Quotes About Struggle

I can't stop biting my lips. It looks like my mouth belongs to someone else, someone else, someone I don't even know.

Mom closes her eyes. Her skin is a flat gray color, like underwear that has been washed so many times it's about to fall apart. I feel bad that I didn't fold more shirts for her.

It's amazing any thing survives.

I used to dream about bringing a knife to therapy and slicing her into pork chop-sized pieces.

I can't believe we have to keep playacting until I graduate. It's a shame we can't just admit that we have failed family living, sell the house, split up the money, and get on with our lives.

Let me ask you something. We're fighting for freedom, right?" I picked my words carefully. "So why is that man allowed to own Baumfree and Bett?" "Well," he said slowly, "we're fighting for our freedom. Not theirs.

I was the reason she didn't run away freshman year. I was the reason she didn't eat a bottle of sleeping pills when her boyfriend cheated on her. I listened for hours when her parents yelled and tried to stuff her into a mannequin shell that didn't fit. I understood what triggered her earthquakes, most of them.

Home was still hellish, afire with the painful realization that no matter how much I loved my parents my love could not fix them

I didn't speak up when that boy raped me, instead I scalded myself in the shower and turned me into the ghost of the girl I once was, my biggest fear being that my father, no stranger to gaming with the devil, would kill that boy and it would be my fault.

Sono lo spazio tra le mie cosce e la luce che ci passa attraverso. Sono il topo di biblioteca che si rifugia nei romanzi fantasy. Sono il freak del circo, intrappolato nella cera d'api. Sono le ossa che vogliono, racchiuse in una cornice di porcellana.

They only want to hear that you're healing, you're in recovery, taking it one day at a time. If you're locked into sick, you should stop wasting their time and just get dead

The box opens and the razors slide out, whisper sweet. Used to be that my whole body was my canvas-hot cuts licking my ribs, ladder rungs climbing my arms, thick milkweed stalks shooting up my thighs.

On the morning of my Born Day, I thought my problems were over. That I'd grown from Changeling to Amazon. That I was ready to be a warrior. Instead, I lost everything. Everyone. I lost myself, too.

This camp is a forge for the army; it's testing our mettle. Instead of heat and hammer, our trials are cold and hunger. Question is, what are we made of?" The

Listen to the whispers that curl into your head at night, calling you ugly and fat and stupid and bitch and whore and worst of all a disappointment. Puke and starve and cut and drink because you don't want to feel any of this. Puke and starve and cut and drink because you need an anesthetic and it works. For a while. But then the anesthetic turns into poison and by then it's too late because you are mainlining it now, straight into your soul. It is rotting you and you can't stop.

There is a beast in my gut, I can hear it scraping away at the inside of my ribs.

I know my head isn't screwed on straight. I want to leave, transfer, warp myself to another galaxy. I want to confess everything, hand over the guilt and mistake and anger to someone else. There is a beast in my gut, I can hear it scraping away at the inside of my ribs. Even if I dump the memory, it will stay with me, staining me.

I am trapped with Andy Evans.

S for silent, for stupid, for scared. S for silly. For shame.

If I weren't so tired, I'd shove trust and issue down the garbage disposal and let it run all day.

Every single day, someone asks Mr. Stetman why we have to learn algebra. You can tell this causes him great personal pain. Mr. Stetman loves algebra. He is poetic about it, in an integral-number sort of way. He talks about algebra the way some guys talk about their cars. Ask him why algebra and he launches into a thousand and one stories why algebra. None of them makes sense.

Non riesco a fermarmi, ma non posso andare avanti.

I am spinning the silk threads of my story, weaving the fabric of my world. They 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.

slowly I can't stand this bled into I can't stay here trickled through I should leave swelled into I want to leave rose into a tidal wave of I'm going