Quotes About Mentalhealth

normalcy? an answer to a crossword puzzle question my body bears the strain of a suicide wannabe the look in my eye turns people away humanity frightens so easily that the words bubble to the top of the lobotomized

Mostly, I avoid worrying since the time spent doing it could be spent more constructively.

Sometimes when you're fighting, fighting, fighting, the mind needs some time off and you regroup and get back to normal.

That no-hitter stuff was a long time ago; I don't think that has anything to do with it. I'm just going through a tough time.

It takes far less courage to kill yourself than it takes to wake up one more time. It is harder to stay where you are than to get out.

I think it's very, very hard not to go slightly crazy if you're in the top in politics, especially if you're there for a long time.

It's hard to be bipolar and bicoastal at the same time.

I feel really good when I haven't felt good for a long time and then suddenly I feel okay again. Nothing feels better than this.

Until we come up with an unequivocal blood test or the equivalent, we're all blowing smoke and don't know if what we call schizophrenia and bipolar disorder are one disorder or a dozen.

And if you're lucky enough to survive going crazy and get back to the point where you can pass for normal, it builds a question into the rest of your life. You have to forgive people for wondering, 'How all right can he be?

For some, especially young people, irritability is a more prominent experience than sadness in depression.

My calculations about how to stay alive and sane on this particular planet have clearly been at fault. Lots of people are plenty uglier and poorer than me without seeming to mind, without the self-hate and self-pity – the sentimentality, in a word – that makes me such a quivering condom of neurosis and ineptitude.

There is only one prospect worse than being chained to an intolerable existence: The nightmare of a botched attempt to end it.

sinir sisteminin ya da sindirim ayg?tlar?n?n hastal?kl? bir heyecan?, doÄŸuÅŸtan dyskolos'un ekmeÄŸine yaÄŸ sürerse; o zaman bu kiÅŸi, sürekli hoÅŸnutsuzluÄŸun doÄŸurduÄŸu, yaÅŸamdan b?kk?nl??a ve bunun sonucunda da intihar eÄŸiliminin ortaya ç?kt??? üst dereceye ulaÅŸabilir.

We should always be mindful of the fact that no man is ever very far from the state in which he would readily want to seize a sword or poison in order to bring his existence to an end.

Only the strong go crazy. The weak just go along.

He was raised without a proper diagnosis.

It's a wonder I'm even alive. Sometimes I think that. I think that I can't believe I haven't killed myself. But there's something in me that just keeps going on. I think it has something to do with tomorrow, that there always is one, and that everything can change when it comes.

I also thought that if anybody saw me talking out loud when I was alone in the car, their looks might convince me that the something that's wrong with me might be even worse than I thought.

And people who don't dream, who don't have any kind of imaginative life, they must… they must go nuts. I can't imagine that.

The wonder is that so many OCDs manage to live productive lives, just the same. They work, they eat (often not enough or too much, it's true), they go to the movies, they make love to their girlfriends and boyfriends, their wives and husbands... and all the time those birds are there, clinging to them and pecking away little bits of flesh.

The trouble with living alone, she had discovered-and the reason why most people she knew didn't like to be alone even for a little while-was that the longer you lived alone, the louder the voices on the right side of your brain got.

I don't mean that creative people are somehow finer, or more sensitive, and thus have finer, more sensitive nervous breakdowns - you can save that horseshit for the Sylvia Plath worshipers. It's just that creative people have creative breakdowns.

Ralph reflected for a moment on the similarities between loneliness and insomnia — how they were both insidious, cumulative, and divisive, the friends of despair and the enemies of love.