Quotes About Mental health

I sent a simple smiley face, because my phone did not have a smiley face that was wrapping her hands around her own throat and beating her head against a wall.

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.

The sentences build a fence around her, a Times Roman 10-point barricade, to keep the thorny voices in her head from getting too close.

She says suicide is for cowards. This is an uglynasty Momside. She bought a book about it. Tough love. Sour sugar. Barbed velvet. Silent talk. She leaves the book on the back of the toilet to educate me. She has figured out that I don't say too much. It bugs her.

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

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.

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

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.

Mr Freeman: [...] When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time. You'd be shocked at how many adults are really dead inside - walking through their days with no idea who they are, just waiting for a heart attack or cancer or a Mack truck to come along and finish the job. It's the saddest thing I know.

You'd be shocked at how many adults are already dead inside, walking around with no clue, waiting for a heart attack or cancer to finish the job. When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time. It's the saddest thing I know.

I have no idea how much I weigh. This scares me almost to death, but I'm working on it. I am beginning to measure myself in strength, not pounds. Sometimes in smiles.

We turned us into wintergirls, and when she tried to leave, I pulled her back into the snow because I was afraid to be alone

Isolate her, and however abundant the food or favourable the temperature, she will expire in a few days not of hunger or cold, but of loneliness.

There is nothing stranger than to love somebody who is mad, or who is intermittently so. The weight, the strain, the anxiety is a heavy load to bear – if only because among these confusional states and hysterias loom dreadful probabilities like suicide or murder. It shakes one's hold also on one's own grasp of reality; one realises how precariously we manage

We couldn't imagine the emptiness of a creature who put a razor to her wrists and opened her veins, the emptiness and the calm.

If you look at suicides, most of them are connected to depression. And the mental health system just fails them. It's so sad. We know what to do. We just don't do it.

I've been on Prozac for 12 years and I'm off it now. I know what it feels like to be excited and sad again. I haven't felt like this in 12 years; I'm like a giddy little kid.

I learned to practice smiling when I'm feeling sad, you know?

Very sad, very upset, very glad I did not have to hear about this though Twitter. Probably going to be taking some time off it for a while.

It's sad, actually, because my anxiety keeps me from enjoying things as much as I should at this age.

The psychiatrist's office: the only place I can be sure my story will be treated as sad, but interesting.

Well, darkness with humor... I'm not an extremely suicidal or sad person.

The whole romanticized sad clown thing, we have to get rid of that. That has to go. That's just getting sick people to voluntarily stay sicker and sadder than they have to be.