She wondered that hope was so much harder then despair.
I open up a paper clip and scratch it across the inside of my left wrist. Pitiful. If a suicide attempt is a cry for help, then what is this? A whimper, a peep? I draw little windowcracks of blood, etching line after line until it stops hurting. It looks like I arm-wrestled a rosebush.
I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind. Did he rape my head, too?
I am not crying now. I am not anything.
Some people are just not meant to be in this world. It’s just too much for them.
In her month and a half of turbulent motherhood, Bebe did not once seek help from a psychologist or a doctor... she had no idea where to turn... She did not know how to find the social workers who might have helped her... she did not know how to file for welfare.
Because wherever I sat – on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok – I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
If at least I had solved my problems! Oh, I had not settled one of them, and how many they were! But I gave up caring about anything, and all the problems disappeared.
Brighter days are coming. Clearer sight will arrive. And you will arrive too. No, it might not be forever. These bright moments might be for a few days at a time, but hold on for those days. Those days are worth the dark.
I used to fell a lot of guilt about having depression but then I realised that’s a lot like feeling guilty for having brown hair.
Why do you want to shut out of your life any uneasiness, any misery, any depression, since after all you don’t know what work these conditions are doing inside you?
It’s brilliant, being depressed; you can behave as badly as you like.