Quotes About Struggle

I closed my eyes and let my enemy win.

They said I had to get fatter. I told them my goal was 080.00 and if they wanted my respect, they'd better stop lying to me. When my brain started working again, I checked their math. Someone had made a mistake because they didn't figure in the snakes in my head and the thick shadows hiding inside the cage of my ribs.

I know how bad you feel. Trapped, she says. It gets better, I promise. So much better.

My only choice was to fight my way out, even if I didn't think I would make it.

Here stands a girl clutching a knife. There is grease on the stove, blood in the air, and angry words piled in the corners.

I don't say anything and I feel awful. I tell somebody and I feel worse. I'm having trouble finding a middle ground.

Most life is spent doing things we don't want to do.

It's always there—fear—and if you don't stay on top of it, you'll drown.

You're not dead but you're not alive. You're a wintergirl.

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.

Mr. Freeman thinks I need to find my feelings. How can I not find them? They are chewing me alive like an infestation of thoughts, shame, mistakes. I squeeze my eyes shut. Jeans that fit, that's a good start. I have to stay away from the closet, go to all my classes. I will make myself normal. Forget the rest of it

thoughts hidden there? If she can, what will she do? Call the cops? Send me to the nuthouse? Do I want her to? I just want to sleep. The whole point of not talking about it, of silencing the memory, is to make it go away. It won't. I'll need brain surgery to cut it out of my head. Maybe I should wait until David Petrakis is a doctor, let him do it.

It had become easier to lie about most things because it didn't hurt as much when he ignored me.

Life was a battle, and Mother a tired and bitter captain

I'm fighting the shock of having a guest in my room. I almost kick her out because it's going to hurt too much when my room is empty again.

Picasso. He whispers like a priest. Picasso. Who saw the truth. Who painted the truth, moulded it, ripped from the earth with two angry hands.

Has she received any letters from Lockton?' The question hit me like a bucket of cold water. 'You asking me to spy again?' 'Listen,' he started, 'Our freedom-' I did not let him continue. 'You are blind. They don't want us free. They just want liberty for themselves.

Gracie's father was an engineer, her mother an accountant. I couldn't picture either one of them yelling or throwing things or having affairs. I could see my dad doing stuff like that. Trish sure did. But Dad carried a war in his skull, and Trish was a drunk. Gracie's parents didn't have anything like that to deal with, but their daughter was falling apart on the bathroom floor.

I wake up breathing dirt. I cough and spit out the pebbles in my mouth, but when I inhale again, wet clots of clay fill my lungs.

too large," the mayor said. "If it breaks free of its chains

Freedom would not be handed to us like a gift. Freedom had to be fought for and taken.

This is not our fight,' the old man said. 'British or American, that is not the choice. You must choose your own side, find your road through the valley of darkness that will lead you to the river Jordan.

When you're alive, people can hurt you. It's easier to crawl into a bone cage or snowdrift of confusion. It's easier to lock everybody out. But it's a lie.

am spinning the silk threads of my story, weaving the fabric of my world. The tiny elf dancer became a wooden doll whose strings were jerked by people not paying attention. I spun out of control. Eating was hard. Breathing was hard. Living was hardest.