Roller Coaster Feelings Quotes

There were five others before they got to him. He smiled a little when his turn came. His voice was low, smoky, and dead sexy. “My name is Augustus Waters,” he said. “I’m seventeen. I had a little touch of osteosarcoma a year and a half ago, but I’m just here today at Isaac’s request.” “And how are you feeling?” asked Patrick. “Oh, I’m grand.” Augustus Waters smiled with a corner of his mouth. “I’m on a roller coaster that only goes up, my friend.

Falling in love is like getting hit by a truck and yet not being mortally wounded. just sick to your stomach, high one minute, low the next. Starving hungry but unable to eat. hot, cold, forever horny, full of hope and enthusiasm, with momentary depressions that wipe you out. It is also not being able to remove the smile from your face, loving life with a mad passionate intensity, and feeling ten years younger. Love does not appear with any warning signs. You fall into it as if pushed from a high diving board. No time to think about what's happening. It's inevitable. An event you can't control. A crazy, heart-stopping, roller-coaster ride that just has to take its course.

This felt like the way you get nervous right before something exciting happens-the moment when you're balanced on the top of the roller coaster, the hush before the surprise party, the second after the diving board but before the water, when you can close your eyes and imagine, for just a second, that you're flying. The feeling that good things were coming, almost here, any moment now.

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches. May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty. When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer. Guide her, protect her When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age. Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit. May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers. Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait. O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed. And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it. And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Right after something tragic happens, you feel like you’ve fallen off a cliff. But after the tragedy starts to sink in, you realize you didn’t fall off a cliff. You’re on an eternal roller coaster that just reached the bottom. Now it’s gonna be up and down and upside down for a long, long time. Maybe even forever.

The roller-coaster is my life; life is a fast, dizzying game; life is a parachute jump; it’s taking chances, falling over and getting up again; it’s mountaineering; it’s wanting to get to the very top of yourself and feeling angry and dissatisfied when you don’t manage it

When someone you love dies, you are given the gift of "second chances". Their eulogy is a reminder that the living can turn their lives around at any point. You’re not bound by the past; that is who you used to be. You’re reminded that your feelings are not who you are, but how you felt at that moment. Your bad choices defined you yesterday, but they are not who you are today. Your future doesn’t have to travel the same path with the same people. You can start over. You don’t have to apologize to people that won’t listen. You don’t have to justify your feelings or actions, during a difficult time in your life. You don’t have to put up with people that are insecure and want you to fail. All you have to do is walk forward with a positive outlook, and trust that God has a plan that is greater than the sorrow you left behind. The people of quality that were meant to be in your life won’t need you to explain the beauty of your heart. They already understand what being human is----a roller coaster ride of emotions during rainstorms and sunshine, sprinkled with moments when you can almost reach the stars.

She loved airports. She loved the smell, she loved the noise, and she loved the whole atmosphere as people walked around happily tugging their luggage, looking forward to going on their holidays or heading back home. She loved to see people arriving and being greeted with a big cheer by their families and she loved to watch them all giving each other emotional hugs. It was a perfect place for people-spotting. The airport always gave her a feeling of anticipation in the pit of her stomach as though she were about to do something special and amazing. Queuing at the boarding gate, she felt like she was waiting to go on a roller coaster ride at a theme park, like an excited little child.

Kissing her in the ocean and feeling my entire world stop. Wishing I could be normal, if only to be with her. Because she hadn't just taught me how to surf and shoot zombies and to scream while plunging down a roller-coaster drop. She had shown me how to live.

I learned to create a little more space between my thoughts and actions—actually between my feelings and reactions. This is extremely important; without it, life can be a real roller coaster ride.

You don't notice the dead leaving when they really choose to leave you. You're not meant to. At most you feel them as a whisper or the wave of a whisper undulating down. I would compare it to a woman in the back of a lecture hall or theater whom no one notices until she slips out.Then only those near the door themselves, like Grandma Lynn, notice; to the rest it is like an unexplained breeze in a closed room. Grandma Lynn died several years later, but I have yet to see her here. I imagine her tying it on in her heaven, drinking mint juleps with Tennessee Williams and Dean Martin. She'll be here in her own sweet time, I'm sure. If I'm to be honest with you, I still sneak away to watch my family sometimes. I can't help it, and sometimes they still think of me. They can't help it.... It was a suprise to everyone when Lindsey found out she was pregnant...My father dreamed that one day he might teach another child to love ships in bottles. He knew there would be both sadness and joy in it; that it would always hold an echo of me. I would like to tell you that it is beautiful here, that I am, and you will one day be, forever safe. But this heaven is not about safety just as, in its graciousness, it isn't about gritty reality. We have fun. We do things that leave humans stumped and grateful, like Buckley's garden coming up one year, all of its crazy jumble of plants blooming all at once. I did that for my mother who, having stayed, found herself facing the yard again. Marvel was what she did at all the flowers and herbs and budding weeds. Marveling was what she mostly did after she came back- at the twists life took. And my parents gave my leftover possessions to the Goodwill, along with Grandma Lynn's things. They kept sharing when they felt me. Being together, thinking and talking about the dead, became a perfectly normal part of their life. And I listened to my brother, Buckley, as he beat the drums. Ray became Dr. Singh... And he had more and more moments that he chose not to disbelieve. Even if surrounding him were the serious surgeons and scientists who ruled over a world of black and white, he maintained this possibility: that the ushering strangers that sometimes appeared to the dying were not the results of strokes, that he had called Ruth by my name, and that he had, indeed, made love to me. If he ever doubted, he called Ruth. Ruth, who graduated from a closet to a closet-sized studio on the Lower East Side. Ruth, who was still trying to find a way to write down whom she saw and what she had experienced. Ruth, who wanted everyone to believe what she knew: that the dead truly talk to us, that in the air between the living, spirits bob and weave and laugh with us. They are the oxygen we breathe. Now I am in the place I call this wide wide Heaven because it includes all my simplest desires but also the most humble and grand. The word my grandfather uses is comfort. So there are cakes and pillows and colors galore, but underneath this more obvious patchwork quilt are places like a quiet room where you can go and hold someone's hand and not have to say anything. Give no story. Make no claim. Where you can live at the edge of your skin for as long as you wish. This wide wide Heaven is about flathead nails and the soft down of new leaves, wide roller coaster rides and escaped marbles that fall then hang then take you somewhere you could never have imagined in your small-heaven dreams.

Sure I eat my feelings, but I save the emotional roller coaster for dessert

The roller coaster is my life; Life is a fast, dizzying game. Life is a parachute jump; it's taking chances; falling over and getting up again. It's mountaineering; it's wanting to get to the very top of yourself and to feel angry and dissatisfied when you don't manage it. But if we are talking in terms of making progress in life, we must understand that "good enough" is very different from the "Best.

At the sight of him, I was clutched by a feeling like that precarious moment just past the top of a roller coaster's highest hill when gravity takes hold and the car barrels downward.

If there’s a physical component to falling in love—the butterflies in your stomach, the roller coaster of your soul—then there’s an equal physical component to falling out of love. It feels like your lungs are sieves, so you can’t get enough air. Your insides freeze solid. Your heart becomes a tiny, bitter pearl, a chemical reaction to one irritating grain of truth.

Courtney’s emotions had always been controlled and steady, logical and levelheaded. But around Brett, it was like she was on a high-speed roller coaster with steep drops and corkscrew turns, and she never wanted to get off.

Miracle Message #30: If my environment dictates my mood, then my life will feel like a roller coaster. The way to steady ground is through my breath. #MiraclesNow

And how are you feeling?” asked Patrick. “Oh, I’m grand.” Augustus Waters smiled with a corner of his mouth. “I’m on a roller coaster that only goes up, my friend.

Kit stares at me, and I stare back. Eye contact usually feels like an ice headache. Just too much, too fast. Sharp and unpleasant. With Kit it feels like the first few seconds on a roller coaster, all gravitational force, no escape, pure thrill.

The roller-coaster is my life; life is a fast, dizzying game; life is a parachute jump; it’s taking chances, falling over and getting up again; it’s mountaineering; it’s wanting to get to the very top of yourself and to feel angry and dissatisfied when you don’t manage it.

It’s a lot like a roller coaster. There are lots of twists and turns, and some of the hills are a bit scary, but you stay on the ride just to feel the thrill of that fall again,” Julia said. “And, when you find that person; no matter where you are in life; don’t you be afraid to take that ride,” she instructed the girls. “Hold on up the hills, and let go during the falls, just like you do on the roller coaster.

Depression is like a never ending roller coaster ride, there’s times of highs and lows, going slow, going fast, screaming, anxious feelings, scared thoughts, trying to get off the ride but it’s so hard, you can’t.

During the writing process you're going to discover things about yourself you never knew. For example, if you're writing about something that happened to you, you may re-experience some old feelings and emotions. You may get 'wacky' and irritable and live each day as if you were on an emotional roller coaster. Don't worry. Just keep writing.

Courage is not the absence of fear—it’s feeling the fear and proceeding anyway. As Nelson Mandela said, “I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.

Since the time you left, Life has been like a roller coaster That has only gone down!

I feel as if I’m on an emotional roller coaster. One moment I’m feeling as low as I can get, and the next I’m soaring into the clouds. Just now, I’m in the cloud phase.

In his book In This Very Life, the Burmese meditation teacher Sayadaw U Pandita, wrote, "In their quest for happiness, people mistake excitement of the mind for real happiness." We get excited when we hear good news, start a new relationship, or ride a roller coaster. Somewhere in human history, we were conditioned to think that the feeling we get when dopamine fires in our brain equals happiness. Don't forget, this was probably set up so that we would remember where food could be found, not to give us the feeling "you are now fulfilled." To be sure, defining happiness is a tricky business, and very subjective. Scientific definitions of happiness continue to be controversial and hotly debated. The emotion doesn't seem to be something that fits into a survival-of-the-fittest learning algorithm. But we can be reasonably sure that the anticipation of a reward isn't happiness.

So,' bellowed Cosmo, pouring me a drink. 'How's your love-life?' Oh no. Why do they do this? Why? Maybe the Smug Marrieds only mix with other Smug Marrieds and don't know how to relate to individuals any more. Maybe they really do want to patronize us and make us feel like failed human beings. Or maybe they are in such a sexual rut they're thinking, 'There's a whole other world out there,' and hoping for vicarious thrills by getting us to tell them the roller-coaster details of our sex lives.

That which interests most people leaves me without any interest at all. This includes a list of things such as: social dancing, riding roller coasters, going to zoos, picnics, movies, planetariums, watching tv, baseball games; going to funerals, weddings, parties, basketball games, auto races, poetry readings, museums, rallies, demonstrations, protests, children’s plays, adult plays … I am not interested in beaches, swimming, skiing, Christmas, New Year’s, the 4th of July, rock music, world history, space exploration, pet dogs, soccer, cathedrals and great works of Art. How can a man who is interested in almost nothing write about anything? Well, I do. I write and I write about what’s left over: a stray dog walking down the street, a wife murdering her husband, the thoughts and feelings of a rapist as he bites into a hamburger sandwich; life in the factory, life in the streets and rooms of the poor and mutilated and the insane, crap like that, I write a lot of crap like that

He took his eyes off the road and looked over at me, and I didn’t blush or look away. I just looked right back at him. There was tension between us again, but it wasn’t the simmering, angry kind that had been there the day before. This felt like the way you get nervous right before something exciting happens—the moment when you’re balanced on the top of the roller coaster, the hush before the surprise party, the second after the diving board but before the water, when you can close your eyes and imagine, for just a second, that you’re flying. The feeling that good things were coming, almost here, any moment now.

I'm filled with that buzz that finishing a good book gives you. You know the one. When all you want to do is savor the words that just changed your life, even if for just a moment. When you're still high from experiencing every up and down the characters went through. Feeling as though you were right there with them, seated front row, hands in the air as you take that first plunge down to the final dip of the roller coaster they call life.

Grief is like a roller coaster. Somedays we feel up and other days we feel down.

The roller coaster of emotions following a suicide causes intense feelings of isolation and a breaking apart from all that once seemed familiar.

Maude asks me why I'm not more upset. I tell her if you ride a roller coaster enough it starts to feel like a carousel. All the up, downs make a circle, spinning.

Is it that God has at last removed his blessing from the U.S.A. and what we feel now is just the clank of the old historical machinery, the sudden jerking ahead of the roller-coaster cars as the chain catches hold and carries us back into history with its ordinary catastrophes, carries us out and up toward the brink from that felicitous and privileged siding where even unbelievers admitted that if it was not God who blessed the U.S.A., then at least some great good luck had befallen us, and that now the blessing or the luck is over, the machinery clanks, the chain catches hold, and the cars jerk forward?

I don’t like roller coasters or water slides. That dropping sensation scares the pants off me. And in a few seconds I’m going to feel that exact sensation because the “gravity” I’ve been experiencing will stop altogether.

If you’ve struggled in a friendship, you’re not alone. Most girls find that, sometimes, friendship feels like a roller coaster. One moment you’re climbing through fun and laughter; the next, you’re plunging into fear or frustration.

May I sleep with you?” Keely goes very still. Feels as if she is made of stone. Her stomach dips like she took the plunge on a roller coaster. That came out of nowhere. “Ugh, what?” “May I sleep here tonight? I slept so well this morning and I believe you will sleep better with me here as well.” He glances at her and smiles devilishly. “You thought I was asking to have sex.” He laughs. It’s such a wonderful noise to Keely’s ears. “I thought we were not allowed to do that?

…might look and taste and feel like the future, but this was just a new kind of Dark Age. The path humans took through time was less a mythical arrow of progress and more of a squiggle that doubled back on itself, curling and looping. A roller coaster designed by a drunkard.

I don’t feel great, but I also don’t feel terrible, either, and I guess that’s how normal people feel most of the time. They live in the space between black and white, and their ups and downs are various shades of gray, not the extreme highs and lows I’ve always thought of as normal. I think that’s one of the major differences between us and them, between addicts and Normies. Somewhere along the line we got stuck on this roller coaster that only knows how to go to the highest up and the lowest low. We get high so we can feel invincible and perfect, but the feeling never lasts. Gravity always wins, and we fall fast, to a place lower and darker than many people will probably ever know. And the crazy thing is that this is just normal for us. We cycle through these extremes all the time, and it’s become as natural as breathing. Exhausting, but natural.

He felt a tremor of fear at the image, and a disquieting thought... ran through his mind almost too quickly to read and was gone. But...but it wasn't all disquiet, was it? No. It was desire as well... The desire to go fast, to feel the wind race pass you without knowing if you were racing toward or running away from, to just go. To fly. Disquiet and desire. All the difference between the world and want---the difference between being an adult who counted the cost and a child who just got on it and went, for instance. All the world between. Yet not that much difference at all. Bedfellows, really. The way you felt it when the roller coaster car approached the top of the first steep grade, are the ride really begins. Disquiet and desire. What you want and what you're scared to try for. Where you've been and where you want to go. Something in a rock-and-roll song about wanting the girl, the car, the place to stand and be. Oh please God can you dig it.

Don’t settle for an on again off again relationship.  It’s unhealthy and will only make your happiness feel like a roller coaster ride with highs, lows, ups and downs. You deserve better! ·        Just like small children men will test you to see what they can get away with.  Standing your ground, holding on to your own beliefs, convictions and knowing when your kindness is being taken for granted will earn his respect.

Welcome to the theme park,” Jonah says. I look at him quizzically, so he begins to offer up an explanation. “Right after something tragic happens, you feel like you’ve fallen off a cliff. But after the tragedy starts to sink in, you realize you didn’t fall off a cliff. You’re on an eternal roller coaster that just reached the bottom. Now it’s gonna be up and down and upside down for a long, long time. Maybe even forever.

We have, what, 66,000-odd guests here today? And not one of them retains even an infant’s sense of self-preservation. They checked their fight-or-flight instincts at the door. That’s what they’re paying for. They see a fire, hear an explosion, feel their roller coaster begin to shear off its track—what are they gonna do? Laugh all the harder. Because they think it’s part of the act. That makes every last one of them a sitting duck.

Grief is unpredictable, and that’s exactly how it should be. If you feel like you’re stuck on a roller coaster or caught up in an unnavigable storm, you are not alone. I often think of grief like a slot machine. Each day I wake up, the dials turn, the combinations of emotions and experiences go round and round, and the wheels stop at whatever strange combination I’m about to experience that day. No two grief days are alike . . . and that’s normal.

love is sharing a banana split. and letting you have the last spring roll. it’s reminding me that i need to wake up early tomorrow. and staying up until i fall asleep. love is driving me to the airport. bringing takeout when you pick me up. love is grabbing your hand on a roller coaster. or during a scary movie. love is asking if you need a jacket. it’s feeling sad for me when i’m sad. love is knowing your favorite pizza toppings. love is surprise notes. love is being honest. love is showing up. love is all of it.

Heartbreak is very hard to live with. In the morning, it made me wish that I could just snooze my alarm and hide from the sunlight. In the afternoon, I cried at work silently, then I ran to the washroom so that nobody noticed. In the late afternoon, my brain would unsuccessfully try to take control for an hour after which I would be exhausted from the emotional roller coaster led by my heart. At night, I would squeeze my pillow, howling inside and yet not being able to scream, wishing that I could stop feeling the stinging pain.

Look! when I am in a drawing room, a church, a station; on the terrasse of a cafe, at the theatre or wherever crowds pass or loiter, I enjoy considering faces from a strictly homicidal point of view. For you may see by the glance, by the back of the neck, the shape of the skull, the jaw bone and zygoma of the cheeks, or by some part of their persons that they bear the stigmata of that psychological calamity known as murder. It is scarcely an aberration of my mind, but I can go nowhere without seeing it flickering beneath eyelids, or without feeling its mysterious contact in the touch of every hand held out to me. Last Sunday I went to a town on the festival day of its patron saint. In the public square, which was decorated with foliage, floral arches, and poles draped with flags, was grouped every kind of amusement common to that sort of public celebration—And beneath the paternal eye of the authorities, a swarm of good people were enjoying themselves. The wooden horses, the roller-coaster and the swings drew a very meagre crowd. The organs wheezed their gayest tunes and most bewitching overtures in vain. Other pleasures absorbed this festive throng. Some shot with rifles, pistols, or the good old crossbow at targets painted like human faces; others hurled balls, knocking over marionettes ranged pathetically on wooden bars. Still others, mallet in hand, pounded upon a spring which animated a French sailor who patriotically transfixed with his bayonet a poor hova or a mocking Dahomean. Everywhere, under tents or in the little lighted booths, I saw counterfeits of death, parodies of massacre, portrayals of hecatombs. And how happy these good people were!

A lot of times a new relationship might feel less exciting simply because it’s healthy! There isn’t the agonizing push and pull you had with that jerk who didn’t want to commit but liked to Netflix and chill occasionally. You’re not experiencing a roller coaster of emotions every twelve hours for days on end. You’re not so confused about their intentions that you’re rereading every text conversation fifty times. So your OCD or anxiety tries to make sense of this big change and falsely decides, “You don’t like this new person enough.” When in reality, drama does not equal love. Oftentimes, it means the exact opposite.

There was a rupture in the fabric of space inside the truck, and a rift developed that connected worlds and dimensions. William Connoley, travelling book-salesman and keeper of the portal between the worlds, saw shimmers of a room with a large, dark, wooden table laden with mysterious utensils, a chair, glass-like shards on the floor, vials, small windows, shelves with jars, and many other things he had never seen before. The vision, strange as it was, only lasted seconds, but it burnt itself into his memory. Then a bright flash of light took away his eyesight momentarily, while an invisible roller-coaster-like sensation filled his stomach with the most unwelcome and sickening feeling. There was a roaring sound, and suddenly smoke filled the cabin, chasing William into the street as he coughed and gasped for air. His eyes burnt from the grey fumes.

was no one else there to comfort her. There was only him. The real him. She stepped forward and laid her head against his chest. Samantha: I’ll never forget the moment when Perry and Celeste walked into the trivia night. There was like this ripple across the room. Everyone just stopped and stared. 23. Isn’t this FANTASTIC!” cried Madeline to Chloe as they took their really very excellent seats in front of the giant ice rink. “You can feel the cold from the ice! Brrr! Oh! Can you hear the music? I wonder where the princesses—” Chloe had reached over and placed one hand gently over her mother’s mouth. “Shhh.” Madeline knew she was talking too much because she was feeling anxious and ever so slightly guilty. Today needed to be stupendous to make it worth the rift she’d created between herself and Renata. Eight kindergarten children, who would otherwise be attending Amabella’s party, were here watching Disney On Ice because of Madeline. Madeline looked past Chloe at Ziggy, who was nursing a giant stuffed toy on his lap. Ziggy was the reason they were here today, she reminded herself. Poor Ziggy wouldn’t have been at the party. Dear little fatherless Ziggy. Who was possibly a secret psychopathic bully . . . but still! “Are you taking care of Harry the Hippo this weekend, Ziggy?” she said brightly. Harry the Hippo was the class toy. Every weekend it went home with a different child, along with a scrapbook that had to be returned with a little story about the weekend, accompanied by photos. Ziggy nodded mutely. A child of few words. Jane leaned forward, discreetly chewing gum as always. “It’s quite stressful having Harry to stay. We have to give Harry a good time. Last weekend he went on a roller coaster— Ow!” Jane recoiled as one of the twins, who was sitting next to her and fighting his brother, elbowed her in the back of the head. “Josh!” said Celeste sharply. “Max! Just stop it!” Madeline wondered if Celeste was OK today. She looked pale and tired, with purplish shadows under her eyes, although on Celeste they looked like an artful makeup effect that everyone should try. The lights in the auditorium began to dim, and then went to black. Chloe clutched Madeline’s arm. The music began to pound, so loud that Madeline could feel the vibrations. The ice rink filled with an

He experienced a range of intense and unpleasant side effects [on puberty blockers], as he tried different doses. ‘On one of them I had really bad insomnia. And another one, I had really bad anger problems.’ … ‘Your mood goes like it’s a roller coaster,’ he explains. ‘There are moments when you’re euphorically happy. The next day, you crash really bad and you are exhausted. And then you’re really, really depressed, like, suicidal depressed.’ Jacob says he had felt depressed before starting on puberty blockers and had experienced anxiety… ‘On the blockers I broke my wrist twice, my knuckles, my toe. It really ruins your bone density.’ Four broken bones in just a few years…As Jacob’s health deteriorated and his puberty continued to ‘break through’, he grew increasingly distressed…After more than four years on the blocker, Jacob felt worse than he ever had before the medication. While his friends were getting their first boyfriends and girlfriends, experiencing their first kisses and sexual experiences, he felt nothing. ‘You have no desire, no drive whatsoever,’ he says. ‘You don’t even feel attracted to people.’ … Emotionally, he felt years younger than his peers. Michelle noticed it too. And physically, Jacob had stopped growing.

The Mother’s Prayer for Its Daughter First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither the Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches. May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty. When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer. Guide her, protect her When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age. Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit. May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers. Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For Childhood is short—a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day— And Adulthood is long and Dry-Humping in Cars will wait. O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed. And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it. And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, That I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes. Amen

People who love are different from everybody else. People who feel are more fortunate than all. Rich men who buy and grab up things are just moving them around. They have bought these things with money, which they can never own. A mother with life in her womb is the one who is truly wealthy. A newborn in the arms is beyond oil in one palm and pure gold in the other. Father says that there is no God, so that I might worship him. But something is moving in the atmosphere… Not for viewing, but for sensing and being changed by. That I can feel. I am certain. My first love was the sky. Who created that? My second love was my mother’s eyes that revealed a reflection of me. My father had a house of great beauty built for us all. But who created the mind, the memory, and the imagination? I’d sit in the soil surrounded with no walls just to talk to that ONE, even without words… Diamonds are lovely, but sound is lovelier. Roller coasters are thrilling. My clitoris clothed in my vagina is more, more, more. Why turn on the lights when we can lie under the glare of the moon? Why listen to the call for war when we can make love? He wants revolution, but I want passion revolving in my soul. A man invented the fan, but who created the wind and caressed it into a breeze Then converted it into a storm? A cloud holds the water, yet both clouds and water were created. Impress me not with castles, cars, or clothes. I’d rather meet the Maker of rain— But would be content with simply being showered while lying in the grass Facing a darkened sky pregnant with thunder and leaking lightning. My husband asks me, Do you love me? So gently, I answer him. “I love the Creator of life. This is why I can love you.” Yet everywhere that I see and feel a trace of the Creator, the Light of life, There is so much love in it for me.

Life is a little like getting on a bus with loads of passengers who are already on when you get on. A bus to nowhere but going with absolute certainty to nowhere or so it seems to you. And, you somehow secure a seat and think as long as you sit quietly, you might be allowed to stay till the destination, whatever it may be. You wonder if you could buy a more secure seat if you become the life and soul of the bus, since then nobody will want you to get off. So, you try. There are people you like on the bus, some you cannot bear to be around with. People keep getting on. The bus is overcrowded. You watch some who gracefully get down, some who literally jump off the running bus and others who are abruptly forced off the bus. You feel sorry for those who have been forced off, happy you are still there. You must be special then for that privilege. You sit there thinking if you are quiet and decent, and minding your business or counting your beads, you should be ok, not realising that you could be the next. There is deep down a fear that you could be, but you hope that all what you had done since you got on would guarantee a longer passage to nowhere. Maybe, to a better destination? Where could the bus be going? Who will be getting off next? Will it be you? What is this strange journey with passengers you cannot choose, stops you cannot decide and destination unknown. Suddenly you cannot bear this torture anymore. This meaningless journey with atrocious company to nowhere. And, you sit there in this tumbling, roller coaster ride, hanging onto dear life and swear to yourself that you will enjoy the journey while it lasts. Amidst it all, the question arises... who am I who is sitting here on the bus on a ride to nowhere? And, you sit there... waiting, pretending, dreaming, smiling, laughing... living a little, dying a little, hoping your stop is not the next and wondering what if it is.

When I finally calmed down, I saw how disappointed he was and how bad he felt. I decided to take a deep breath and try to think this thing through. “Maybe it’s not that bad,” I said. (I think I was trying to cheer myself up as much as I was trying to console Chip.) “If we fix up the interior and just get it to the point where we can get it onto the water, at least maybe then we can turn around, sell it, and get our money back.” Over the course of the next hour or so, I really started to come around. I took another walk through the boat and started to picture how we could make it livable--maybe even kind of cool. After all, we’d conquered worse. We tore a few things apart right then and there, and I grabbed some paper and sketched out a new layout for the tiny kitchen. I talked to him about potentially finishing an accent wall with shiplap--a kind of rough-textured pine paneling that fans of our show now know all too well. “Shiplap?” Chip laughed. “That seems a little ironic to use on a ship, doesn’t it?” “Ha-ha,” I replied. I was still not in the mood for his jokes, but this is how Chip backs me off the ledge--with his humor. Then I asked him to help me lift something on the deck, and he said, “Aye, aye, matey!” in his best pirate voice, and slowly but surely I came around. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but by the end of that afternoon I was actually a little bit excited about taking on such a big challenge. Chip was still deflated that he’d allowed himself to get duped, but he put his arm around me as we started walking back to the truck. I put my head on his shoulder. And the camera captured the whole thing--just an average, roller-coaster afternoon in the lives of Chip and Joanna Gaines. The head cameraman came jogging over to us before we drove away. Chip rolled down his window and said sarcastically, “How’s that for reality TV?” We were both feeling embarrassed that this is how we had spent our last day of trying to get this stinkin’ television show. “Well,” the guy said, breaking into a great big smile, “if I do my job, you two just landed yourself a reality TV show.” What? We were floored. We couldn’t believe it. How was that a show? But lo and behold, he was right. That rotten houseboat turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

So,” Marlboro Man began over dinner one night. “How many kids do you want to have?” I almost choked on my medium-rare T-bone, the one he’d grilled for me so expertly with his own two hands. “Oh my word,” I replied, swallowing hard. I didn’t feel so hungry anymore. “I don’t know…how many kids do you want to have?” “Oh, I don’t know,” he said with a mischievous grin. “Six or so. Maybe seven.” I felt downright nauseated. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, my body preparing me for the dreaded morning sickness that, I didn’t know at the time, awaited me. Six or seven kids? Righty-oh, Marlboro Man. Righty…no. “Ha-ha ha-ha ha. Ha.” I laughed, tossing my long hair over my shoulder and acting like he’d made a big joke. “Yeah, right! Ha-ha. Six kids…can you imagine?” Ha-ha. Ha. Ha.” The laughter was part humor, part nervousness, part terror. We’d never had a serious discussion about children before. “Why?” He looked a little more serious this time. “How many kids do you think we should have?” I smeared my mashed potatoes around on my plate and felt my ovaries leap inside my body. This was not a positive development. Stop that! I ordered, silently. Settle down! Go back to sleep! I blinked and took a swig of the wine Marlboro Man had bought me earlier in the day. “Let’s see…,” I answered, drumming my fingernails on the table. “How ’bout one? Or maybe…one and a half?” I sucked in my stomach--another defensive move in an attempt to deny what I didn’t realize at the time was an inevitable, and jiggly, future. “One?” he replied. “Aw, that’s not nearly enough of a work crew for me. I’ll need a lot more help than that!” Then he chuckled, standing up to clear our plates as I sat there in a daze, having no idea whether or not he was kidding. It was the strangest conversation I’d ever had. I felt like the roller coaster had just pulled away from the gate, and the entire amusement park was pitch-black. I had no idea what was in front of me; I was entering a foreign land. My ovaries, on the other hand, were doing backflips, as if they’d been wandering, parched, in a barren wasteland and finally, miraculously, happened upon a roaring waterfall. And that waterfall was about six feet tall, with gray hair and bulging biceps. They never knew they could experience such hope.

Why are you treating me like this? What did I do?” “Nothing!” “So this is what you do then? You make girls feel like they’re special for a few days, then treat them like they’re nothing?” He turned on me right before he got to his room, “You’re really gonna put this on me? One minute you’re kissing me, the next you’re talking to your boyfriend and telling him you love him!” “What did you want me to do, not answer it?” “It doesn’t even matter Harper,” He laughed humorlessly, “drop it.” “It does to me! I’m so tired of this roller coaster with you. I never know which Chase I’m going to meet up with that day. Is it going to be the cold or the funny and caring Chase? Will it be the one that’s with four girls in one night, or the one that tells me how beautiful I am, does amazingly sweet things for me and notices stuff about me that no one else does?” Okay so Brandon noticed, but that wouldn’t help my argument right now. He just continued to glare at me. “You’re all over the place, I don’t know how to act around you, I don’t know what you want!” “I want you! All I’ve ever wanted is you.” “Then why are you trying to hurt me again?” “Because it’s easier that way.” His voice was soft now, and I could see the pain in his eyes, “You’re with Brandon. Do you know what it’s like watching you with him? Wanting you so bad, but knowing he’s who you should be with?” “But what if I want you?” “Harper, don’t.” “I’m so in love with Brandon, but I can’t help what I feel for you, and I know you know what I’m talking about. Whatever this is between us … it’s been there since we met. It’s like I can’t get enough of you, but all you do is push me away. It’s all you’ve ever done!” “Because I’m not what you need Harper!” I stepped closer towards him, “Then why did you kiss me Chase? You knew it would change everything, and it did. So tell me, why did you do it?” He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a frustrated breath, “I needed to.” He closed the distance between us, “You’re all I can think about and it drives me crazy! I would have given anything for that kiss, and I knew I wouldn’t get that chance again, so I had to. I had to know if you felt something too.” I threw out my hands in exasperation, “Was that not obvious? Is it not obvious that I’m in love with you?” His

It’s my turn next, and I realize then that I never turned in the name of my escort--because I hadn’t planned on being here. I glance around wildly for Ryder, but he’s nowhere to be seen, swallowed up by the sea of people in cocktail dresses and suits. Crap. I thought he realized that escorting me on court was part of the deal, once I’d agreed to go. I guess he’d figured it’d be easier on me, what with the whole Patrick thing, if I was alone onstage. But I don’t want to be alone. I want Ryder with me. By my side, supporting me. Always. I finally spot him in the crowd--it’s not too hard, since he’s a head taller than pretty much everyone else--and our eyes meet. My stomach drops to my feet--you know, that feeling you get on a roller coaster right after you crest that first hill and start plummeting toward the ground. Oh my God, this can’t be happening. I’ve fallen in love with Ryder Marsden, the boy I’m supposed to hate. And it has nothing to do with his confession, his declaration that he loves me. Sure, it might have forced me to examine my feelings faster than I would have on my own, but it was there all along, taking root, growing, blossoming. Heck, it’s a full-blown garden at this point. “Our senior maid is Miss Jemma Cafferty!” comes the principal’s voice. “Jemma is a varsity cheerleader, a member of the Wheelettes social sorority, the French Honor Club, the National Honor Society, and the Peer Mentors. She’s escorted tonight by…ahem, sorry. I’m afraid there’s no escort, so we’ll just--” “Ryder Marsden,” I call out as I make my way across the stage. “I’m escorted by Ryder Marsden.” The collective gasp that follows my announcement is like something out of the movies. I swear, it’s just like that scene in Gone with the Wind where Rhett offers one hundred and fifty dollars in gold to dance with Scarlett, and she walks through the scandalized bystanders to take her place beside Rhett for the Virginia reel. Only it’s the reverse. I’m standing here doing the scandalizing, and Ryder’s doing the walking. “Apparently, Jemma’s escort is Ryder Marsden,” the principal ad-libs into the microphone, looking a little frazzled. “Ryder is…um…the starting quarterback for the varsity football team, and, um…in the National Honor Society and…” She trails off helplessly. “A Peer Mentor,” he adds helpfully as he steps up beside me and takes my hand. The smile he flashes in my direction as Mrs. Crawford places the tiara on my head is dazzling--way more so than the tiara itself. My knees go a little weak, and I clutch him tightly as I wobble on my four-inch heels. But here’s the thing: If the crowd is whispering about me, I don’t hear it. I’m aware only of Ryder beside me, my hand resting in the crook of his arm as he leads me to our spot on the stage beside the junior maid and her escort, where we wait for Morgan to be crowned queen. Oh, there’ll be hell to pay tomorrow. I have no idea what we’re going to tell our parents. Right now I don’t even care. Just like Scarlett O’Hara, I’m going to enjoy myself tonight and worry about the rest later. After all, tomorrow is another…Well, you know how the saying goes.

We share a bittersweet past and a roller-coaster present, but I have a good feeling that the future is going to be a smoother ride.

orking with serious mental illness, criminal behavior and substance addiction over the years has forced us to travel into interpersonal realms where few have gone. Over and over, we have had to face our own feelings of vulnerability, helplessness, fear and despair, only to find that, in the end, there is hope. Our experiences, although sometimes terrifying, compelled us to look deep inside ourselves, where we found an unexpected peace. It is through this upheaval and self-scrutiny that we have come to know joy. As therapists, it was a surprise to find out that so much of what we learned academically had so little to do with the reality of working with severely disturbed people. Not once during our academic careers were we ever realistically prepared for the roller-coaster nature of the professional path we were setting out on. We were not told of the horror, the helplessness or the elation we would feel in treating maladies of the human heart. So, when we launched our practice, it was trial by fire. When we were finally faced with patients in the depths of despair or the throes of violence-a humbling experience-we learned we had to drop the professional persona and rely on our own intuition. There

orking with serious mental illness, criminal behavior and substance addiction over the years has forced us to travel into interpersonal realms where few have gone. Over and over, we have had to face our own feelings of vulnerability, helplessness, fear and despair, only to find that, in the end, there is hope. Our experiences, although sometimes terrifying, compelled us to look deep inside ourselves, where we found an unexpected peace. It is through this upheaval and self-scrutiny that we have come to know joy. As therapists, it was a surprise to find out that so much of what we learned academically had so little to do with the reality of working with severely disturbed people. Not once during our academic careers were we ever realistically prepared for the roller-coaster nature of the professional path we were setting out on. We were not told of the horror, the helplessness or the elation we would feel in treating maladies of the human heart. So, when we launched our practice, it was trial by fire. When

YOUR MIND WILL PLAY TRICKS ON YOU There are many days you will feel like you are riding a roller coaster. Just remember — this is normal. There is no way around it. You will have mental ups and downs in this journey of building your business. You get started in the business, and you are fired up! You have huge dreams and expectations. Then you get your first no, and your dream gets shattered. You stay with it, and go through some more rejection and finally recruit a great partner … woohoo! You are back on top of the world. Then that recruit quits the next week … you are back in the dumps. But then you recruit someone else, and you see hope again! And maybe your business starts to get traction and grows. But after a while, 90 percent of your downline has disappeared, and your mind plays tricks on you. Now you wonder if it is even worth recruiting anyone else, if most are only going to quit anyway. So now the phone weighs 300 pounds, and you just can’t get motivated to make calls.

To connect with, not just communicate to your audience, you have to feel what they feel, experience what they experience, and think like they think.

Forgetting the benefits of God is also the mark of the immature Christian, one who lives by his feelings. He is prone to a roller-coaster spiritual life, moving quickly from ecstatic highs to depressing lows. In the high moments, he feels an exhilarating sense of God's presence, but he plunges to despair the moment he senses an acute absence of such feelings.

By denying feelings of anger, withdrawing from direct communication, casting themselves in the role of victim, and sabotaging others’ success, passive aggressive persons create feelings in others of being on an emotional roller coaster. ...exacting hidden revenge, the passive aggressive individual gets others to act out their hidden anger for them. This ability to control someone else’s emotional response makes the passive aggressive person feel powerful. He/she becomes the puppeteer—the master of someone else’s universe and the controller of their behavior.

By denying feelings of anger, withdrawing from direct communication, casting themselves in the role of victim, and sabotaging others’ success, passive aggressive persons create feelings in others of being on an emotional roller coaster...This ability to control someone else’s emotional response makes the passive aggressive person feel powerful.

God is Santa Claus for grown-ups, not a misery-guts, not an asshole; we've got enough of those in town already. I didn't believe; but the guy I didn't believe in wasn't like that. He was a warm, smiling chap, overflowing with benevolence; someone you looked up to with the same bafflement and confused wonder and absolute trust that you had for the giants who put you on your potty when you were two. He was a nice guy who would make it all right; who understood; the one guy you never had to explain your screw-ups to. He smelled good, too: of pews and old hassocks, floor polish and musty velvet drapes, of candle wax and mildewed pages. He resided in the tranquility that can fill even the heart of an unbeliever in old churches, where the eye and the spirit are soothed by the flicker of golden candlelight and the gentle but vivid hues from the stained-glass good guys above the altar. And the great thing about Him was, He was human. You could feel sorry for Him. I knew there could be only one reason why He let us suffer like this: He can't find a way to stop it. Like a roller-coaster ride that gets too scary, there's no way off. He set it in motion and now He's as helpless as the rest of us.

I’m not going to lie. I should say ‘thank you’ and walk away right now. I’m surprised at myself. I’m a sensible guy. I think things through, and anything that’s too risky—I don’t do. But you woke something up in me. I was dead. My life was dead. Then you came, and I feel God in you. I hear him in your voice. The crazy shit you do… he speaks to me. I don’t know how long I’ll last on a roller coaster. But all I want right now is for you to get out of here so I can experiment with your body.

You don't always keep on the top", she began again. "My life, my career has been like a roller coaster. I've either been an enormous success or just a down-and-out failure, which is silly because everybody always asks me, 'How does it feel to make a comeback?' And I don't know where I've been! I haven't been away." She paused, and Vangkilde waited. "It's lonely and cold on the top...lonely and cold," she said very quietly.

BPD is a disorder of instability and problems with emotions. People with BPD are unstable in their emotions, their thinking, their relationships, their identity, and their behavior. People with BPD have rocky relationships and are often afraid of being abandoned. Emotionally, people with BPD feel like they are on a roller coaster, with their emotions going up and down at the drop of a hat.

roller coaster I don't know what to tell you- some days it gets better some days it feels like it all fell apart. Some days would get so good you doubt you were ever at the bottom 'cause how could it be this good, right? You must have imagined it all now. But some days it gets so bad that you forget all the good days you had. You doubt you'd ever get one again and is it even worth holding out? When people day life is a roller coaster we all think, oh, how fun! But we forget just how horrible it was to hold your breath close your eyes anticipate that drop. And yeah, you'll feel a high a certain adrenaline rush but can you imagine living life like that? Being strapped in a roller coaster of your emotions and you just want out but your seat belt's tucked tight and the ride just won't stop. Sometimes, you just need someone else's arms to keep you intact while you were breaking.

At first, you have these overwhelming feelings of loss and grief. The sadness is heavy and unbearable. You are riding on a debilitating roller coaster of despair, rage, disbelief, and sleepless nights. You wonder if your pain will ever end. You question why no one understands and what to do next. Focusing on anything—anything at all, let alone meaningful—seems impossible. This is normal. You’re grieving and you’re allowed to…no, encouraged to grieve. Give yourself permission to mourn in your own way.

What we need is a Tools to Help You Co-habit With Your Suffering Day. I don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon. In the meantime, though, here are my tools. Share. They might help others. Talk. Don’t keep it to yourself. There’s a great saying in Narcotics Anonymous: an addict alone is in bad company. Let people in. It’s scary and sometimes it can go wrong, but when you manage to connect with people, it’s magic. Let people go. (The toxic ones.) They don’t need to know – just gently withdraw. Learn to say no. I struggled so much with this, but when I started to do it, it was one of the most liberating things that ever happened to me. Learn to say yes. As I’ve got older, I’ve become quite ‘safe’. I am trying more and more to take myself out of my comfort zone. Find purpose. It can be anything – a charity, volunteering … Accept that Life is a roller coaster. Ups and downs. Accept yourself. Even the bits you really don’t like – you can work on those. No one is perfect. Try not to judge. If I’m judging people, it says more about where I am than about them. It’s at that point that I probably need to talk to someone … Music is a mood-altering drug. Some songs can make you cry, but some can make you really euphoric. I choose to mostly listen to the latter. Exercise. There is science to back me up here. Exercise is a no-brainer for mood enhancement. Look after something. Let something need you for its survival. It doesn’t have to be kids. It can be an animal, a houseplant, anything. And last but not least … Faith. I’m not sure what I believe in, but I do feel that when I pray, my prayers are being heard. Not always answered, but heard. And that’s enough.

Things I'll Neva Forget I'll never Forget my mother The one who loves me most her pretty,priceless smile will forever be kept my life "so called" file her motherly touch had no comparison nor equal it could never be replaced,stopped or re-enacted into a sequel i felt as if her life was all but drawn up without perfection it was done wrong Now she's gone But I'll never Forget my MOTHER I'll never forget father The one who changed my life thanks to him I'll know how to treat my own wife the ultimate villein on my hoodlum chart he's at the top......Wonder Y?........ my daddy es a Flop thus he did lie,cheat & steal in my heart I denounce I'll never forget my FATHER I'll never forget my Family 'My People" The Mohasoa Pride & that 2% Bopape Tribe Our individual ups & downs made it one hell of a roller coaster ride jokes aside "we miss you" the one who died like my mom she was our escutcheon against the dark what a tragic lose of our artery of traffic see throw mi eyes "divided we'll fall....together we shall rise" I'll never forget my FAMILY I'll never forget You Guys "My Friends" Mmmm aaargh "writers block" over-loading there's just too many of y'all BUT I never forget " My Friends" I'll never forget......Who I Am Me the man of my dreams "Lebogang Bopape" The boy who never knew his abilities till he was 7 fucked up everything by the time he turned 11 my 1st day at school "quite funny" didn't talk to anyone for like a week or so till I fell cried so hard I accidentally ran into my very own Jezebel so wrong was I thinking she's the one my feelings weren't intact I had none Uncle said "you'll get them when you turn into a man SON" What happened next an emotional recession the leading cause factor 4 this deception............LIES! call them what y'all want black or white they'er still LIES! all you'll get trouble Shit I'm seeing double losing sight of what is right got my life blue,black,cherry.......Bleary Time will tell I am a bit blind but look behind you Deep in the back of your mind you are who you are I'll never forget ME! Lebogang Yep thats Me Baby!

When you find yourself strongly attracted to someone, what do you experience? Your knees go weak, your mouth goes dry, you get a funny feeling in the pit in your stomach, your pupils dilate. Adrenaline is rushing through your system. These are the body’s responses to fear! The attraction of special love is the attraction to fear. We’re climbing on board a roller coaster, but there’s no guarantee that the ride will be safe. Attraction and the fear of its loss are simultaneous. “What if he/she doesn’t like me?” Scarier still, “what if they do? What then?

Always remember, if you decide to allow your frustrations to rule, the next day will be even tougher. The world, moving at its own pace, barely cares about your sentiments. I know it is easier said than done, but you will have to find a way to conquer the feeling of despondency.

A half hour later, with a new schedule and an alarming set of "personal academic benchmarks" to meet, Steve was released back into the wild, feeling a confusing blend of joy and terror, which was often a ticket to a ride on the anxiety roller coaster.

Who counts in this world and how much? Who does the deciding? Who has "potential" (that is, value) and who does not? On the patio, thunder rumbled in the distance and Ronan squirmed against my chest, complaining a bit. What did matter was love, given freely and without agenda or expectation. I loved Ronan, this unique person, this human being, without thought to what it might lead to for me, what it might say about me, or what it made others think about me. It didn't matter if people thought the situation was tragic or the saddest this in the world, or they thought I'd gone wild with grief or become a mean and manic bitch. So what? This was my son, my baby, my 'handful of earth', sitting on my lap, cooing and squawking into an approaching thunderstorm under a dropped and thickening sky, the wind whipping through his hair as if her were on a roller coaster, feeling the fresh change in the air. Oh, I loved him. But that love would not chain him. There was nothing expected of or for him. In that love he was free. A love that was settled and calm, with no more thinking to do. A love that left people speechless, confused, delirious with misunderstanding.

The only other complaint I had about Jane's books, cousin-loving aside, was the getting-together part. They were stories of such unconquerable love, such strong feelings. You follow these characters through the ups and downs of an emotional roller coaster, this breathtaking will-they-or-won't -they, and is it too much to ask for a little more time spent on the I-love-you-and-want-to-be-with-you part? It was the very best part, and I wanted to draw it out. I wanted kisses--good, long, passionate ones. Jane never wrote about those.

Imagine a drug that can intoxicate us, can infuse us with energy, and can do so when taken by mouth. It doesn’t have to be injected, smoked, or snorted for us to experience its sublime and soothing effects. Imagine that it mixes well with virtually every food and particularly liquids, and that when given to infants it provokes a feeling of pleasure so profound and intense that its pursuit becomes a driving force throughout their lives. Overconsumption of this drug may have long-term side effects, but there are none in the short term—no staggering or dizziness, no slurring of speech, no passing out or drifting away, no heart palpitations or respiratory distress. When it is given to children, its effects may be only more extreme variations on the apparently natural emotional roller coaster of childhood, from the initial intoxication to the tantrums and whining of what may or may not be withdrawal a few hours later. More than anything, our imaginary drug makes children happy, at least for the period during which they’re consuming it. It calms their distress, eases their pain, focuses their attention, and then leaves them excited and full of joy until the dose wears off. The only downside is that children will come to expect another dose, perhaps to demand it, on a regular basis. How long would it be before parents took to using our imaginary drug to calm their children when necessary, to alleviate pain, to prevent outbursts of unhappiness, or to distract attention? And once the drug became identified with pleasure, how long before it was used to celebrate birthdays, a soccer game, good grades at school? How long before it became a way to communicate love and celebrate happiness? How long before no gathering of family and friends was complete without it, before major holidays and celebrations were defined in part by the use of this drug to assure pleasure? How long would it be before the underprivileged of the world would happily spend what little money they had on this drug rather than on nutritious meals for their families?

The idea here is to stop your brain from wrongly interpreting the sensations of anxiety as a threat and instead to trick your anxious mind into an excited state, the same kind of arousal you might feel if you were riding a roller coaster.

He was forty, which is the most frightening age in life. You don't feel sorry for the old, because they are old already; you don't feel sorry for the dead, because they are dead already. But you do feel sorry for those approaching old age, those approaching death. Forty! At fairgrounds you see roller coasters dashing up a steep slope followed by a steep drop and then another ascent. At the top of the slope, or rather just before the top, the vehicle has used up all the energy it acquired in the descent and it slows down and hesitates as if the top were unattainable, as it it were terrified of the approaching plunge. The man approaching forty is in a similar state of hesitation and uncertainty; his pace slackens, he is paralyzed by the approaching summit and the descent he cannot see but knows lies just ahead.

Some say life is a roller coaster. I see it as riding a wave. You're out there on your board and everything is calm—” “Excuse me,” she broke in. “You never surfed.” “I did,” he insisted, all innocence. “Well, I tried. I was never particularly good at it, but I did get the drift. You're out there in a huge ocean, straddling that board. The water is smooth, but deceptive. You know the waves are moving, and you watch and wait, and suddenly you feel that little shift underneath. You stand up. You totter, but regain your balance, then give yourself to something far bigger than you are. You have no control . You're just along for the ride, swept downwater so fast it takes your breath. Then it's done. Smooth water again.” Molly still wasn't sure he had ever surfed, but the analogy cleared her mind. The ocean, like the earth, was soothing.

Life resembles very violent raging thunderstorm exploding with blazing bolts of lightning crashing into the ground lighting it up in return leaving nice beautifully vibrant colorful rainbows in place. Never exactly knowing how and when or what to expect at any time spinning you into whirling’s of vicious circles in wonder meant. Life, can treat you in many wildly different ways making your head spinning into whirling tornados turning everything upside down, inside out making you feel as though you are on a major roller coaster.

The idea of staying is new to me, you know. I spent the last decade trying to convince myself that things I remembered here weren’t real. When I came back to claim Grandma’s house, I wasn’t sure whether there was anything here that could possibly make me want to stay. Every time I see you it feels like we’re on a roller coaster. Highs and lows. Passion and fury. I can’t get past the notion that we might be bad for each other. Don’t you see it?” “I don’t now if we’re bad for each other, but I know I ain’t good for anyone else.

I guess that’s how normal people feel most of the time. They live in the space between black and white, and their ups and downs are various shades of gray, not the extreme highs and lows I’ve always thought of as normal. I think that’s one of the major differences between us and them, between addicts and Normies. Somewhere along the line we got stuck on this roller coaster that only knows how to go to the highest up and the lowest low. We get high so we can feel invincible and perfect, but the feeling never lasts. Gravity always wins, and we fall fast, to a place lower and darker than many people will probably ever know. And the crazy thing is that this is just normal for us. We cycle through these extremes all the time, and it’s become as natural as breathing. Exhausting, but natural. We’ve forgotten what it looks like in the middle, but I’m guessing it looks something like this—sitting in a quiet room trying to do homework and wondering what’s for dinner. Simple. Nothing too exciting. Part of me feels relieved, but part of me also feels bored, like I have no idea what to do with myself, and I’m having a hard time sitting still in this chair. Part of me wants to get up and scream and tear my hair out, and part of me wants to lie down and curl up into a ball and fall asleep. And it’s making me anxious.

I do know is that I feel like I’m on an emotional roller coaster, climbing up a steep hill of happiness one day and then plunging into the depths of insecurity the next.

Ascending and descending hills and mountains is an absolute joy on a motorcycle, not only for the roller coaster type feeling you experience, but also because of the way scenic views unfold before you as you crest a hilltop or mountain peak.

Right after something tragic happens, you feel like you’ve fallen off a cliff. But after the tragedy starts to sink in, you realize you didn’t fall off a cliff. You’re on an eternal roller coaster that

I’m not here to make you feel better. I’m on the same roller coaster you are.

When your life feels like a roller coaster, scream and let go of life.

People don't understand how much spiritual darkness makes depression worse. The mental illness is bad enough by itself, but when you're spiritually malnourished, the only thing you have left to rely on are your physical senses. If I can't feel anything spiritually, I'll try anything to feel with my five senses. I want to taste something that will blow my mind, touch whatever is going to make me feel good, see whatever causes my mind to fantasize the most - and the cycle continues. I just wanted to feel alive. That's the real reason so many people spend money on things they don't need, ride the roller coaster of casual sex, or party every weekend until they can't think straight. They just want to feel alive. I learned the hard way that you can't sin your way out of suffering. In the end you just create more suffering from your sin. You can't wake yourself up from a depressive funk with obsessive addiction. It won't work. Trust me, I've tried it. Winning at work won't be enough. The applause of others won't fulfill you. It will haunt you in your private moments.

Empaths who are not in control of their gift find it a terrible source of stress, pain, and anxiety. Feeling other people’s emotions as though they are your own can feel as if you are on a constant emotional roller coaster.

Your experience of life is determined by where you focus your attention. If you focus on content, i.e., the thoughts, images, and feelings arising right now, your attention is lost in a world of judging things as good, bad, or neutral—a real roller-coaster ride.

Fours’ moods are like fast-moving weather patterns. In the blink of an eye they can go from up to down, back to average, then plummet, then soar and finally return to baseline. In fact, Fours can feel overwhelmed from experiencing so many feelings at one time that when it comes time to organize them, they don’t know which one to pick out and talk about first. Do you see the problem? If the identity of the Four is hitched to their feelings, then it’s always changing. Their sense of self never stabilizes. Until they wake up it’s like watching someone riding the emotional equivalent of the El Diablo roller coaster at Six Flags.

Instead of focusing, in the style of the “neural correlates of consciousness” (NCC) approach, on a single exemplary conscious experience—like the experience of “seeing the color red”—Tononi and Edelman asked what was characteristic about conscious experiences in general. They made a simple but profound observation: that conscious experiences—all conscious experiences—are both informative and integrated. From this starting point, they made claims about the neural basis of every conscious experience, not just of specific experiences of seeing red, or feeling jealous, or suffering a toothache. The idea of consciousness as simultaneously informative and integrated needs a little unpacking. Let’s start with information. What does it mean to say that conscious experiences are “informative”? Edelman and Tononi did not mean this in the sense that reading a newspaper can be informative, but in a sense that, though it might at first seem trivial, conceals a great deal of richness. Conscious experiences are informative because every conscious experience is different from every other conscious experience that you have ever had, ever will have, or ever could have. Looking past the desk in front of me through the window beyond, I have never before experienced precisely this configuration of coffee cups, computer monitors, and clouds—an experience that is even more distinctive when combined with all the other perceptions, emotions, and thoughts that are simultaneously present in the background of my inner universe. At any one time, we have precisely one conscious experience out of vastly many possible conscious experiences. Every conscious experience therefore delivers a massive reduction of uncertainty, since this experience is being had, and not that experience, or that experience, and so on. And reduction of uncertainty is—mathematically—what is meant by “information.” The informativeness of a particular conscious experience is not a function of how rich or detailed it is, or of how enlightening it is to the person having that experience. Listening to Nina Simone while eating strawberries on a roller coaster rules out just as many alternative experiences as does sitting with eyes closed in a silent room, experiencing close to nothing. Each experience reduces uncertainty with respect to the range of possible experiences by the same amount. In this view, the “what-it-is-like-ness” of any specific conscious experience is defined not so much by what it is, but by all the unrealized but possible things that it is not. An experience of pure redness is the way that it is, not because of any intrinsic property of “redness,” but because red is not blue, green, or any other color, or any smell, or a thought or a feeling of regret or indeed any other form of mental content whatsoever. Redness is redness because of all the things it isn’t, and the same goes for all other conscious experiences.

Similarity. Analogy is one of the most powerful creative tools. We’ll dig deeper into the power of analogy in the next chapter. Here, consider parallel contexts at one end of the dial and completely unrelated ones at the other. To think of good analogies to try, start with the intended outcome. Want to make ice cream faster? “Who or what is built for speed?” Want to delight your customers? “Who or what delights people?” The brain solves new problems in this way, using its understanding of a familiar topic to grapple with one that appears very different on the surface. You might apply the lessons of high school football to your first job managing a team, or transplant one of Napoleon’s battlefield strategies to a product launch. Consciously or unconsciously, we distill principles from observations and then see where else they might fit. How might we make ice cream like a therapy session? How might an Olympic sprinter serve up an ice cream cone? How might Apple design a container for ice cream sprinkles? How might eating ice cream feel like a roller coaster? Like a magic show? Like a horror movie? HMW questions can be silly or serious.

Every life can be experienced from the point of view of the victim or the survivor. Life is a roller coaster. Good and bad things are going to happen regardless of what we think, how we feel or what we do. “Happiness” isn't a destination. It's a way of travel. I have no real control over the big events of my life. I can only hope to control my perception, my attitude and my reactions.

There is no doubt that Kristine Laco is a super funny writer—just check out any of her online humour pieces if you don’t believe me—but what you might not expect is that she can also turn around and make you cry. In this memoir, Laco reveals her more vulnerable side as she shares her mental health struggles and the journey she undertakes to overcome them, all with her trademark humour and an openness and generosity that makes the reader feel as though they are part of the gang. This is a big-hearted, roller-coaster ride of a book, in which Laco shows the reader that even in the darkest times in our lives, there is light.