The great folly of the depressed is pride. Great amounts of pride. How many of us would rather die than ask for help? How many of us would never admit that we have no control over our feeling, over the blade against our skin, over the strain we put our bodies and soul through? I know for certain that I would rather gauge my own eyes out with a rusty spoon than go to my mother and tell her no success makes me happy and that I am one hell of a depressed girl. Please tell me about how your pride prevents you from healing or if you are the fortunate ones who know when pride becomes fatal.