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Its the people you are close to, the ones who love you, the ones who have seen your heart, who have touched your soul - to them, it is obvious that something is wrong or missing. Your heart and soul are missing. They feel it. It hurts them. It kills them.

Elizabeth Wurtzel

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Elizabeth Wurtzel
Age: 52 †
Born: 1967
Born: July 31
Died: 2020
Died: January 7
Autobiographer
Journalist
Lawyer
Writer
New York City
New York
Elizabeth Lee Wurtzel
People
Seen
Kills
Wrong
Hurts
Soul
Touched
Feel
Obvious
Feels
Missing
Heart
Close
Something
Ones
Love
Hurt

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Just as our parents quieted us when we were noisy by putting us in front of the television set, maybe we're now learning to quiet our own adult noise with Prozac.
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Belief is a good thing in principle, but an annoying thing in human beings.
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That's what it's like in my head all the time, constant snow, constant weather patterns of all sorts - blizzards, cyclones.
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You know you've completely descended into madness when the matter of shampoo has ascended to philosophical heights.
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I'm the girl who is lost in space, the girl who is disappearing always, forever fading away and receding farther and farther into the background. Because with every day that goes by, I feel myself becoming more and more invisible
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In a strange way, I had fallen in love with my depression.
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I wasn't just the madwoman in the attic--I was the attic itself. The past was all over me, all under me, all inside me.
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I don't think it matters how many parents you've got, as long as those who are around make their presence a good one.
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Everything's plastic, we're all going to die sooner or later, so what does it matter.
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That is all I want in life: for this pain to seem purposeful.
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They have no idea what a bottomless pit of misery I am.
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I thought depression was the part of my character that made me worthwhile. I thought so little of myself, felt that I had such scant offerings to give to the world, that the one thing that justified my existence at all was my agony.
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I start to feel like I can't maintain the facade any longer, that I may just start to show through. And I wish I knew what was wrong. Maybe something about how stupid my whole life is.
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It's nonverbal: I need love. I need the thing that happens when your brain shuts off and your heart turns on. And I know it's around me somewhere, but I just can't feel it.
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I’ve been looking for a feeling like that everywhere I go. I’ve been waiting for someone to see all the good in me at every truck stop and intersection along the way. I’ve been waiting all my life for the moment to arrive when I can just stop. Stop looking
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Banned! My eyes light up, I think I see stars. Anything that has been banned by anyone must be something I’d like.
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Years of depression have robbed me of that—well, that give, that elasticity that everyone else calls perspective.
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People who think that Sylvia Plath was a poor, sensitive poet are not getting that she had great amounts of ambition and anger that moved her along, or she wouldn't have been able to fight against that depression to produce such an incredible body of work by the age of thirty.
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Ritalin abuse is a big issue in the US.
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I am fortunate to have been well paid for an almost pathological honesty.
Elizabeth Wurtzel