Fear of madness, only the fear of madness will drive us out of the precincts of our solitude, out of the sacredness of our solitude. The fear of madness will burn down the walls of our secret house and send us out into the world seeking warm contact. Worlds self-made and self-nourished are so full of ghosts and monsters.
here lies clarity, in a perfect grave
comprised of perfect steel, the perfect blade
was a perfect white against the perfect lines, from last perfect night
I'm the perfect picture of complacency
...and that's all I feel
slow motion replaces real time
as the horror fills their eyes
these claws will never kill again
the lines I wear around my wrist
are there to prove that I exist
I am a monster, clothed in crimson sleeves
and perforated lines where my wrists should be
There’s something in us that is very much attracted to madness. Everyone who looks off the edge of a tall building has felt at least a faint, morbid urge to jump. And anyone who has ever put a loaded pistol up to his head… All right, my point is this: even the most well-adjusted person is holding onto his or her sanity by a greased rope. I really believe that. The rationality circuits are shoddily built into the human animal.
I have said that my grandfather was and had always been a mysteriarch, never a philanthropist of the mind, not a restorer of wounded psyches. In no way did he take a therapeutic approach with the inmates at the sanitarium. He did not view them as souls that were possessed, either by demons or by their own painful histories, but as beings who held a strange alliance with other orders of existence, who contained within themselves a particle of something eternal, a golden speck of magic which he thought might be enlarged. Thus, his ambition led him not to relieve his patients' madness, but to exasperate it -- to let it breathe with a life of its own. And this he did in certain ways that wholly eradicated what human qualities remained in these people. Read more »
I'm having a sort of hard time paying attention because my automated teller has started speaking to me, sometimes actually leaving weird messages on the screen, in green lettering, like 'Cause a Terrible Scene at Sotheby's' or 'Kill the President' or 'Feed Me a Stray Cat,' and I was freaked out by the park bench that followed me for six blocks last Monday evening and it too spoke to me.
I have all the characteristics of a human being: blood, flesh, skin, hair;
but not a single, clear, identifiable emotion, except for greed and disgust.
Something horrible is happening inside of me and I don’t know why.
My nightly bloodlust has overflown into my days.
I feel lethal, on the verge of frenzy.
I think my mask of sanity is about to slip.
It is not pleasant to experience decay, to find yourself exposed to the ravages of an almost daily rain, and to know that you are turning into something feeble, that more and more of you will blow off with the first strong wind, making you less and less. Some people accumulate more emotional rust than others. Depression starts out insipid, fogs the days into a dull color, weakens ordinary actions until their clear shapes are obscured by the effort they require, leaves you tired and bored and self-obsessed - but you can get through all that. Not happily, perhaps, but you can get through. No one has ever been able to define the collapse point that marks major depression, but when you get there, there's not much mistaking it. Major depression is a birth and a death: it is both the new presence of something and the total disappearance of something.
Depression is the flaw in love. To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and depression is the mechanism of that despair. When it comes, it degrades one's self and ultimately eclipses the capacity to give or receive affection. It is the aloneness within us made manifest, and it destroys not only connection to others but also the ability to be peacefully alone with oneself.
In depression this faith in deliverance, in ultimate restoration, is absent. The pain is unrelenting, and what makes the condition intolerable is the foreknowledge that no remedy will come -- not in a day, an hour, a month, or a minute. If there is mild relief, one knows that it is only temporary; more pain will follow. It is hopelessness even more than pain that crushes the soul. So the decision-making of daily life involves not, as in normal affairs, shifting from one annoying situation to another less annoying -- or from discomfort to relative comfort, or from boredom to activity -- but moving from pain to pain. One does not abandon, even briefly, one's bed of nails, but is attached to it wherever one goes.
My name is Gabrielle and I am twenty-eight years old. I began to self-injure at age fifteen -- so nearly thirteen years minus a two year period. This website is one about self-injury (self-harm), made to let self-injurers know that they are not alone and to help their friends and family learn more about self-injury and how it affects their loved one.