People don't know. We don't know ourselves so we tell ourselves what we really know is other people. We could say the depth of pain we feel for the lovers who've left us is because we knew them so wel...
In hindsight, I have no idea why he was ever with me. He thought highly of my breasts. And . . . that's it, I think.
In other words, it was a struggle with himself. And the product of that struggle: anger, bitterness, resentment, envy or transformation, aspiration, hope, decency..the product of that struggle is the...
When he kisses me, I cry. I explain it's not because I wish he were someone else, it's because it's such a shock to the system to be desired after feeling so completely abandoned.
[...] my quirks had gone beyond eccentricity, past the warm waters of weird to those cold, deep patches of sea where people lose their lives.
It took a long time, but my heart now feels full when I think of him. When you fall in love again—which I have—it's funny the other things that come back in with that open-ness. You have this ghost ch...
When I come to the end of my life when I come to the real end, at the right time, my mind may flash with random images... But I am not being hopeful about this when I say my last thoughts will be of...
There is something deeply unsettling about a child crying insincerely.
I want you to stay. I never want there to be a time when we don't share space.
Well. There is a psychiatric occurrence we see in men-not often women-where they put all their hopes and dreams onto one person, so intensely that at some point it trips a wire in the brain circuitry,...
When I come home from school, I take my Doc Martens off and put on fake satin mules with the marabou trim, slip into my dressing gown and my movie, and I feel serene. I hold a glass of Coke to my chee...
You may right now be nursing a broken heart. Friends will say, "Aren't you glad you had the experience anyway?" And you may say "No." Eventually, unbelievably, you may not remember the boy that trigge...
I envied women with signature hair-dos, signature perfumes, signature sign-offs. Novelists who tell Vogue Magazine: I can’t live without my Smythson notebook, Pomegranate Noir cologne by Jo Malone and...
We all perform. It's what we do for each other all the time, deliberately or unintentionally. It's a way of telling about ourselves in the hope of being recognized as what we'd like to be.
What people don't understand when you've already been a suicide and pulled through is that after the sadness comes fear: Where is my mind going with this? I don't want to die. I do not want to die. Wh...
My radar, after all these years of sanity, is still off when it comes to what people do or don't mean.
And if you don’t know who you are, or if your real self has drifted away from you with the undertow, madness at least gives you an identity.
Funny. The blazer, skirt and tie become automatically sexy the minute you leave school when you're eighteen or nineteen and pull it out for fancy-dress parties. But whilst you're still there, stewing...
You want to know, but are afraid to ask, whether or not I found someone. If there could be anyone to fill that hole in my heart after I lost him. I did. Life is futile, says my new therapist, Michaela...
And then, with the feather-green darkness pressed against the windows, he puts his filthy fingers on my scrubbed hope face and says, If I kiss you, it's all over. And then he does. And then it is.
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