleared up.
If I have any message for others, it is to go for help early and not to be a resistant patient.
I've come to believe that whoever I am didn't start on December 14, 1946, and isn't going to end on whatever that mysterious date is in the future.
Reality is hard. It is no walk in the park, this thing called Life.
No matter what your laundry list of requirements in choosing a mate, there has to be an element of good luck and good fortune and good timing.
The mania started with insomnia and not eating and being driven, driven to find an apartment, driven to see everybody, driven to do New York, driven to never shut up.
The Eleanor Roosevelt Award that I received for women's rights activities is one I treasure.
The doctors must tell you that one of the risks of surgery is that you might die. This poor doctor was talking to an actress. It was very dramatic to me. To him, it was just a thing he had to say.
My recovery from manic depression has been an evolution, not a sudden miracle.
The panic attacks - I still have them. They started when I was around 8. They always have to do with my death.
We have developed this unbelievable ability to deny. We have to. If we didn't, we'd go crazy.
When I don't know what the music is going to be for a scene, I imagine some sort of orchestration going on and damned if they don't usually come up with a similar kind of thing.