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You want to know, but are afraid to ask, whether or not I found someone. If there could be anyone to fill that hole in my heart after I lost him. I did. Life is futile, says my new therapist, Michaela, and no one gets out of it alive. There is only love.

Emma Forrest

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Emma Forrest
Age: 47
Born: 1976
Born: December 26
Film Director
Journalist
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
London
England
Life
Asks
Therapists
Anyone
Hole
Whether
Holes
Lost
Fill
Found
Afraid
Someone
Gets
Heart
Says
Therapist
Love
Alive
Futile

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I would say at the moment the only person who could have played me this past year would have to be Angelina Jolie.
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Cyndi Lauper was hilarious and generous, someone I'd loved from childhood who didn't disappoint.
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My radar, after all these years of sanity, is still off when it comes to what people do or don't mean.
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Of course he freaked me out. Of course it's nothing to do with me. But none of that matters. He loved me and now he doesn't. I was everything to him and now I am nothing.
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Time heals all wounds. And if it doesn't, you name them something other than wounds and agree to let them stay.
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You’re like Marilyn Monroe,’ Ken tells me, which I take as a compliment and say a nervous “Thank You”. Interrupting, he adds, ‘You’re all velvet and Velcro. Men want you because you’re sexy and broken and when it gets too rough they can say “Hey! This toy is broken!” and toss you aside without feeling bad.
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Write a page every single day, even if what you put on the page that day is no good - it's the only way to get better.
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He was only twenty-five.He was young enough to miss his youth just as it was slipping away. The worst kind of loss-the one that is happening as you feel it.
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I still believe that you truly find yourself not in travel, but in other human souls.
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I didn't know there was something really wrong, because everyone was crazy. It's just that everyone else was still functional. I didn't realize that I was any worse off.
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I finally accept that not only do I not understand the death of my relationship, but I do not need to. These men were good and kind to me, they loved me and I loved them back and the shock at the finish holds no wisdom. The revelation is not that I lost them, but that I had them.
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He was a super shiny boy and I liked the shape of him. Under the blanket. In the shower. I liked his shadow on the street and his imprint on the sofa. I hated the smell of hair gel on his head, but I loved it on the pillow. I love the smell of losing someone.
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Well. There is a psychiatric occurrence we see in men-not often women-where they put all their hopes and dreams onto one person, so intensely that at some point it trips a wire in the brain circuitry, and that causes them to go, in a minute, 180 degrees the other way.
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Now that he's gone, I feel like I'm a senior citizen who gave away her life savings over the phone. And this is the crux: I never in my life believed in someone as much as I believed in him. The shame is overwhelming.
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Someone asked me the other day, Oh your story is like Cameron Crowe's, he has the same thing of having been a teenage journalist, but he was a guy and you just add gender into the mix, it's a 16-year-old girl with adults and rock stars, and it's tough.
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It's as if he can no longer acknowledge the love he felt or the pain I am in. I have been dismissed. I don't think I was smarter or as beautiful as the other girls he did this to. It's just that I was me. It was all I had.
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There's so much guilt there attached to having a perfectly good life.
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I think that's the function of a lot of psychiatrists and therapists, is keeping people afloat just long enough for them to get older.
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There is that doll dress-up quality of adorable teenage girl writer, and I never felt either as adorable as I was supposed to be, or as dark as the rumors, you know, She must have slept with the editor, and I was like, Oh my god, I'm still a virgin. It was very strange.
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This boy has negative charisma. He walks into a room and the oxygen starts to evaporate. I guess that's why girls sleep with him. They find his awfulness transfixing. He's like a lousy 1970's disaster movie that they can't bring themselves to turn off, even though it is making their life worse every minute they leave it on.
Emma Forrest