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330 pages, Hardcover
First published July 7, 2016
"I want to see that girl in my social media selfies. The one that smiles and never has to live up to anyone's expectations or explain why she is the way she is. But all I see in my real-life reflection are blunt smudges of shadow. Fragile. Upset. Weak. Thin. Afraid. Failing. And tired. Above everything else, tired of battling with my own mind."
“See, anxiety doesn’t just stop. You can have nice moments, minutes where it shrinks, but it doesn’t leave. It lurks in the background like a shadow, like that important assignment you have to do but keep putting off or the dull ache that follows a three-day migraine. The best you can hope for is to contain it, make it as small as possible so it stops being intrusive.
Am I coping? Yes, but it’s taking a monumental amount of effort to keep the dynamite inside my stomach from exploding.” (rtc)☁️ buddy read with kat
“I'm being forced to challenge ideas that have kept me safe for so long. There's an entire library of information in my head, and suddenly I can't decide if any of it is worth reading.”
A side effect of worrying about everything and everyone; I cry at least once a week over things that shouldn’t concern me.
I just want to have proof that I can think straight, that I am more than the girl who believes that odd numbers will cause a catastrophe.
Perfection is a feeling; you’ll know it if you’ve ever questioned the competency of your penmanship before writing on the first page of a new notebook.
“Do you need some help?”
I’m drenched in shadow, and boots with steel toecaps take three steps onto the porch. Three steps. That’s awkward. He leaves his back leg trailing behind. I wish he would bring it forward and make it four steps even. My eye twitches.
It’s possible I’ve ingested enough of my own fingers to call myself a cannibal. They’re so chewed I have trouble straightening them. I very much doubt every girl my age does this. This is perhaps bordering more on my unhealthy levels of panic.
"I've heard You don't look mentally ill at least a half a dozen times in the past four years, a couple of those times from my former friends. I blame the media, stereotyping "mental illness" and calling every murderer since Manson crazy. People always seem to be expecting wide eyes and a kitchen knife dripping with blood."