Asylum For Wayward Victorian Girls Quotes

It gives me strength to have somebody to fight for; I can never fight for myself, but, for others, I can kill.

You," he said, "are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world, and that, I believe, is why you are in so much pain.

I only sleep with people I love, which is why I have insomnia.

Nothing in my life has ever made me want to commit suicide more than people's reaction to my trying to commit suicide.

It is not seen as insane when a fighter, under an attack that will inevitable lead to his death, chooses to take his own life first. In fact, this act has been encouraged for centuries, and is accepted even now as an honorable reason to do the deed. How is it any different when you are under attack by your own mind?

Perfume was first created to mask the stench of foul and offensive odors... Spices and bold flavorings were created to mask the taste of putrid and rotting meat... What then was music created for? Was it to drown out the voices of others, or the voices within ourselves? I think I know.

I am my heart’s undertaker. Daily I go and retrieve its tattered remains, place them delicately into its little coffin, and bury it in the depths of my memory, only to have to do it all again tomorrow.

What's the big fucking deal? Lots of amazing people have committed suicide, and they turned out alright.

I cut myself because you wouldn't let me cry. I cried because you wouldn't let me speak. I spoke because you wouldn't let me shine. I shone because I thought you loved me...

Some are born mad, some achieve madness, and some have madness thrust upon 'em.

I myself am not afraid of ghosts; I am afraid of people.

History written in pencil is easily erased, but crayon is forever.

I'm not stupid. I know exactly what's going on, and I'm not fighting it. If I have to go through this, I will glean from it any small benefit I can receive. I will not fight this. Bring it on. Bring on the cure. Bring on the fucking happy. I'm committed.

If leeches ate peaches instead of my blood, then I would be free to drink tea in the mud!

And, what's more, this 'precious' body, the very same that is hooted and honked at, demeaned both in daily life as well as in ever existing form of media, harrassed, molested, raped, and, if all that wasn't enough, is forever poked and prodded and weighed and constantly wrong for eating too much, eating too little, a million details which all point to the solitary girl, to EVERY solitary girl, and say: Destroy yourself.

I can explain myself: If you want to be safe, walk in the middle of the street. I’m not joking. You’ve been told to look both ways before crossing the street, and the sidewalk is your friend, right? Wrong. I’ve spent years walking sidewalks at night. I’ve looked around me when it was dark, when there were men following me, creeping out of alleyways, attempting to goad me into speaking to them and shouting obscenities at me when I wouldn’t, and I suddenly realised that the only place left to go was the middle of street. But why would I risk it? Because the odds are in my favour. In the States, someone is killed in a car accident on average every 12.5 minutes, while someone is raped on average every 2.5 minutes. Even when factoring in that, one, I am generously including ALL car-related accidents and not just those involving accidents, and two, that the vast majorities of rapes still go unreported […] And, thus, this is now the way I live my life: out in the open, in the middle of everything, because the middle of the street is actually the safest place to walk.

There is no suggestion box in the Psych Ward.

Is it my relative sanity that makes my life here so painful, so desperate, so hopeless? Loosen my grip on that, and perhaps life both in the asylum and out becomes much easier...

I feel as though, if I were to extend my hand just a little toward the pool where the ideas ferment, I could grab at the idea and pull it out of the pool and onto the floor where ideas must stand before the jury of the brain. There, it must present itself, still from the pool, and a bit shivery because new ideas are not given a towel to dry off with, towels being reserved for proven theories; new ideas are simply pulled and stood up, and asked to explain themselves - not a very pleasant thing really, which is why so many people go into the room where the pool is. The exercise is exhausting not to mention a bit difficult to watch, if you are at all a sympathetic creature. What was my idea, anyways?

If you want to be safe, walk in the middle of the street.

We are machines, all of us... And what does a machine do when too much is assigned to it? When too much coal, too much ink, too much information is forced violently through its channels? Why, it stutters, it chokes, finally, it shuts down. Where do they put the broken machines? There is only one place.

Revenge itself may indeed be the best revenge, but slaying one's enemy does not give back what they stole.

Sometimes I don’t eat for days simply because I want a proper excuse to feel as empty inside as I do. Untreated,

You young romantics find your "soul" in the strangest places.

Seeing metaphors in everything again.

The very worst thing about being bipolar, depressed, or mentally ill in likely any way, is that any time you’re legitimately sad—any time you’re truly angry—and with good and clear reason, you will be told that you are only feeling as you are because of your illness.

I attempted to take my own life, a choice I sincerely regret the failure of. Now, I endure the judgment and the stigma that follows, and will continue to follow me for the rest of my days upon this earth.

It does seem a bit backwards to me that I must treat myself as a precious object when nobody else does.

I merely question the sanity of those who would criminalize, and, worse, brand as insane, the poor, the wretched, the oppressed, the persecuted, the abused, who find a death of their own choosing preferable to a life of someone else’s.

It is this, not the spirits, that frightens us; shall we never be free, even after we die?

You robbed me of my life. I could have been human I could have been alive, but you took my heart and you murdered it. You made me into this.

The funny thing about mental hospitals is that they strip away any remaining reason you have to live, but deny you the means to do anything about it. It is fascinating to me that a suicide attempt, by default, legally lands you into the asylum, the psych ward, the loony bin, the nut house—call it what you will, it’s all the same. Perhaps you are crazy, perhaps you are not, but I do not believe that, in itself alone, attempting suicide proves anything at all about your mental state, save that, upon weighing the merits of living and dying, you found that one outweighed the other. Is this crazy? I see nothing insane about it at all. Socially unacceptable to be sure, but not mad.

You,’ he said, ‘are a terribly real thing in a terribly false world, and that, I believe, is why you are in so much pain.

Depression never arrives alone. Depression brings its friends—Despair, Self-Injury, and Suicide.

whilst women may indeed have evolved from monkeys, men have not evolved at all.

Lithium isn’t for people who have bad moods. Lithium is for lifers.

Pens! I have pens!

They are of the same breed—our disdain is wasted upon men such as these. They thrive upon it, and our disgust is the sauce they savour it with. I will show him nothing, do what he will.

I believe that photography could be used to inspire change. It could tell the truth, and force people to pay attention. I cannot pursue that now, Em, for people want portraits, and portraits alone, but I think that a portrait is a terribly false thing, for what shows in a portrait is little more than a mask made of all that the subject would like the viewer to believe he is.

There is a phenomenon that occurs in the minds of many manic depressives when entering into either a manic or a depressive state that nobody claims to understand, but that bipolars from the far corners of the world can attest to: the consistent waking up at four o’clock in the morning. And when I say four o’clock, I mean four o’clock on the fucking dot. How many times have I given myself chills, waking up yet again after only two hours of sleep and looking over at the blinking red of a digital alarm clock only to see that number staring back at me? I’ve lost count. And the thing is, you don’t just wake up. You wake up with your mind racing, music churning over and over inside your head, the internal noise, words, pictures, absolutely unbearable, and it is absolutely impossible to go back to sleep.

No matter how many years are left to us, there will never be enough time to fill the void that has been borne inside each of us when we were made so brutally aware of how very little we mattered to the world.

I wonder if it is truly guilt alone that presses this heaviness upon my heart, or, perhaps, fear of any small happiness that I know cannot last. I have lost what little I ever owned, and my sole consolation in this world is that I can lose no more. Yet, by gaining a thing I am afraid to be deprived of, have I not lost this consolation? Perhaps, then, there is always more to lose no matter how little one has to begin with.

The S.S.S. is a small and secret consortium consisting of the inmates of intellect, and existing solely for the purpose of keeping each other alive, for we all know that once we lose our wits we will begin to die.

I feel as though I have a balloon filled with 4th of July sparklers that is ready to explode inside my chest I want to be a firework to live my life blindingly bright and sparkling and then to go out quickly to burn for a short time but very brightly

Crazy" usually implies that a false reality is being accepted by the brain as being "real". The trouble with me is that, even in the sober light of day, I cannot say that these realities are false. To do so would only be to conform to the generally accepted version of reality that we all agree upon only to avoid looking strange. Because, even if you're brave, looking strange is exhausting, and, despite what we tell ourselves, it hurts.

Do not think that I am recommending suicide as a course of action for anyone. In fact, I am not recommending anything at all, nor am I discouraging anything at all. I am simply telling a story - my story, and this includes my opinions and observations, which I feel I have a right to. I am neither a role model nor a teacher. I am honest.

You robbed me of my life. I could have been human – I could have been alive, but you took my heart and you murdered it. You made me into this.

you do, but civilized society does not think so, and where is the power?

then!

as she

know

There

in their

we line up

over me,

I’m smiling.

all

will

PRESENTING PROBLEM,

I ended

I will not cry.

Sharpie!

EVERYONE KNOWS

Marry Me

rat

GET AWAY!!!

she

if I promise

string

a

and when I looked out,

rats

Emily (with a ‘y’)

red curls