I don’t know what it’s like not to have anxiety but I assume it’s like that. It’s probably not exhausting.

The world is shattered and we wander barefoot through one another’s broken shards and glittering slivers.

To be exhausted by a marathon that looks like complete paralysis on the outside but feels like being on both sides of a violent tug-of-war on the inside.

Someone once told me that the difference between introverts and extroverts is that introverts recharge by being alone (like any normal person) and extroverts recharge by being with others (like vampires).

I tell myself I will be me again soon. But until I am, I may be a broken dove, reminding others of the terrible but fantastic visions that come with an unquiet mind and the strange burden of sometimes becoming a shadow.

People without depression won’t understand that, but the fatigue of mental illness makes your very body a prison.

It’s a strange thing … to be tangled up in things no one else really cares about. To be so busy with worry that your constant back-and-forth looks like utter inaction.

I fell so far into my own head that I couldn’t see how to get out of it.

We’re all built differently, and maybe for you the missing piece is religion or trust or love or acceptance, but we’re all shattered in our own way and we all pick up pieces that others leave behind.