Quotes About Healing

While I'm counting with the Count, I list the reasons why I wish the pills had worked. 1. I wouldn't have to face going back to school. 2. I wouldn't spend the rest of my life being known as the girl who tried to kill herself and failed at that, too. 3. I wouldn't have to remember, and so, because of that, and here's the biggie: 4. I wouldn't have to feel. Anything. Ever again.

Grief can be a burden, but also an anchor. You get used to the weight, how it holds you in place.

You can't just turn your heart off like a faucet; you have to go to the source and dry it out, drop by drop.

Because this is what happens when you try to run from the past. it doesn't just catch up: it overtakes, blotting out the future, the landscape, the very sky, until there is no path left except that which leads through it, the only one that can ever get you home.

You only really fall apart in front of the people you know can piece you back together.

I had stepped into his arms, showing him my raw, broken heart.

Grieving doesn't make you imperfect. It makes you human.

All I'd ever wanted was to forget. But even when I thought I had, pieces had kept emerging, like bits of wood floating up to the surface that only hint at the shipwreck below. Because that is what happens when you try to run from the past. It doesn't just catch up: it overtakes, blotting out the future, the landscape, the very sky, until there is no path left except that which leads through it, the only one that can ever get you home.

With my mom, when someone was gone, they were gone. She didn't waste another minute thinking about them, and neither should you.

That was the hard thing about grief, and the grieving. They spoke another language, and the words we knew always fell short of what we wanted them to say.

I didn't want to talk about what happened, so it seemed safest not to talk at all.

I remembered Owen telling me how music had saved him in Phoenix, that it drowned everything out, and it was the same for me now. As long as I had something to listen to, I could blur the things I didn't want to think about, if not block them out completely.

The dead aren't the only ones who vanish: you, too, can disappear in plain sight if enough is taken from you. I was still missing, in many ways. And I wasn't sure I wanted to be found.

All we had was her room, her stories, and the quiet that settled in as we tried in vain to spread ourselves out and fill the space she'd left behind.

It was like when you ripped a piece of paper into two: no matter how you tried, the seams never fit exactly right again. It was what you couldn't see, those tiniest of pieces, that were lost in the severing, and their absence kept everything from being complete.

It was such a weird thing how a breakup stretched much wider than you expected. You didn't just lose a person, but their entire world as well.

Maybe that's what you got when you stood over your grief, facing it finally. A sense of its depths, its area, the distance across, and the way over or around it, whichever you chose in the end.

We didn't talk about our scars, the ones you could see and the ones you couldn't.

Just because something's damaged doesn't mean it shouldn't be treated with respect

And trying to break it down this way, to minor and major offenses, maybes and what-ifs, was like arguing over the origin of cracks in a broken egg. It was done. How it happened didn't matter anymore.

I was tired of hanging on, taking the torn pieces to make something whole with them.

Forgiveness is hard. Acceptance is doable.

I reached up with my finger and traced the scar over my eyebrow, remembering when that was the greatest hurt I'd ever known.

n the dark everyone felt the same: the edges blurred. When I think of myself then, what I was like two years ago, I feel like a wound in a bad place, prone to be bumped on corners or edges. Never able to heal.