I couldn't sleep for nights on end, as my brain felt like there were thoughts colliding within it; I obsessed over small details, from saving pennies and polishing each one of them to washing my clothing over and over in the washing machine.

In my most psychotic stages, I imagine myself chewing on sidewalks and bulging and swallowing sunlight and clouds.

My eating habits are the only behaviour of mine that are still manic. I can't walk by a restaurant, a bakery, an ice-cream store or a candy store without making a purchase; the amount of calories I take in today are at least five times as many as I took before starting on all of this medication.

In total, I was diagnosed with depression by eight psychotherapists and psychiatrists over a period of thirteen years. Diagnosed wrong. Absolutely wrong. My accurate diagnosis was manic depression, or what we call bipolar disorder today.

All the moves I've made have come after I sat down with my family and my agent and thought what was the best move. I've never rushed into something, never gone anywhere where I wasn't sure 100%.

We need to end permanently the tax that punishes American values of savings and investment and of building small businesses and family farms and ranches.

My parents took me to Sam Ash, and I got a pretty cheap setup - a MIDI keyboard and one of those cheaper mixers - but it was dope, though; it was something. That was kind of how it was: just going to school, skating back home, making music, telling my parents I did my homework.

I remember unbelievable tension in our home. There were lots of meetings, lots of worries. I remember my father told me I had to be careful of what I said on the phone because it was tapped. And I remember how his friends adored and revered him.