Holding A Meds Quotes

Det ved jeg, at til ægteskabet hører barnet også, og barnet skal I lade i fred. Hedvig får I værs'go holde udenfor. Hende skal I fare varsomt med, siger jeg, for ellers kan I komme til at gøre en ulykke på hende.

Ved kvældsmaten skulde familjen ha en dram, det var gammel takst, og Rinaldus var den som skulde skjænke i glassene. Det var ham et høitidelig øieblik han skulde holde karaflen med de store malte roser i sine små hænder. Alles øine vogtet på ham... Maten var den reneste fremmedmat, det var både lefse og sirup og et ægg til hver. Man kunde se at det var jul, for det var atpå kjøpet smør til lefserne. (Jul i Åsen, Stridende liv)

Når du allerede fra fødslen stemples, fordi du kun er en pige; når du fødes med mærkaterne skyld og skam præget ind i huden, fordi du kun er en pige; når dit vilkår som menneske er, at du aldrig vil være god nok, fordi du ikke er født som dreng – så har du kun tre veje, du kan vælge gennem livet: Du kan forsøge at holde ud, dræbe din stemme og gennemleve volden og undertrykkelsen som en tavs eksistens bag dit slør. Du kan dø for din egen hånd eller en mands. Eller du kan forsøge at bryde fri, selvom det koster dig alt. Måske endda livet.

Det måtte gjøres med makt å holde hende tilbake, å sætte hende ned, kysse hende. Det var forresten ikke vanskelig, hun var liten og rund og ikke så værst urimelig, tilslut hjalp hun til.

When I was a med student, the first patient I met with this sort of problem was a sixty-two-year-old man with a brain tumor. We strolled into his room on morning rounds, and the resident asked him, “Mr. Michaels, how are you feeling today?” “Four six one eight nineteen!” he replied, somewhat affably. The tumor had interrupted his speech circuitry, so he could speak only in streams of numbers, but he still had prosody, he could still emote: smile, scowl, sigh. He recited another series of numbers, this time with urgency. There was something he wanted to tell us, but the digits could communicate nothing other than his fear and fury. The team prepared to leave the room; for some reason, I lingered. “Fourteen one two eight,” he pleaded with me, holding my hand. “Fourteen one two eight.” “I’m sorry.” “Fourteen one two eight,” he said mournfully, staring into my eyes. And then I left to catch up to the team. He died a few months later, buried with whatever message he had for the world.

It was the cruelest thing about bipolar disorder, I thought; there was never one thing that worked forever. No one med, no one dose, no one routine. My mom said it was like walking on a rope bridge, where every step was slightly different from the last and sometimes you had to stop and just hold on until you could find your balance again. But she also liked to remind me that sometimes the views from her bridge were incredible too.

Vi er ikke annet enn tønner fulle av varme, halvråtne innvoller, og derfor har vi alltid vanskeligheter med følelsene våre. Å være forelsket er ingen kunst. Kunsten består i å unngå å gå i oppløsning. En lort har ingen ambisjoner i retning av å vokse og holde seg levende. På dette punktet er vi langt uheldigere stillet enn våre eksrementer. Ved å tviholde så frenetisk på kravet om å bestå i vår nåværende tilstand, utsetter vi oss selv for de utroligste pinsler.

Han gikk og gikk, men ikke noe hendte, skjønt det var fullt av folk på alle hold. Og knøttet møtte ingen som han kjente, for knøttet var et meget ensomt lite troll, og altfor sky og blyg til å si : Hei! Kan jeg få snakke litt med deg?

Mickey D’s, Mickey D’s!” Jason chanted. He was bouncing up and down in his seat. The gravely competent professional who had taken Mr. Galen’s vitals (Rob right beside him, holding the First In Bag with its airway management gear and cardiac meds) had disappeared. With his blond hair flopping in his eyes, Jason looked like

Et av mine yndlingssteder i palasset var det kjempestore biblioteket som inneholdt uvurderlige førsteutgaver skrevet av berømte forfattere verden over. Glasskapene der bøkene sto, var alltid låst, de var bare en imponerende prydgjenstand, enda en utsmykning, og jeg tvilte på at noen av bøkene noen gang var blitt tatt ned og lest i løpet av alle de årene de hadde stått der. Jeg pleide ofte å granske hyllene der, og fingrene mine klødde etter å ta frem en bok og holde i den. Jeg måtte nøye meg med de medtatte eksemplarene av Stormfulle høyder, Oliver Twist og Shakespeares Hamlet som den engelske privatlæreren hadde hatt med seg fra England. Gjennom de lange, fredelige ettermiddagene leste jeg dem om og om igjen.

Hendes mor er alene hjemme og rydder op i en mappe. Det er den store mappe med papirer, der ligger nederst i stueskabet. Hun trækker den ud på gulvtæppet, sidder på knæ ved siden af. Himlen er meget mørk over Acacia, men hun vil holde op med at give himlen så meget opmærksomhed. Hun er i nattøj, det huer hende ikke. En sky ligner et vandfald. Hænderne ligger i skødet med håndfladerne opad, den ene fod sover. Hun er stærk tilhænger af skråskrift. Hun ser nu, at gulvtæppet har en næsten usynlig sti fra gang til køkken, lyset falder anderledes i luven. Denne sti får hende til at smile, hun fører en hånd op til sin kind.

Then the events leading up to her collapse came back to her in a flash. Her hands flew automatically to her belly and she was only partially reassured to feel the tight ball there. Was her baby okay? Was she herself okay? She blinked harder to bring the room more into focus. There was light shining through a crack in the bathroom door. A glance at the blinds told her that it was dark outside. Then her gaze fell on the chair beside her bed and she found Ryan staring at her, his gaze intense. She flinched away from the raw emotion shining in his blue eyes. “Hey,” he said quietly. “How are you feeling?” “Numb,” she answered before she could think better of it. “Kind of blank. My head doesn’t hurt anymore. Are my feet still swollen?” He carefully picked up the sheet and pushed it over her feet. “Maybe a little. Not as bad as they were. They’ve been giving you meds and they’re monitoring the baby.” “How is she?” Kelly asked, a knot of fear in her throat. “For now, she’s doing fine. Your blood pressure stabilized, but they might have to do a C-section if it goes back up or if the baby starts showing signs of distress.” Kelly closed her eyes and then suddenly Ryan was close to her, holding her, his lips pressed against her temple. “Don’t worry, love,” he murmured. “You’re supposed to stay calm. You’re getting the best possible care. I’ve made sure of it. They’re monitoring you round-the-clock. And the doctor said the baby has an excellent prognosis at thirty-four weeks’ gestation.” She sagged against the pillow and closed her eyes. Relief pulsed through her but she was so tired she couldn’t muster the energy to do anything more than lie there thanking God that her baby was okay. “I’m going to take care of you, Kell,” Ryan said softly against her temple. “You and our baby. Nothing will ever hurt you again. I swear it.” Tears burned her eyelids. She was emotionally and physically exhausted and didn’t have the strength to argue. Something inside her was broken and she had no idea how to fix it. She felt so…disconnected.

Sådan var kærligheden. Den kunne ruinerer en mand, genrejse ham og brændemærke ham igen; den kunne elske mig i dag, dig i morgen og ham i morgen nat, så ubestandig var den. Men den kunne også holde fast som et ubrydeligt segl og blusse lige uudslukkeligt til dødens time, for så var evig var den. Hvordan var da kærligheden? Åh, kærligheden den er en sommernat med stjerner på himlen og duft på jorden. Men hvorfor får den ynglingen til at gå skjulte veje og hvorfor får den oldingen til at stå på tæer i sit ensomme kammer? Ak, kærligheden den gør menneskehjertet til en svampehave, en frodig og uforskammet have hvor der står hemmelighedsfulde og frække svampe. Får den ikke munken til at luske ind i lukkede haver og lægge øjet mod de sovendes vinduer om natten? Og besætter den ikke nonnen med dårskab og formørker prinsessens forstand?

Av og til må noe vare lenge, ellers mister vi vel vettet snart, så fort allting snurrer rundt med oss. Store trær er fint og riktig gamle hus er fint, men enda bedre - fjell Som ikke flytter seg en tomme om hele verden enn forandres (og det må den snart), så står de der og står og står så du har noen å legge pannen inntil, og kjøle deg og holde i noe fast. Jeg trivs med fjell. De lager horisonter med store hugg i, som de var smidd av smeder. Tenk på: - Den gamle nupen her har stått som nå helt siden Haralds-tiden. Den stod her da de spikret en arming fast til korset Som nå. Som nå. Med sildrebekker på og lyngkjerr og den store bratte pannen uten tanker i. Den sto her under Belsen og Hiroshima. Den står her nå som landemerke for din død, din uro, kanskje dine håp. Så du kan gå derforbi og holde i noe hardt. Noe gammelt noe. Som stjernene. Og kjøle pannen din på den, og tenke tanken ut. Og tenke selv.

[Charlie is dying:] After what seemed a long while, but hadn’t been, Marsh gave Paulette’s hand a warm and caring squeeze. “They’re here for him,” she said. But their heavenly visitors didn’t take him right away. They had to make room for the chaos of modern medical urgencies. To get out of the way of well-trained professionals who had dedicated their lives to holding back Heaven. Choppers are just as noisy and turbulent as we imagine them to be. One tore in over the hills and shattered every bit of peace Charlie otherwise could have lost himself into. In an instant the Med-Evac team was all over him. In the midst of that blatant orchestrated chaos Paulette fought to find her peace, and to hold him inside it. “Hang on, buddy,” techs kept telling him. “Don’t go leaving us now. You just hang in there.” But they didn’t understand, Paulette thought. It was his time. The chopper made a horrible racket carrying him off. Marsh, Paulette, and Ailana held their peace as its winds whipped their world into a froth. Harve’s face twisted with something that might conceivably have been rage. Then, all of a sudden, the birds sang, as though someone had given them a cue. “So that’s what it’s like,” Marsha said, very softly. “The afterlife. “My God, it’s so beautiful.

I turn from the window and see Ringer across the aisle, staring at me. She holds up two fingers. I nod. Two minutes to the drop. I pull the headband down to position the lens of the eyepiece over my left eye and adjust the strap. Ringer is pointing at Teacup, who’s in the chair next to me. Her eyepiece keeps slipping. I tighten the strap; she gives me a thumbs-up, and something sour rises in my throat. Seven years old. Dear Jesus. I lean over and shout in her ear, “You stay right next to me, understand?” Teacup smiles, shakes her head, points at Ringer. I’m staying with her! I laugh. Teacup’s no dummy. Over the river now, the Black Hawk skimming only a few feet above the water. Ringer is checking her weapon for the thousandth time. Beside her, Flintstone is tapping his foot nervously, staring forward, looking at nothing. There’s Dumbo inventorying his med kit, and Oompa bending his head in an attempt to keep us from seeing him stuff one last candy bar into his mouth. Finally, Poundcake with his head down, hands folded in his lap. Reznik named him Poundcake because he said he was soft and sweet. He doesn’t strike me as either, especially on the firing range. Ringer’s a better marksman overall, but I’ve seen Poundcake take out six targets in six seconds.

Hey cupcake!” he says, like he just had a great idea. “I’m so glad you’re here.” “Me too,” I say. “I thought you were ready to kick me to the curb.” I was. But when I found out he was hurt, it nearly gutted me. “Would if I could,” I say. “Do you think you could fall in love with me, cupcake?” he blurts out. I’m startled. I know he’s medicated, so I shouldn’t put any stock into his words, but I can’t help it. “You should get some rest,” I say. Tap. Tap. “So, that would be a no.” He whistles. Then he scrunches up his face when it makes his head hurt. “I’m in trouble,” he whispers quietly. “What?” He squeezes my hand. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, cupcake,” he says. “I just wish you could love me back.” “You’ve had a lot of pain meds,” I say. Suddenly, he grabs the neck of my shirt and jerks me so that I fall over his chest. His lips are right next to mine. “Listen to me,” he says. “Okay,” I whisper. “I don’t have much going for me, but I know what love feels like.” “How?” “It just is, cupcake. You don’t get to pick who you fall in love with. And God knows, if my head could pick, it wouldn’t be you.” I push back to get off his chest, because I’m offended. But he holds me tight. “You’re not easy to love, because you can’t love me back. But you might one day. I’ll wait. But you got to start taking my calls.” He cups the back of my head and brings my face toward his. A cough from the doorway startles us apart. I stand up and pull my shirt down where he rucked it up. “Visiting hours are over,” a nurse says. “She’s not a visitor,” he says. She comes and inserts a needle into his IV, and his eyes close. He doesn’t open them when he says, “She’s going to marry me one day. She just doesn’t know it yet.” His head falls to the side and he starts to softly snore. His hand goes slack around mine. I pull back, my heart skipping like mad. “They say some of the most ridiculous things when they’re medicated.” The nurse shakes her head. “He probably won’t remember any of this tomorrow.” Pete

Once, I was doing a late-night case with one of the neurosurgery attendings, a suboccipital craniectomy for a brain-stem malformation. It’s one of the most elegant surgeries, in perhaps the most difficult part of the body—just getting there is tricky, no matter how experienced you are. But that night, I felt fluid: the instruments were like extensions of my fingers; the skin, muscle, and bone seemed to unzip themselves; and there I was, staring at a yellow, glistening bulge, a mass deep in the brain stem. Suddenly, the attending stopped me. “Paul, what happens if you cut two millimeters deeper right here?” He pointed. Neuroanatomy slides whirred through my head. “Double vision?” “No,” he said. “Locked-in syndrome.” Another two millimeters, and the patient would be completely paralyzed, save for the ability to blink. He didn’t look up from the microscope. “And I know this because the third time I did this operation, that’s exactly what happened.” Neurosurgery requires a commitment to one’s own excellence and a commitment to another’s identity. The decision to operate at all involves an appraisal of one’s own abilities, as well as a deep sense of who the patient is and what she holds dear. Certain brain areas are considered near-inviolable, like the primary motor cortex, damage to which results in paralysis of affected body parts. But the most sacrosanct regions of the cortex are those that control language. Usually located on the left side, they are called Wernicke’s and Broca’s areas; one is for understanding language and the other for producing it. Damage to Broca’s area results in an inability to speak or write, though the patient can easily understand language. Damage to Wernicke’s area results in an inability to understand language; though the patient can still speak, the language she produces is a stream of unconnected words, phrases, and images, a grammar without semantics. If both areas are damaged, the patient becomes an isolate, something central to her humanity stolen forever. After someone suffers a head trauma or a stroke, the destruction of these areas often restrains the surgeon’s impulse to save a life: What kind of life exists without language? When I was a med student,

flicker?" He points to the screen and pauses the vid. "That's when they switched the footage." I stare at the screen. "How do I know you're not the ones lying?" "You saw it yourself on the street," Meyer says. I glance up from the pad and lock eyes with Meyer. "What else are they lying about?" Jayson chuckles. "Well… that's going to take longer than we have." "Here's one," Meyer says. "Remember that last viral outbreak that killed a bunch of Level Ones?" "3005B?" My heart races. That's the virus that ultimately killed Ben thirteen years ago. "That's it. The one they use in all the broadcasts to remind citizens how important it is to get your MedVac updates? It wasn't an accident." We were always told a virus swept through Level One because they hadn't gotten their updated VacTech yet. Hundreds of people died in the day it took to get everyone up to date. "My brother died because of that." Everything I've found out over the last week suddenly grips me with fear. This can't be real. My breath shortens, and suddenly my head starts slowly spinning. Everything goes blurry. Then black. ~~~ "It's all right, kid," a distant voice, which must be Jayson's, echoes in the back of my mind. The room swirls around me. Their faces blur in and out of focus. "Meyer, get her." Blinking a couple of times, I try to sit up. I guess I fell. Meyer's warm hands rest on the back of my neck, my head in his lap. "Don't stand. You could pass out again," he says. He helps me sit up. "Are you okay?" "No, I'm not okay," I mumble. "This is too much." I feel like I should be crying, but I'm not. The reality is that the anger I feel is so much greater than any sadness. Neither Meyer nor Jayson speak, and let me mull over what I've just heard. "Why did they do that?" I eventually ask. "Two reasons, kid," Jayson says. "To cull the Level Ones, and to scare Elore into taking the VacTech. If viral outbreaks are still a threat, no one questions it, and continues believing inside the perimeter is the safest place for them." "I'm sorry about your brother," Meyer says as he stands, offering me his hand. His words are genuine, filled with the emotions of someone who has also experienced loss. "I hate to end this," Jayson interrupts, "but it's time to go." Meyer eyes Jayson, and then me. "I understand if you're not ready, but you need to choose soon. Within the next few days." I take his hand and pull myself to my feet. Words catch somewhere between my heart and throat. The old me wants to tell them to get lost and to never bother me again. It's so risky. Then again, I can't stand by while Manning and Direction kill people to keep us in the dark. Joining is the right thing to do. Feelings I've never experienced before well inside my chest, and I long to shout, When do we start? Instead, I stuff them down and stare at the ground. Subtle pressure squeezes my hand, bringing me back to the present. I never let go of Meyer's hand. How long have we been like that? He releases my hand as he mutters and steps back. The heat from his touch still flickers on my skin. You didn't have to go. I clear my throat and turn toward Meyer. Our eyes lock. "I've already decided," I tell him. "I'll do it. For Ben. Direction caused his death, and there's no way I'm standing by and letting them do this to more people." I barely recognize my own voice as I ask, "What do I do?" A slap hits my back and I choke. Jayson. "Atta girl. Meyer and I knew you had it in you." "Jayson, you have to give Avlyn some time." Meyer steps toward me and holds his handheld in the air toward Jayson. "I'll bring her up to speed." "Sure thing." Jayson throws his hands in the air and walks to the other side of the room. "Sorry," Meyer murmurs. "Jayson is pretty… overwhelming. At least until you know him. Even then…" "Oh, it's fine." A white lie. "He's a nice guy. Now, why don't you tell me the instructions

En anden kommentar, jeg får, er, at folk bliver “ramt” af min skæbne. De bliver ramt og mindet om livets skrøbelighed. En del af dem siger, at de i aften vil holde ekstra længe om deres mand og børn. Jeg forstår ikke, hvorfor de fortæller mig det. Jeg kan ikke se, hvad jeg skal med den oplysning, ud ud over over at blive mindet om, at jeg ikke selv kan gøre det samme. Jeg kan ikke holde ekstra længe om dig i aften, jeg holdt ikke ekstra længe om dig den sidste aften for to uger siden, og jeg vil vædde med, at alle dem, der nu tager hjem og krammer deres elskede ekstra hårdt, får lov at vågne op med dem i morgen også. For livet er ikke retfærdigt.

Jeg mener, at der er lys på den anden side af mørket,” sagde han. ”Jeg mener, at hvad der end sker, så træder vi igen ud i lyset på den anden side. Vores historie ender ikke her.” Hun trak forsigtigt sin hånd til sig og krydsede armene foran maven. Mevarn trak sine knæ op mod brystet og støttede sine arme mod dem. Foran dem var bålet brændt ned til gløder, og ovenover tittede alle efterårets stjerner frem på den sorte himmel. ”Jeg er ikke så god til det,” sagde hun. ”Det der med tillid til lyset. Jeg vil bare gerne have, at det hele går væk og lader mig være i fred.” Mevarn smilede skævt. ”Sådan tror jeg, vi alle har det. Tillid eller ej.” ”Han har levet i mørket i århundreder,” sagde hun undrende. ”Hvordan kunne han holde det ud?” ”Nogle gange kan man udholde utrolige ting for dem, man elsker.” Hun så fra gløderne over på hans mørkeblå øjne og nikkede. Han smilede, og hun mærkede det efterhånden velkendte sug i maven. Et ganske kort øjeblik lænede hun sig over og holdt sin pande ind mod hans, så deres ansigter var helt tætte på hinanden. Hun mærkede hans ånde på sine læber. Så trak hun sig væk, rejste sig og sagde godnat.

Gud venter ubevægelig og tavs som en tigger på den, der vil give ham et stykke brød. Tid er Guds venten på vores kærlighed. Stjernerne, bjergene, havet og alt hvad der taler til os i tid, videbringer Guds bøn til os. At spise et stykke brød når man er sulten, er at holde nadver med universet og dets skaber. Og den sjæl der står uden for retfærdigheden, uden for troen, lyver for sig selv. Jordaksen er livets træ, og dets frugter er stjernerne. Den der spiser af solen, lever. Den, der spiser af lyset, lever. Hvis vi som træerne indeholdt klorofyl, ville vi leve af lyset. Kristus er vores klorofyl.

This much I’ll give the man: he didn’t lecture me about not living up to my potential. He’d got hold of my DSS records going back to the hospital interviews of Mom’s OD, or before. I’d had one foot in the custody-removal shitpile since birth. I told Mr. Armstrong if he’d read all that, he knew more about me than I did. He said no, he didn’t, that nobody ought to pretend to know how I felt. “Here’s what I do know,” he said. “You are resilient.” I’d heard quite a few fifty-dollar words for the problem of Demon. I asked Mr. Armstrong if he was wanting to put me on meds for that. “It’s not something to fix,” he said. “It means strong. Outside of all expectation.

De ber meg om å trøste lille Margaret. Holde henne i hånda. Men jeg er lei av å slepe på henne og de blasse, slappe vingene som ikke duger til å fly med, som om hun drar på en båre av sitt eget framtidige lik. Det er nok av psykologer som tar seg av henne.

Right about that time we had a big surprise from Granny. It was close to Christmas, the weather was nice, and I was outside, following Willie and his buddies around while they played football in the yard. Then we heard some gunshots nearby. Pop! Pop! Pop! It took a while for the noise to get our attention, but after a few more shots, we began to pay attention. It was Granny, out in front of her house, holding a .22 rifle. As I watched, she pointed it at our house and squeezed the trigger again. Pop! Pop! “She’s shooting at the Christmas lights,” someone yelled. I started laughing, not believing what I was seeing. We all ran up to the house, shouting, “Granny is shooting at the lights!” I was good and excited; I thought she was just having fun. But Dad took it much more seriously. He immediately burst out of the house and marched straight up to his mother. “Ma, you’re gonna give me this gun right now,” he said. “My kids are playing out here.” My dad’s serious expression scared me, and I realized she wasn’t just playing; something was wrong. Granny was on meds, and they helped, but as I got older, I heard more stories about the crazy things she had done when her manic depression got the best of her.

Hey cupcake!” he says, like he just had a great idea. “I’m so glad you’re here.” “Me too,” I say. “I thought you were ready to kick me to the curb.” I was. But when I found out he was hurt, it nearly gutted me. “Would if I could,” I say. “Do you think you could fall in love with me, cupcake?” he blurts out. I’m startled. I know he’s medicated, so I shouldn’t put any stock into his words, but I can’t help it. “You should get some rest,” I say. Tap. Tap. “So, that would be a no.” He whistles. Then he scrunches up his face when it makes his head hurt. “I’m in trouble,” he whispers quietly. “What?” He squeezes my hand. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, cupcake,” he says. “I just wish you could love me back.” “You’ve had a lot of pain meds,” I say. Suddenly, he grabs the neck of my shirt and jerks me so that I fall over his chest. His lips are right next to mine. “Listen to me,” he says. “Okay,” I whisper. “I don’t have much going for me, but I know what love feels like.” “How?” “It just is, cupcake. You don’t get to pick who you fall in love with. And God knows, if my head could pick, it wouldn’t be you.” I push back to get off his chest, because I’m offended. But he holds me tight. “You’re not easy to love, because you can’t love me back. But you might one day. I’ll wait. But you got to start taking my calls.” He cups the back of my head and brings my face toward his. A cough from the doorway startles us apart. I stand up and pull my shirt down where he rucked it up. “Visiting

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Er vi pynt. Er vi det parfumerede julehjerte, har vi en stemme. Jeg kan ikke holde sammen på det længere, kære. Det forlanges af mig, at jeg skal være et menneske, jeg ved ikke, hvordan man gør. Du skriver ikke til mig, hvorfor, jeg kan ikke undvære dig, skal jeg det. Tænker du det her: Du hænger ikke sammen. Eller: Du er fatal, du er i lommen på dig selv, og lommen er fake, eller den er syet til, vi kan ikke tale sammen længere. Nu taler jeg altså alligevel, følger du med i krimien om søndagen. Vi ser den i pejsestuen på afdelingen, jeg kan godt lide at tænke på, at to millioner mennesker ser nøjagtig det samme som mig, plottet interesserer mig ikke, jeg kan ikke følge med, men jeg henfalder gladeligt i den uforpligtende kollektivitet af blikke, isolerede flokdyr, kan der være fire millioner fedtede øjne i en brønd, det kommer an på, hvor dyb brønden er.

Jeg vil ikke tale om de ædelste Dyr, som Løver, Elephanter, Ørne etc. hvilke man med største Rimelighed kand holde for at foragte Mennesker.

Olivia? Lilenta?” He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice as he went to her but he couldn’t quite manage it. Every cell in his body was screaming that she was his to protect, to comfort and hold and shield from danger and pain. The look of obvious discomfort on her face made his stomach knot with tension. Olivia tried to wave him away. “I’m all right. It’s just the glass in my foot—I think it’s shifted. It, uh, really kind of hurts. A lot.” Baird didn’t need to hear any more. Paying no attention to her half formed protests he swung her up in his arms again and turned to Sylvan. “We need to get her to a med station. Now.” “There’s one at the far entrance. This way.” The big male nodded his blond, spiky head in the direction of the docking bay doors, motioning for Baird to follow him. “Wait a minute!” Olivia protested as they walked along swiftly, uniform boots echoing in the cavernous metal space that was filled with short-distance space-going craft similar to their own. Baird frowned at her. “I can’t wait. Not when you’re in pain.” She looked exasperated. “Look, I’m sorry if I overreacted. It’s just a little sliver of glass.” “Nothing that hurts you is little to me,” Baird told her shortly. When would she understand that her pain was his? A Kindred male couldn’t rest if his mate was in any kind of discomfort. He had to do everything in his power to ease her and bring her relief—the same way he would do everything in his power in the bedroom to pleasure her. “But

But then, on a brisk February evening my junior year, I attended a free yoga class at the Harvard Divinity School Andover Chapel. I came in fully expecting to do cat, cow, and child’s pose. Our instructor, Nicholas, who was also a graduate student there, had us on our backs with taut abs, legs held in the air in a ninety-degree position, neck lifted off the ground, hands stretched above our heads. I had become the sleeping dragon. One minute in, my body was trembling. You can’t. I told myself I could. You can’t. I opened my eyes and saw everyone else peacefully holding their pose. This voice yelling at me wasn’t my own. So where was it coming from? You can’t. It was Hang telling me to dump my elementary school best friends who still played with toy horses at thirteen. He said I needed to be more strategic about my social ranking. You can’t be friends with them. My sister excluding me from her life when we became teenagers. You can’t hang out with us. Ba calling me pathetic when I told him I wasn’t pursuing med school. You can’t even try because you’re too dumb. I screamed, You can’t, right back inside of my head, telling all of them what I never had the courage to say. My body shuddered as the rage escaped my body like bats flying out from a cave. Hot tears fell from the sides of my eyes into the chapel carpet floor. And then I heard a clear voice inside of me speak. It was not mine, it was someone else’s. “All those times you’ve felt unloved or alone, you weren’t. God, through the presence of the body, has always been there for you.” Who was this voice? And how could my body be the key to loving myself? My body was always something I had seen as an inconvenience, a detached thing I had to fix. But tonight, I felt welcome to get to know my body.

Jeg går hen og åbner vinduet - Hold kæft, det er fyldt med samfund derude!

The Slow-Carb Diet® Cheat Sheet Many people lose hope when trying to lose weight. Fortunately, it need not be complicated. Though I regularly fast and enter ketosis, the Slow-Carb Diet (SCD) has been my default diet for more than a decade. It works almost beyond belief and affects much more than appearance. From one reader: “I just wanted to sincerely thank Tim for taking the time to research and write The 4-Hour Body. My mom, in her late 60s, lost 45 pounds and got off her high blood pressure meds that she had been on for 20+ years. She did all this in about 3 months. This means that I get to have her around for a long time.” The basic rules are simple, all followed 6 days per week: Rule #1: Avoid “white” starchy carbohydrates (or those that can be white). This means all bread, pasta, rice, potatoes, and grains (yes, including quinoa). If you have to ask, don’t eat it. Rule #2: Eat the same few meals over and over again, especially for breakfast and lunch. Good news: You already do this. You’re just picking new default meals. If you want to keep it simple, split your plate into thirds: protein, veggies, and beans/legumes. Rule #3: Don’t drink calories. Exception: 1 to 2 glasses of dry red wine per night is allowed, although this can cause some peri-/post-menopausal women to plateau. Rule #4: Don’t eat fruit. (Fructose → glycerol phosphate → more body fat, more or less.) Avocado and tomatoes are allowed. Rule #5: Whenever possible, measure your progress in body fat percentage, NOT total pounds. The scale can deceive and derail you. For instance, it’s common to gain muscle while simultaneously losing fat on the SCD. That’s exactly what you want, but the scale number won’t move, and you will get frustrated. In place of the scale, I use DEXA scans, a BodyMetrix home ultrasound device, or calipers with a gym professional (I recommend the Jackson-Pollock 7-point method). And then: Rule #6: Take one day off per week and go nuts. I choose and recommend Saturday. This is “cheat day,” which a lot of readers also call “Faturday.” For biochemical and psychological reasons, it’s important not to hold back. Some readers keep a “to-eat” list during the week, which reminds them that they’re only giving up vices for 6 days at a time. Comprehensive step-by-step details, including Q&As and troubleshooting, can be found in The 4-Hour Body, but the preceding outline is often enough to lose 20 pounds in a month, and drop 2 clothing sizes. Dozens of readers have lost 100–200 pounds on the SCD. My 6-Piece Gym in a Bag I take these 6 items with me whenever I travel.

Chrisser… Far. Kan du ikke gå lidt langsommere?” Han så ned på hende igen, hun småløb for at følge med ham. Han stoppede op. “Jo. Hvad med at vi laver et kompromis? Så går jeg lidt langsommere og du går lidt hurtigere?” Hun så tænksomt op på ham. Så nikkede hun. Og han tænkte at allerede nu, var han en bedre far, end hans egen far havde været. Hans far indgik hverken kompromiser eller holdt i hånden. Oplivet af den tanke rankede han ryggen og styrede dem i retning af supermarkedet. Han bemærkede ikke, at hun igen måtte småløbe for at holde trit med ham.

Blood Sugar Monitors Blood sugar monitors are integral tools that hold immense significance in the lives of individuals effectively managing diabetes. These indispensable devices, exemplified by renowned brands such as Med Supply US, offer a seamless, convenient, and precise approach to monitoring blood glucose levels. With a straightforward and painless finger prick, users gain access to real-time readings that serve as pivotal guides in shaping their dietary choices, medication adjustments, and day-to-day activities. Med Supply US has carved a reputation for itself with its line of blood sugar monitors, each meticulously designed to encompass user-friendliness, reliability, and portability. These monitors are not just medical devices; they are empowering companions that enable individuals to take control of their health with confidence. What truly sets Med Supply US's blood sugar monitors apart is their commitment to simplicity and accuracy. The process of obtaining blood glucose readings has been streamlined to require minimal effort, ensuring that users can seamlessly incorporate this crucial routine into their daily lives. The accuracy of these monitors is paramount, as it directly impacts the decisions individuals make regarding their health. Med Supply US has spared no effort in ensuring that the readings provided are both reliable and trustworthy. The portability of Med Supply US's blood sugar monitors is a game-changer. No longer confined to a specific location or time, individuals can monitor their blood glucose levels wherever they go, whenever they need. This level of convenience eradicates the notion that diabetes management should be restrictive; instead, it empowers individuals to embrace an active and dynamic lifestyle while effectively managing their condition. In conclusion, blood sugar monitors are not just devices; they are lifelines for individuals with diabetes. Med Supply US's commitment to excellence shines through in their range of blood sugar monitors, offering individuals the tools they need to navigate their diabetes journey with confidence, accuracy, and unwavering support. With Med Supply US's blood sugar monitors in hand, individuals gain not only insights into their health but also a sense of empowerment that transcends the realm of medical devices.

Kunstig belønning kommer fra rusmidler, som alkohol og narkotika. Naturlig belønning omfatter mat og sex, men også det å holde på med aktiviteter og hobbyer som man liker.

Laying in bed, taking my meds and thinking to myself: "How could I die without hurting anyone?" Well, sadly, that's not possible! I'll only be passing my pain to another person I care about. Thinking of what tomorrow holds and what the past has done, it just feels like a nightmare I can't escape. Maybe that's what I need, escaping reality, running from people and pain and simply be alone...

Have you taken your meds, got your therapy pet, comfort blanket and another adult's hand to hold? Good, get the fuck out of my sight.

Whit and she had started dating when Suzanne was living at home because she couldn’t hold down a job. Her anxiety was debilitating and she had trouble focusing. Antianxiety meds smoothed over the cracks, but the cracks were still there. Suzanne felt she might have a panic attack, collapse, at any moment. Whit calmed her, got her away from her parents, but now it occurred to her she might have simply traded one cage for another.

Journal Entry – April 17, 2013/May 10, 2013 Hollow. Numb. Empty. Nothingness. Are these feelings? Or are they just words in the English language? I ask these questions, because these words best describe how I feel right now as I sit here in my hospital room. The waiting game. My mind and thoughts swishing around my head, and my eyes burn feeling as if I am going to cry at any moment. Breakfast has come and gone. Vitals have been taken. And the five to ten minute check in with my assigned morning nurse has occurred. It has been three hours since I woke up, and I have twelve to thirteen hours to survive before I can go to sleep for the night. My day will be made up of one education group, lunch, dinner, and the remainder of the day and evening doing nothing but laying on the bed curled up in a ball depressed waiting for the time to pass looking at the clock hanging on the wall periodically wishing the time would move faster… on the flip side…a few days later…Writing in an attempt to keep my mind and head out of the skies. My heart feels as though it will beat outside of my chest, and my brain is on its own axis within my skull. I feel like I am on top of the world. I feel like I could do anything. I feel like I could write forever. I feel like my mind is on the spin cycle of a washing machine. Or, like I am hooked onto a pair of windshield wipers stuck on a speed mode. Although, my brain has spun faster than this and I feel that the meds are keeping the jerks at bay, I still feel that all too familiar whirling feeling. It is indescribable. It is hard to pinpoint. Some of it must be anxiety. Some of it must be that I am locked up like a caged animal ready to pounce. Then again, some of it must be nature. My brain misfiring and backfiring and causing itself to spin in every which direction at all sorts of speeds none of which are consistent or in the same direction. Inconsistency. Slow, fast, in between. A complete blur. I have trouble tracking. I have trouble focusing. I have trouble remembering…My mind is obsessing. I try to stop my mind from racing. I try to stop my eyes from darting across the page. I try to stop my legs from jittering. To no avail. It all starts again. My internal engine drives the show. It is as if I have a compulsion to move and dart and jerk. It is uncomfortable. My thoughts are scattered. My thoughts do not make sense. I find I have to edit my own thoughts or at least dig through the mess. I must navigate the thoughts to find the ones that fit together all in time before the memory loses focus and the tracking loses hold and “poof” the statement or thought is gone forever. Frustrating. I am intelligent. I feel stupid. My mind is in 5th gear and climbing at an unprecedented rate of speed. It is magical and amazing, but terrifying and exhausting. How to remain “normal” – is it possible? Is there a possibility of the insanity to stop? Is it possible for the cycle of speed to come to an end? I like the productivity, but the wreckage is too much to take. I just want a break. I want to be normal. I don’t want to be manic.

Imidlertid sad Fru Fanny og kjedede sig. Lille Christian Fredrik var sendt ud med Barnepigen; Gaden var afskyelig, støvet, varm og fuld af simple Folk, som gjorde Lørdagsindkjøb; — Fruen gad ikke se ud. Lænet helt tilbage i sin blødeste Stol sad hun og gabede foran Speilet: skulde hun tage Madeleine med til Byen imorgen — der var gaaet nogle Dage siden hendes sidste Besøg — og heller resikere at blive staaende som Skjæmbræt; — eller skulde hun begynde for egen Regning? — ja hvorfor ikke! — men han kom jo aldrig indom, naar Madeleine ikke var i Byen — aa! man kunde gabe sine Kjæveben af Led! Da han nu pludseligt traadte ind i Stuen, gik der et Stød gjennem hende; men hun blev liggende i Stolen og rakte ham sin venstre Haand, som var nærmest: „Velkommen — Hr. Kandidat! — jeg sad just og tænkte paa Dem i min Ensomhed.“ „Det var smukt af Dem — Frue!“ svarede han og satte sig foran hende. „Ja — hvad kan man ikke falde paa for dumme Ting, naar man sidder saaledes alene —“ „Jeg var ellers ikke det dummeste, De kunde tænke paa,“ svarede Delphin muntert; men det er igrunden sandt, De sidder vist meget alene i den sidste Tid. „Aa ja — hvis jeg nu havde mine Grunde“ „Saa vilde jeg tillade mig at spørge efter disse Grunde.“ „Det var kanske det bedste, om jeg fortalte Dem mine Grunde —“ sagde Fruen og betragtede, opmærksomt Spidsen af sin Fod, som stak frem, idet hun laa tilbagelænet. Hun havde smaa, spidse Parisersko med udskaarne Striber over Vristen, hvor man saa en glat, mørkeblaa Silkestrømpe. „Jeg forsikrer Dem Frue! — at jeg vilde være ligesaa taknemmelig som discret.“ „Madeleine er jo saa ung,“ sagde Fruen, somom hun fortsatte sin egen Tankegang, — „jeg er jo paa en vis Maade forpligtet til at passe lidt paa hende — og —“ „Mon det skulde være saa nødvendigt?“ — spurgte han. „Aa ja! — naar en ung Pige saa naiv som Madeleine kommer i Berørelse med Herrer, der ere, — nuvel! der ere saa behændige som De — Hr. Kandidat Delphin! — saa —“ hun saa paa ham, idet hun stansede i Sætningen. „De gjør mig altfor megen Ære! —“ lo han, „desuden — hvorledes skulde det kunne falde mig ind at benytte mig af —“ „Pyt!“ afbrød hun og trak sine Øienbryn op, „den Snak kjender vi. De er som alle de andre; De tager ikke i Betænkning at benytte Dem af enhver — selv den allermindste Chance — ikke sandt? — vær nu oprigtig!“ „Nuvel —“ svarede han og stod op, „naar De gaar mig saadan paa Livet, saa vil jeg jo tilstaa, at naar jeg ser et Jordbær, som ingen passer paa, saa ta’r jeg det ialmindelighed.“ „Ja — det er just den Graadighed hos Mandfolkene, jeg finder ligesaa farlig som forunderlig.“ „Ih — men Frue! Jordbær ere dog saa fortryllende!“ „Ja — naar de ere modne —“ svarede Fru Fanny. De sidste Ord kom saa blødt som Kattefødder. Georg Delphin var gaaet et Par Skridt henover Gulvet. Han vendte sig hurtigt og fik netop se det sidste Glimt af et Blik, som maatte have hvilet paa ham, mens hun talte. Det var ikke ofte, han mistede sin Holdning i Konversationer som denne; men den Opdagelse, han gjorde eller troede at gjøre, Uvisheden, den forfængelige Glæde — forvirrede ham, saa han stammede, blev rød og stod og stirrede paa hende. Udstrakt som hun laa i den lave Stol løb de bugtede Linier fra det lille Hoved nedover de fyldige Lemmer — helt ud til Spidsen af hendes Parisersko. Hendes Skjønhed var saa fuldt færdig, saa sikker og ubekymret i hvert Led og hver Bøining. Hun forstod, at nu var det nok og reiste sig uden at lægge Mærke til hans Forvirring. „Ved De hvad!“ sagde hun pludseligt og lo høit, „det er dog latterligt, at jeg vil holde Prækener for Dem. Hver faar passe sig selv, og jeg maa gaa og passe en Kjole — jeg haaber, De undskylder. Godaften — Hr. Kandidat! — maatte Deres Jordbær bekomme Dem vel!