A psychiatrist does not want you to wake up. He tells you to dream some more, to find the pond and pour more tears into it. And really, he's just another bird drinking from your misery.

I have a writer's memory, which makes everything worse than maybe it actually was.

Her education only made her unhappy thinking about it - that no matter how much she changed her life, she could not change the world that surrounded her.

God, life changes faster than you think.

I have always known a thing before it happens.

Your only shame is to have shame.

I learned to make things not matter, to put a seal on my hopes and place them on a high shelf, out of reach. And by telling myself that there was nothing inside those hopes anyway, I avoided the wounds of deep disappointment. The pain was no worse than the quick sting of a booster shot. And yet thinking about this makes me ache again. How is it that as a child I knew I should have been loved more? Is everyone born with a bottomless emotional resevoir?