Best 923 quotes in «mental illness quotes» category

Fear of breaking family loyalty is one of the greatest stumbling blockages to recovery. Yet, until we admit certain things we would rather excuse or deny, we cannot truly begin to put the past in the past, and leave it there once and for all. Unless we do that, we cannot even begin to think of having a future that is fully ours, untethered to the past, and we will be destined to repeat it.

Feelings don't try to kill you,even the painful ones. Anxiety is a feeling grown too large. A feeling grown aggressive and dangerous. You're responsible for its consequences, you're responsible for treating it

Fools write books about madness being an elevated mental state or an alternative form of creativity. It's not, it's anguish.

For all the normal people who make fun of the mentally ill it's spelled K.A.R.M.A. and it's pronounced your days coming, Bitch!

Forgive me for being chipper, but despair is desperately dull.

Forgive me," I wrote at the bottom. "I did not think I would break.

For me to have sat around calling the crazy stuff "crazy" would have been the most wasteful, unimaginative thing I could have done. There were so many much better things to do with it.

For those of us with BPD, entering into a shared experience means passing through the ring of fire that leaves us feeling even more burned—and in this case branded with a label no one would ever choose to wear.

For years I described dissociation but didn't talk about the disorder. Sometimes I could tell from people's questions that they knew must have developed DID to survive, but they didn't ask outright.

Frustration wells in me, and I want to cry as I back away from the thing of lighters, but somehow, I don’t. I just stand there, watching him laugh and trying to not let the moment cut me down completely. No part of this is funny, and I try to be rational—maybe he isn’t even laughing at me at all and just has the worst timing in the world—but I’m paranoid and take offense to it anyway. Using my hair to shadow my face, I turn away from him and pad back over to Camilla.

Genius by birth, Bipolar by design

Geraldine keeps her eyes trained on him as she slowly reaches into her purse, wrapping her fingers around her gun. “…Callo, I’m so sorry that your life ended up this way,” she sighs as she gets out of her side of the car, her feet burning from the cold as her high heels sink into the fallen snow. “Aren’t you scared?” “I’m you, Geraldine… I fell into the same trap as you, anyway,” Callo answers. His large eyes are shining with tears, but he doesn’t seem afraid in the least. “…The dead don’t feel anything, you know… not even guilt or regret. So, what is there to be afraid of?

Gingerbread I knew I had to get out of there before the icing cracked and they discovered that I'm burnt around the edges, doughy in the center, that what they thought was sugar is salt. If I was a good girl, if I could satisfy their cravings, if every dream in my misshapen head didn't bite, I might have stayed at the table. Wouldn't you run, too, from such voracious love?

Greed is a contagious mental illness without which civilization as we know it would not have been possible.

God only knew what ran underneath the fierce self-discipline and emotional control that had come with my upbringing. But the cracks were there, I knew it, and they frightened me.

Há um morcego de papel da festa das bruxas pendurado num cordão acima de sua cabeça; ele levanta o braço e dá um piparote no morcego, que começa a girar. - Dia de outono bem agradável - continua ele. Fala um pouco do jeito como papai costumava falar, voz alta, selvagem mesmo, mas não se parece com papai; papai era um índio puro de Columbia - um chefe - e duro e brilhante como uma coronha de arma. Esse cara é ruivo, com longas costeletas vermelhas, e um emaranhado de cachos saindo por baixo do boné, está precisando de dar um corte no cabelo há muito tempo, e é tão robusto quanto papai era alto, queixo, ombros e peitos largos, um largo sorriso diabólico, muito branco e é duro de uma maneira diferente do que papai era, mais ou menos do jeito que uma bola de beisebol é dura sob o couro gasto. Uma cicatriz lhe atravessa o nariz e uma das maçãs do rosto, o luga em que alguém o acertou numa briga, e os pontos ainda estão no corte. Ele fica de pé ali, esperando, e, quando ninguém toma a iniciativa de lhe responder alguma coisa, começa a rir. Ninguém é capaz de dizer exatamente por que ele ri; não há nada de engraçado acontecendo. Mas não é da maneira como aquele Relações Públicas ri, é um riso livre e alto que sai da sua larga boca e se espalha em ondas cada vez maiores até ir de encontro às paredes por toda a ala. Não como aquele riso do gordo Relações Públicas . Este som é verdadeiro. Eu me dou conta de repente de que é a primeira gargalhada que ouço há anos. Ele fica de pé, olhando para nós, balançando-se para trás nas botas , e ri e ri. Cruza os dedos sobre a barriga sem tirar os polegares dos bolsos. Vejo como suas mãos são grandes e grossas. Todo mundo na ala, pacientes, pessoal e o resto, está pasmo e abobalhado diante dele e da sua risada. Não há qualquer movimento para faze-lo parar, nenhuma iniciativa para dizer alguma coisa. Ele então interrompe a risada, por algum tempo, e vem andando, entrando na enfermaria. Mesmo quando não está rindo, aquele ressoar do seu riso paira a sua volta, da mesma maneira com o som paira em torno de um grande sino que acabou de ser tocado - está em seus olhos, na maneira como sorri, na maneira como fala. [1] - Meu nome é McMurphy, companheiros, R. P. McMurphy, e sou um jogador idiota. - Ele pisca o olho e canta um pedacinho de uma canção : - .... " e sempre eu ponho ... meu dinheiro ... na mesa " - e ri de novo.

Happiness is not a reward. It's a consequence. You have to work at it every day.

Hate is a self-destructive illness.

Guidance counselors always love to say, 'Just think positively,' but that's impossible when you have this thing inside of you, strangling every ounce of happiness you can muster. My body is an efficient happy-though-killing machine.

Have you ever suddenly realized it's someone else's mood swing and you're just along for the ride?

Here are three separate but similar things: shyness, introversion and social anxiety. You can have one, two or all three of these things simultaneously. A lot of the time people thing they're all the same thing, but that's just not true. Extroverts can be shy, introverts can be bold, and a condition like anxiety can strike whatever kind of social animal you are. Lots of people are shy. Shy is normal. A bit of anxiety is normal. Throw the two together, add some brain-signal error - a NO ENTRY sign on the neural highway from my brain to my mouth perhaps, though no one really knows - and you have me.

Haymitch isn't thinking of arenas, but something else. "Johanna's back in the hospital." I assumed Johanna was fine, had passed her exam, but simply wasn't assigned to a sharp shooters' unit. She's wicked with a throwing axe but about average with a gun. "Is she hurt? What happened?" "It was while she was on the Block. They try to ferret out a soldier's potential weakness. So they flooded the street, " says Haymitch. This doesn't help. Johanna can swim. At least, I seem to remember her swimming around some in the Quarter Quell. Not like Finnick, of course, but none of us are like Finnick. "So?" "That's how they tortured her in the Capitol. Soaked her then used electric shocks," says Haymitch. "In the Block, she had some kind of flashback. Panicked, didn't know where she was. She's back under sedation." Finnick and I just stand there as if we've lost the ability to respond. I think of the way Johanna never showers. How she forced herself into the rain like it was acid that day. I had attributed her misery to morphling withdrawal. "You two should go see her. You're as close to friends as she's got," says Haymitch. That makes the whole thing worse. I don't really know what's between Johanna and Finnick, but I hardly know her. No family. No friends.Not so much as a token from District 7 to set beside her regulation clothes in her anonymous drawer. Nothing.

He now sees that I’ve clearly been crying for years.

Having DID is, for many people, a very lonely thing. If this book reaches some people whose experiences resonate with mine and gives them a sense that they aren't alone, that there is hope, then I will have achieved one of my goals. A sad fact is that people with DID spend an average of almost seven years in the mental health system before being properly diagnosed and receiving the specific help they need. During that repeatedly misdiagnosed and incorrectly treated, simply because clinicians fail to recognize the symptoms. If this book provides practicing and future clinicians certain insight into DID, then I will have accomplished another goal. Clinicians, and all others whose lives are touched by DID, need to grasp the fundamentally illusive nature of memory, because memory, or the lack of it, is an integral component of this condition. Our minds are stock pots which are continuously fed ingredients from many cooks: parents, siblings, relatives, neighbors, teachers, schoolmates, strangers, acquaintances, radio, television, movies, and books. These are the fixings of learning and memory, which are stirred with a spoon that changes form over time as it is shaped by our experiences. In this incredibly amorphous neurological stew, it is impossible for all memories to be exact. But even as we accept the complex of impressionistic nature of memory, it is equally essential to recognize that people who experience persistent and intrusive memories that disrupt their sense of well-being and ability to function, have some real basis distress, regardless of the degree of clarity or feasibility of their recollections. We must understand that those who experience abuse as children, and particularly those who experience incest, almost invariably suffer from a profound sense of guilt and shame that is not meliorated merely by unearthing memories or focusing on the content of traumatic material. It is not enough to just remember. Nor is achieving a sense of wholeness and peace necessarily accomplished by either placing blame on others or by forgiving those we perceive as having wronged us. It is achieved through understanding, acceptance, and reinvention of the self.

her eyes are unfathomable to me, hostile, even, as if she had removed herself to a place where I cannot reach her - somewhere I cannot know.

Her parents, she said, has put a pinball machine inside her head when she was five years old. The red balls told her when she should laugh, the blue ones when she should be silent and keep away from other people; the green balls told her that she should start multiplying by three. Every few days a silver ball would make its way through the pins of the machine. At this point her head turned and she stared at me; I assumed she was checking to see if I was still listening. I was, of course. How could one not? The whole thing was bizarre but riveting. I asked her, What does the silver ball mean? She looked at me intently, and then everything went dead in her eyes. She stared off into space, caught up in some internal world. I never found out what the silver ball meant.

He's smiling brightly, but I don't really know what he's thinking, because you can't always believe smiles.

He thought, this is hell, not being able to live with oneself.

He wouldn't tell me that I always have two options—You can choose how you feel or you you can let your feelings choose you because maybe it is true that those were the options that my husband had, but I knew I didn't have those options and I hated for someone to tell me that I had options I didn't have because I knew that my mind was a small object for sale and my feelings could pick me up and own me and maybe my husband was too expensive for feelings to choose him, to pick him up and have him rung up and scanned and bagged and taken along with those feelings, feelings of I can't really get out of bed today and Husband, would you please not talk to me for the rest of the year. I, too often, had my face smashed against concrete curbs of Ruby, memories of Ruby, the way her face had looked that afternoon as she curled in that chair by the window and the light streaming in and the dark streaming out and what happened so soon after—I went around hostage to those memories, an invisible person following me with a gun barrel to my back.

He tried to sleep, but his head was filled with the faces of lunatics, their palsied hands, their shattered eyes.

He wondered if he could ever make his ego light enough to relax in not having to settle the meaning of things. What would that feel like?

He wondered at the atrocities human kind was capable of committing. The majority of those housed below were ill, mentally or physically, not witches. Most were poor victims--the outcasts of society; or the opposite, people so blessed, others coveted their lives.

...his condition in Roanoke is a strong testament that lassitude, indifference and the peculiarities of his thought were primarily the consequences of his illness and not of the early attempts to treat it. The popular view that anti-psychotics were chemical straight jackets that suppressed clear thinking and voluntary activity seems not to be borne out in Nash's case. If anything, the only periods when he was relatively free of hallucinations, delusions and the erosion of will were the periods following either insulin treatment or the use of anti psychotics. In other words, rather than reducing Nash to a zombie, medication seemed to reduce zombie like behavior.

Holding one's self responsible is a critical feature in stigma and in the generation of shame since violation of standards, rules, and goals are insufficient in its elicitation unless responsibility can be placed on the self. Stigma may differ from other elicitors of shame and guilt, in part because it is a social appearance factor. The degree to which the stigma is socially apparent is the degree to which one must negotiate the issue of blame, not only for one's self but between one's self and the other who is witness to the stigma. Stigmatization is a much more powerful elicitor of shame and guilt in that it requires a negotiation not only between one's self and one's attributions, but between one's self and the attributions of others.

How can you be mad that something doesn't happen, when it would hurt another person? If she had to quit for her health, then I'm glad she did. You shouldn't have to kill yourself for your art.

Hope can be foolish or misguided, but there was no such thing as false hope. Hope was always true even when there was no evidence to support its claim.” - Liam

Humans grow a tree within their minds. A tree known as the self. It's a tree that is nourished through wisdom and experience, emotion and love. Each person has their own variety and type of tree. What kind of flowers will it grow? What kind of fruit will it bear? Who will it fascinate, what will it yield, how will it keep the pests away? What kind of poison will it possess? How tall will it grow?

How does a person exist after their world has been torn to pieces? It must be possible. People do it all the time. After all the floods and tornadoes and wars that have hit the world with inexorable violence, people somehow scrape up their lives and begin again.

I again invoke my favorite analogy for eating disorders: abusive lovers. And what do you do when someone is in an abusive relationship? You don’t allow visitation rights, weekly dates. You don’t put them in the vicinity of or let the abuser flirt with them. You keep them the fuck away.

How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a spectre through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral throat?

I admit I have Mental Illness so please no more 'Fruit Cakes' for Christmas Please

I AM come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence--whether much that is glorious--whether all that is profound--does not spring from disease of thought--from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in waking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless or compassless into the vast ocean of the "light ineffable", and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, "agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi". We will say then, that I am mad.

I am Broken single mother Disconnected lover Slow motion dresser Dark secret confessor White flag trend Professional dead end

I am but a man attempting to be graceful as I slowly decend into madness.

I am here for readers to see parts of themselves during my dark days, but also for a better way of living in my triumphs and gained wisdom.

I am not manic-just happy. It has been such a long time since I was happy. Please join me on my magic carpet for now.

I am not the heroine of this story. And I'm not trying to be cute. It's the truth. I'm diagnosed borderline and seriously fucked-up. I hold grudges. I bottle my hate until it ferments into poison, and then I get high off the fumes. I'm completely dysfunctional and that's the way I like it, so don't expect a character arc where I finally find Redemption, Growth, and Change, or learn How to Forgive Myself and Others.

I attempted to be clear and straightforward in my approach to Dr Tate, deferring to his medical expertise and stating my desire merely to be helpful. Renee and Joan Frances, in turn, were clear and straightforward about their needs in a way that was new for them. Yet we were seen as manipulative multiple and puppet therapist. Renee had probably never been less manipulative in her life than when she was trying to reason with Dr. Tate.

I am strange; I show different things; So please Don’t think I don’t love you Because the truth Is the opposite

I began to see her mind like an old television set, one with a dial you had to change the channels. She'd gotten stuck between channels and all that was broadcasting in her mind was crackling white noise which drove her mad and scared me to death. The medicine was like turning down the volume. The channels might still be stuck but at least the set was no longer spewing the deafening static. The volume had to be lowered until the channels could work again