Emilie Autumn
| Katalógusnév |
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Könyvei 2
Illusztrálásai 1
Felolvasásai 1
Népszerű idézetek
The worst thing about being bipolar or mentally ill in any way is that any time you're legitimately sad – any time you're truly angry, and with good and clear reason, you will be told that you are only feeling as you are because of your illness. Every time your boyfriend is being and ass, and you call him on it, this is what you will hear, so get used to it: 'Have you been taking your medication?' A life of non-credibility, even amongst those you love. This is what you face. Especially amongst those you love, for they think they know you. It is the eternal equivalent of being asked if it's your 'Time of the Month' every time you get upset. If this doesn't make you want to kill yourself, I don't know what will…
65. oldal
I had always thought that cutting was something that angsty teenage girls did for attention. That was before I began doing it.
78. oldal
„What are you here for?” […]
„I'm suicidal,” I announce.
Oh my. I sounded almost proud about that. And I'm smiling. God, maybe I do belong here.
3. oldal
I was lying in a field of tall, soft grass – tall enough to hide me from anyone who came looking. The grass moved around me, but there was no sound; I was like a fish lying at the bottom of my cozy aquarium, amongst the sea anemones and dwarf hairgrass. I felt a soft blanket of tree-filtered sunlight wash over me, and I wanted to sleep forever.
page 1 (about a suicide attempt)
While I do not deny having it, I am not fond of the idea of manic depression, because it often appears to me to be used as an excuse for bad behavior. I am interested in reasons, not excuses, not for me, not for anybody else. In my own life, I give myself absolutely no leeway to be an ass or offend anybody when I am going through one of my episodes. If I so much as snap at someone because I am nauseatingly depressed or detoxing from some pill or other, I flog myself for it later. I may despise the disease, and hate the way that the media and the public in general promote the idea than any Hollywood celebrity who chronically embarrasses themself in public must be bipolar, my distaste for manic depression doesn’t make the disease any less real.
There is another thing that troubles me, and this is the way in which it is often said that a particularly unattractive part of a person we are acquainted with is in fact not part of that person at all, but merely a result of their illness, which may be entirely true, and yet, by ascribing the offending behavior to the illness and not to the sufferer, we learn a lot about the illness, but nothing about the person. Whole years of people’s lives, whole sections of people’s characters are wiped away with one diagnosis, and the only thing we don’t know who that person would have been had they not existed under the influence of their disease. Would they have been better people? Worse? The same? You may think I am only speaking of those whose manic behavior becomes criminal or dangerous, or whose depressive character destroys their marriage, but I am not; I’m talking about me, and every other person who is not quite sure who they are once you take away the disease. It’s all very well to say, “Oh, don’t worry, that’s not you, that’s your illness.” But what, then, am i left with? What is me, and how can I be sure?
215-216. oldal (The Asylum Emporium, 2013)
