Fighting Depression Is hard when you have no real reason to fight it. Why pretend everything is fine when everything pretty much sucks?
Two days, two nights, no sleep, no food, come down off the monster, you crash real hard.
The longer we try to hold on to each other, the more it will hurt when we finally fall apart.
The problem with being grounded, is it gives you a whole lot of unavoidable time to think.
Don’t give away your power.
Yes, I believe that there is life after death. Any physicist will tell you that energy doesn’t die, it only changes forms. What makes you you, Alex? That hunk of gray matter inside your skull? No way. You- all of us- have a life force. Energy. Some people call it a soul. Whatever you call it, it makes you you. And when your body dies, your energy will remain. I can’t say for sure what heaven is. But I have faith that it’s a special place, and that you will be welcome there.
Some people blunt such pain with dope or booze or a dive into madness, but I don’t have such luxuries available to me.
On the way back, I grab a blanket from the stash above the dryer, cover Mom to warm her dreams. Turn off the TV.
I’m down to a taste a couple times a day. Keeps my head on straight. A thick stream of bubbles. Pop. Pop. Pop-pop. “Fine. Then I want to try it.” His head shakes so hard, it must rattle his brain. Don’t want you to. The bubbles become a low fizz. It makes my eyes sting. “Why not?” His eyes float up. He is crying too. Because I love you too much.
There are more imperfect diamonds than flawless stones.
Pray you could somehow stop the uncertainty, somehow stop the loathing, somehow stop the pain. Act on your impulse, swallow the bottle, cut a little deeper, put the gun to your chest.
I need to find a way to feel alive that doesn’t require someone else to make it happen.
Look. I’m not sure exactly what happened here, but you are everything to me. Even if you weren’t, you have to realize you can’t get a guy all worked up, then tell him to stop. It’s not fair.
When you’re younger, a bump in the nose and a few extra pounds don’t mean much. But now they do.
I am the voice of Violence. You know me. You do. I’ve made my presence clear though you may pretend otherwise. We need each other, you and I.
I cut to focus when my brain is racing. I cut to make physical what I feel inside. I cut to see blood because I like it. I don’t like to cut, but I can’t give it up. I.
She is silk, he is leather. She is lithe, he is brawn. She is low tide, he is high. She quivers, he quakes.
To be kissed like they do in books, some exotic setting beguiling two ordinary people, bewitching them with its subtle perfumes until, stranger inextricably linked to stranger, their lives are forever changed. I am only kissed like this in dreams.
Bipolar disorder is vicious. In her manic phases, she was the mother every kid wants – fun, loving, full of life. But when the switch flipped, she barely spoke to any of us, just hid out in her room, watching TV. She didn’t bathe. Didn’t eat. She refused her meds, preferring alcohol. No one, least of all Dad, could convince her otherwise. And then one day, she was gone.” “You mean dead.” “Yes.
In more ways than one, eyes are mirrors. What does it say about you if you can’t bring yourself to look into them?