Quotes from Elizabeth Wurtzel

He seemed a fool-everyone who didn't feel like me seems a fool.

I tried to remind myself that Rafe was not the problem. The problem, as Dr. Sterling explained it to me and as I myself knew, was that I was fucked up. Rafe was merely a makeshift solution I'd come up with, a pill I took to make the bad feelings go away. But now that he was not cooperating so well, now that he was refusing to be used this way, now that he was insisting that he wanted to be my boyfriend and not my panacea, he was no longer part of the solution. He was part of the problem.

Those days that I tried to be the little girl I was supposed to be drained me. I went home at night and cried for hours because so many people in my life expecting me to be a certain way was too much pressure, as if I'd been held against a wall and interrogated for hours, asked questions I couldn't quite answer any longer.

Money, or the lack of it, pervaded the house as only something that is absent can

I was scared of the way I felt as I ran away, knowing that if I stopped, I might have to confront the reason I was always running - and I'd have to admit that there was no reason. Run, run, run. Was it toward something or away from something else?

I was the only person going to a prostitute in search of true love. But somehow, no matter how often I was disappointed, I was always game for the next round, like a drug addict hoping that a new fix will give him a rush as good as the first one. Only I'd never even had the initial euphoria that makes a junkie keep coming back for more. I always sought solace in places where I knew, I didn't belong.

Years later, thinking about this conversation, I will remember, as somebody very sagely said during the patricide trials of the Menendez brothers: Anytime your kids kill you, you are at least partly to blame .

I had tried so hard for so many years to turn all my despair into sexual abandon, I wanted so much to stop being me and start being someone else's toy, but I didn't have it in me.

All the backpedaling and backstepping that goes on with powerful women today, with Hillary Clinton saying she could have stayed home and baked cookies and blah blah blah, and then offending everybody so that she had to say that she does, in fact, *love* to make cookies, loves it almost as much as she likes to trade agricultural futures. I mean, what is that about? All this I'm really a lady, I'm really a nice girl crap- who needs it? It really is nothing more than surrender.

At long last, I had found myself vulnerable to the worst of New York City, because at 44 my life was not so different from the way it was at 24.

Sometimes I wish there were a way to let people know that just because I live in a world without rules, and in a life that is lawless, doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt so bad the morning after.

Negaliu pak?sti minties, kad asmenyb?s raid? ir vis? individuali? savybi? rinkin? galima paaiškinti paprastai tokie buvo laikai.

Okay so enough about me..now what do you think about me?

Tolstoy is frequently quoted as saying something about how all happy families are the same. but unhappy families are all unhappy in different ways. Of course he's got it totally wrong, completely ass-backward. Happiness is infinite in its variety, and happy people, happy families, can find their joy in so many different ways.... And all the unhappy families are all pretty much the same. All types of misery are identical at the core...

I don't much like my life, but for some dumb reason, I want to be alive, because sooner or later, I figure it will work out.

The whole offensive culture of dieting seems invented as yet another way to make women smaller and weaker - to make us become less, quite literally. The starving self symbolizes a diminishing person, and really we ought to strive to be more, to have more strength and muscle and inner resolve - which is what we get from working out or playing a sport, and what we lose when we live in hunger.

Story of my life: I am so self-destructive, I turn solutions into problems. Everything I touch, I ruin. I'm Midas in reverse.

Depression gave me extreme perspicacity; rather than skin, it was as if I had only thin gauze bandages to shield me from everything I saw.

My mom feared the outside world and my dad feared me and my mom; we lived in a paranoid household in which everyone defined his own enemies and pretty soon everyone was implicated.

Most people, using everything they have in real life, cannot take hold of you the way a talented writer can without even being there. Talent is the ability to mesmerize people when you are nowhere near. Talent is the ability to make something that is more stunning than human presence.

I can remember neing in high school, walking through Central Park on a chilly day, and the sound of stamping on the crispness of autumn leaves would make me think of the sensation of my head cracking open. And I would get really scared and run all the way home, running for cover.

Whether the emotion is true or truly wished for, anytime anything resembling love comes my way, it makes a fool of me. It

I was scared of the way I felt when I ran away, knowing that if I stopped, I might have to confront the reason why I was always running - and I'd have to admit that there was no reason. Run, run, run. Was it toward something or away from something else? The senselessness of this display was too upsetting and contemplate.

I know I want out of this mess. I want out. No one will ever love me, I will live and die alone, I will go nowhere fast, I will be nothing at all. Nothing will work out. The promise that on the other side of depression lies a beautiful life, one worth surviving suicide for, will have turned out wrong. It will all be a big dupe.