The suicidal lead shame-drenched lives.
When the black thing was at its worst, when the illicit cocktails and the ten-mile runs stopped working, I would feel numb as if dead to the world. I moved unconsciously, with heavy limbs, like a zombie from a horror film. I felt a pain so fierce and persistent deep inside me, I was tempted to take the chopping knife in the kitchen and cut the black thing out I would lie on my bed staring at the ceiling thinking about that knife and using all my limited powers of self-control to stop myself from going downstairs to get it.
Some people’s self-esteem was secretly improved when they discovered that their then-lovers had killed themselves over them.
All continuous suffering, is self inflicted.
Crisis is what suppressed pain looks like; it always comes to the surface. It shakes you into reflection and healing.
He did not care what the end would be, and in his lucid moments overvalued his indifference. The danger, when not seen, has the imperfect vagueness of human thought. The fear grows shadowy; and Imagination, the enemy of men, the father of all terrors, unstimulated, sinks to rest in the dullness of exhausted emotion.
Rain makes me feel less alone. All rain is, is a cloud- falling apart, and pouring its shattered pieces down on top of you. It makes me feel good to know I’m not the only thing that falls apart . It makes me feel better to know other things in nature can shatter.
They set about making people so unhappy and isolated and when they crawl into a hole and pull it in after them, they have the nerve to call homosexuality a ‘suicidal lifestyle’. And yet they do this – and deny that any gay or trans person could ever be a ‘true’ Christian. As if THEY are.
How unhappy does one have to be before living seems worse than dying?