Depression never arrives alone. Depression brings its friends – Despair, Self-Injury, and Suicide.
You young romantics find your “soul” in the strangest places.
The very worst thing about being bipolar, depressed, or mentally ill in likely any way, is that any time you’re legitimately sad – any time you’re truly angry – and with good and clear reason, you will be told that you are only feeling as you are because of your illness.
I attempted to take my own life, a choice I sincerely regret the failure of. Now, I endure the judgment and the stigma that follows, and will continue to follow me for the rest of my days upon this earth.
I can never fight for myself, but, for others, I can kill.
I merely question the sanity of those who would criminalize, and, worse, brand as insane, the poor, the wretched, the oppressed, the persecuted, the abused, who find a death of their own choosing preferable to a life of someone else’s.
It is this, not the spirits, that frightens us; shall we never be free, even after we die?
Seeing metaphors in everything again.
Lithium isn’t for people who have bad moods. Lithium is for lifers.
Pens! I have pens!
It does seem a bit backwards to me that I must treat myself as a precious object when nobody else does.
And when I’m beheaded at least I was wedded and when I am buried at least I was married! I’ll hide my behavior with wine as my savior but oh, what beautiful things I’ll wear! What beautiful dresses and hair! I’m lucky to share his bed, especially since I’ll soon be dead.
I believe that photography could be used to inspire change. It could tell the truth, and force people to pay attention. I cannot pursue that now, Em, for people want portraits, and portraits alone, but I think that a portrait is a terribly false thing, for what shows in a portrait is little more than a mask made of all that the subject would like the viewer to believe he is.
Are you made of stardust too? Are the angels after you?
I feel as though I have a balloon filled with 4th of July sparklers that is ready to explode inside my chest I want to be a firework to live my life blindingly bright and sparkling and then to go out quickly to burn for a short time but very brightly.
They are of the same breed – our disdain is wasted upon men such as these. They thrive upon it, and our disgust is the sauce they savour it with. I will show him nothing, do what he will.
You robbed me of my life. I could have been human I could have been alive, but you took my heart and you murdered it. You made me into this.
I wonder if it is truly guilt alone that presses this heaviness upon my heart, or, perhaps, fear of any small happiness that I know cannot last. I have lost what little I ever owned, and my sole consolation in this world is that I can lose no more. Yet, by gaining a thing I am afraid to be deprived of, have I not lost this consolation? Perhaps, then, there is always more to lose no matter how little one has to begin with.
No matter how many years are left to us, there will never be enough time to fill the void that has been borne inside each of us when we were made so brutally aware of how very little we mattered to the world.
Crazy” usually implies that a false reality is being accepted by the brain as being “real”. The trouble with me is that, even in the sober light of day, I cannot say that these realities are false. To do so would only be to conform to the generally accepted version of reality that we all agree upon only to avoid looking strange. Because, even if you’re brave, looking strange is exhausting, and, despite what we tell ourselves, it hurts.