The only secrets we have — the only real secrets — are those that we keep from ourselves. We are curious animals in that we are very aware of our own selves, but I think there is much below the surface of our "I am" than we imagine there to be, or want to believe there is. In madness, I found, this protective barrier breaks down; at least this is what I perceived that happened: that in madness, I met the me I never wanted to realize was there, saw those corners of my personality where light had never shone, was let in on those secrets of myself I never imagined I had. There may be a reason some of these things about ourselves we never let us in on them, some things exist that we are not meant to know. These secrets of myself I was let in on, these groping urges in the darkest wells of me: these parts which always hid in shadow, when light was cast upon them, they flinched back out of sight, denying even to themselves that they were.
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