Quotes About Mental health

It is also true that developing self-esteem diminishes anxiety and depression.

It is poor self-esteem that places us in an adversarial relationship to our well-being.

When self-esteem is low, our resilience in the face of life's adversities is diminished.

The sick in mind, and, perhaps, in body, are rendered more darkly and hopelessly so by the manifold reflection of their disease, mirrored back from all quarters in the deportment of those about them; they are compelled to inhale the poison of their own breath, in infinite repetition.

a poor, deceived, and half-delirious girl, who, exclaiming that she was the most worthless thing alive or dead, attempted to cast herself into the fire amid all that wrecked and broken trumpery of the world.

The fear of not living is a deep, abiding dread of watching your own potential decompose into irredeemable disappointment when 'should be' gets crushed by what is. Sometimes I think it would be easier to die than to face that, because 'what could have been' is much more highly regarded than 'what should have been.' Dead kids are put on pedestals, but mentally ill kids get hidden under the rug.

I still can't figure out if it's bravery or cowardice to take your own life. I can't figure out whether it's being selfish, or selfless. It is the ultimate act of letting go of oneself, or a cheap act of self-possession? People say a failed attempt is a cry for help. I guess that's true if the person meant it to be unsuccessful. But then, I guess most failed attempts aren't entirely sincere, because, let's face it, if you want to off yourself, there are plenty of ways to make sure it works.

I know exactly what he means. I had overheard Poirot talking to my parents. He was using words like psychosis and schizophrenic. Words that people feel they have to whisper, or not repeat at all. The Mental-Illness-That-Must-Not-Be-Named.

You come to know the pattern of your particular chemical bombardment. The numbness, the lack of focus, the artificial sense of peace when the meds first hit your system. The growing paranoia and anxiety as they wane. The worse you feel, the more you can get into the treacherous waters of your own thoughts. The greater the threat from the inside, the more you long for those waters, as if you've grown accustomed to the terrible tentacles that seek to draw you into their crushing embrace.

This is my third time here, she confides in me. My third episode. Episode. That's what they call it. More like miniseries.

Sometimes I think it would be easier to die than to face that, because "what could have been" is much more highly regarded than "what should have been." Dead kids are put on pedestals, but mentally ill kids get hidden under the rug.

The question is, will poisoning the voices kill them, or just make them really, really pissed off?

biorÄ™ teraz cztery proszki dwa razy dziennie. Jeden, ?eby wyÅ'Ä…czy? moje myÅ›li, a drugi, ?eby wyÅ'Ä…czy? moje dziaÅ'ania. Trzeci, ?eby zapobiec skutkom ubocznym dwóch pierwszych i czwarty, ?eby ten trzeci nie czuÅ' siÄ™ samotny. Rezultat jest taki, ?e mój mózg lÄ…duje gdzieÅ› na orbicie za Saturnem, gdzie nie bÄ™dzie nikomu przeszkadzaÅ', zwÅ'aszcza mnie

Martwe dzieci stawia siÄ™ na piedestale, a te chore psychicznie zamiata pod dywan

The fear of not living is a deep, abiding dread of watching your own potential decompose into irredeemable disappointment when "should be" gets crushed by what is. Sometimes I think it would be easier to die than to face that, because "what could have been" is much more highly regarded than "what should have been." Dead kids are put on pedestals, but mentally ill kids get hidden under the rug.

I had noticed that both in the very poor and very rich extremes of society the mad were often allowed to mingle freely.

I can never drive my car over a bridge without thinking of suicide. I can never look at a lake or an ocean without thinking of suicide.

To ask them to legalize pot is something like asking them to put butter on the handcuffs before they place them on you: something else is hurting you—that's why you need pot, or whiskey, or whips and rubber suits, or screaming music turned so fucking loud you can't think. Or madhouses or mechanical cunts or 162 baseball games in a season. Or Vietnam or Israel or the fear of spiders.

I can almost understand why people leap from bridges.

I've got to decide: kill myself or love myself?

madhouses are rarely on display.

I don't know how he does it but every woman he meets is crazy. he will get rid of one crazy woman but he never gets any relief— another crazy moves right in with him. it's only after they move in and begin acting more than strange that they admit to him that they've done madhouse time or that their families have a long history of mental illness.

Lawyers, doctors, plumbers, they made all the money. Writers? Writers starved. Writers suicided. Writers went mad.

But it's only when a man gets to the point of a gun in his mouth that he can see the whole world inside of his head. Anything else is conjecture, conjecture and bullshit and pamphlets.