You wake up one morning and there it is, sitting in an old plaid bathrobe in your kitchen, unpleasant and unshaved. You look at it, heart sinking. Madness is a rotten guest.
The reading of all good books is like a conversation with the finest minds of past centuries.
Divide each difficulty into as many parts as is feasible and necessary to resolve it.
When you deal with nonfiction you deal with human characters.
We know we need, and so we acquire and eat and eat, past the point of bodily fullness, trying to sate a greater need. Ashamed of this, we turn skeletons into goddesses and look to them as if they might teach us how to not-need.
Anorexia and bulimia seem to be getting much more common in boys, men, and women of all ages and socioeconomic backgrounds; they are also becoming more common in racial groups previously thought to be impervious to the problem.
Having a normal person around me made it poingnantly clear to me that I was out of control.
You can only whine for so long. Then you need to get your life back.
After a lifetime of silence, it is difficult then to speak.
All of us have theories about the world and about ourselves. We will go to great lengths to prove ourselves right because it keeps the world in our head coherent and understandable.
But new love only lasts so long, and then you crash back into the real people you are, and from as high as we were, it's a very long fall, and we hit the ground with a thud.
The biggest fear of my life is living. My second biggest fear is dying.
Madness strips you of memory and leaves you scrabbling around on the floor of your brain for the snatches and snippets of what happened, what was said, and when.
And yet you are all that you have, so you must be enough. There is no other way.
I know how this feels: the tightening of the chest, the panic, the what-have-I-done-wait-I-was-kidding. Eating disorders linger so long undetected, eroding the body in silence, and then they strike. The secret is out. You're dying.
I wish I could find words to explain what this kind of cold is like- the cold that has somehow gotten in underneath your skin and is getting colder and colder inside you.
...painfully curious...about how it feels to fall.
We turn skeletons into goddesses and look to them as if they might teach us how not to need.
The anoretic operates under the astounding illusion that she can escape the flesh, and, by association, the realm of emotions.