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If killing yourself is not an option anymore, you have to sink into the darkness instead, and make something out of it.

Emma Forrest

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Emma Forrest
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: December 26
Film Director
Journalist
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
London
England
Option
Killing
Anymore
Darkness
Instead
Something
Make
Sink

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At least you know where you are with blood. At least other people can see it.
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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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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.
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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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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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Jeff Bridges says that the reason he's one of the few stars in Hollywood whose made his marriage last for decades is that every time they think there's no more doors left to walk through in the room, they just keep looking and keep looking until they find one.
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Yes, I have patterns of love addiction. But I'm a woman. Of course I do.
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It took a long time, but my heart now feels full when I think of him. When you fall in love again—which I have—it's funny the other things that come back in with that open-ness. You have this ghost chorus of the lovers who came before, but they're benign now, they're good spirits.
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The truth is I have had, for whatever reason, several movie-star boyfriends.
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When you live with voices in your head, you are drawn inextricably to voices outside your head. Very often the voices work to confirm your worst suspicions. Or think of things you could never have imagined! There are only so many hours of the day to hate yourself.
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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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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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I think a neurotic learns from their mistakes. A psychotic does not.
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What people don't understand when you've already been a suicide and pulled through is that after the sadness comes fear: Where is my mind going with this? I don't want to die. I do not want to die. When you don't have so much control over your own thoughts, over the myriad voices in your head, you don't know where they could go.
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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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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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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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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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I do think everything that happens in American pop culture sort of prescribes for England and does end up happening there six months later, maybe a year.
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