The worst type of crying wasn't the kind everyone could see – the wailing on street corners, the tearing at clothes. No, the worst kind happened when your soul wept and no matter what you did, there was no way to comfort it. A section withered and became a scar on the part of your soul that survived. For people like me and Echo, our souls contained more scar tissue than life.
I’m broken, and no one can fix it. I’ve tried. I’m still trying. I can’t love anyone because it’s not fair to anyone who loves me back.
Whenever you read a cancer booklet or website or whatever, they always list depression among the side effects of cancer. But, in fact, depression is not a side effect of cancer. Depression is a side effect of dying.
The fact is, I was sick, but not in an easily explained flu kind of way. It’s my experience that people are a lot more sympathetic if they can see you hurting, and for the millionth time in my life I wish for measles or smallpox or some other recognisable disease just to make it simple for me and also for them.
I know, too, that death is the only god who comes when you call.
If everyone could just wear new clothes every day, I reckon depression wouldn’t exist anymore.
For weeks Tyrone thought he was going to die any minute, and there were also times when he was afraid he wasn’t going to die.
If you could read my mind, you wouldn’t be smiling.
All he knew was that his working days were miserable and he had a succession of lousy holidays.
…the heart has no tears to give, – it drops only blood, bleeding itself away in silence.
He knows bad days. Bad days take him completely by surprise. They make him not trust the good days because it’s likely something is lurking twenty-four hours away.
My schedule for today lists a six-hour self-accusatory depression.