Quotes About Struggle

And that leaves you with an interesting choice... Do you sacrifice you own happiness and feelings of peace in order to have this relationship, or do you start to get well and choose a real life...?

Still, for all the therapy I had, none of it ever really fixed that feeling of torn-apartness inside of me. I learned how to express myself, that was all. And, for whatever reason, identifying the root cause of my problem - like fear of abandonment or something - didn't change a goddamn thing. I could see quite clearly why I acted a certain way, but that wouldn't make me any different. I sought out craziness. I was attracted to it. No therapy could take that away.

I buried it and buried it and turned away from everything light and sweet and delicate and lovely and became so scared and scarred and burdened and fucked up. But that goodness is there, inside---it must be. "Every day, in every way, It's getting better and better…" I let those words fall, wanting---wanting so bad to believe them.

I only wish that when I was younger I could've understood what alcoholism really is—a genetic mutation, a mental illness, and a lifelong battle. Maybe then I would've been able to recognize the signs of my own budding alcoholism before my whole life was taken over.

They say suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Well, the problem of being human isn't really so temporary and sometimes a permanent solution seems like the best possible way out.

Nothing about me ever seemed good enough. And there was this sadness inside me - this hopelessness. Focusing on my physical appearance was at least easier than trying to address the internal shit. I could control the external - at least, to a point. I could buy different clothes, or cut my hair, or whatever. The pit opening up inside me was too frightening to even look at.

I want to be good, do good, be a worker among workers, a friend among friends. But there's also this part of me that is so dissatisfied with everything. If I'm not living on the verge of death, I feel like I'm not really living.

It was that simple. I just forgot for a second how bad things had been. A disease of amnesia, right?

I felt like everyone else had gotten this instruction manual that explained life to them, but somehow I'd just missed it. They all seemed to know exactly what they were doing while I didn't have a clue. That is, until I found drugs and alcohol. Then it was like my world suddenly went from black-and-white to Technicolor.

I don't know. I mean, what else is there to do? People might say I'm wasting my life, but it's all relative. If I was a lawyer, I'd go to fucking law school--but I'm not. I'm a drug addict and so what do I do? Use right? Use until the wheels fall off

Having to be sober was like being a forty-year-old trapped in a young adult's body. How could I relate to any of my peers? It was like I'd come from a totally different planet.

Cuesta bastante trabajo creer En un dios que deja a sus creaturas Abandonadas a su propia suerte A merced de las olas de la vejez Y de las enfermedades Para no decir nada de la muerte.

It made me realize how unimaginative I had always been about battered wives. Disaster creeps up, a tidal wave on the tourist beach. By the time you can see it, you are powerless or unable to resist it and it rolls you up and away.

Depression is a grim and blinding curse: you can't see outside it. You can't see hope, or love, or how spring will follow winter.

She wanted to walk until her body and mind were exhausted. Her snug house felt like a distant goal, a place she had to achieve through enormous physical effort.

What people discover about themselves during therapy may not lead to peace or to happiness. Indeed, it often doesn't. But it can lead to the possibility of turning what is unbearable into what is bearable, of taking responsibility for yourself and having a degree of control over your own life.

Sometimes it seemed that half the people around her were in states of collapse.

Making a shape out of mess, as Jack put it; the instinct in us all, something deeply human and fearful. Glancing

I hate the truth!" "You don't need to like it. It's something we live with, like water or light.

the public knew, he thought, his feet in their heavy boots sliding among the syringes, if they knew how some people lived and how they died.

To want to die rather than be dependent and helpless; to try to kill the person you love the most because their future seems mere torment: what does this say about our culture?

During dementia's end-game, a person goes to a place where we cannot follow them and can barely guess at. The bursts of lucidity that those with catastrophic memory loss can sometimes have are like bright, sharp flashes of lightning over a blasted landscape.

The people resemble a wild beast, which, naturally fierce and accustomed to live in the woods, has been brought up, as it were, in a prison and in servitude, and having by accident got its liberty, not being accustomed to search for its food, and not knowing where to conceal itself, easily becomes the prey of the first who seeks to incarcerate it again.

The fact is that a man who wants to act virtuously in every way necessarily comes to grief among so many who are not virtuous.