Emilie Autumn Quotes

Actually, it was only part of myself I wanted to kill: the part that wanted to kill herself, that dragged me into the suicide debate and made every window, kitchen implement, and subway station a rehearsal for tragedy.

This is what I am. I have periods of enormous self-destructive depression, where I go completely off my trolley and lose all sight of reality and reason.

I voluntarily inflicted a certain level of insanity on myself.

I have a tremendous battle with melancholy and depression.

I'm always on the verge of death in my head.

Nine men in ten are would be suicides.

The counterpart of the suicide is the seeker; but the difference between them is slight.

I can't get my wrists to bleed, just don't know why suicide appeals to me.

You never can tell, though, with suicide notes, can you? In the planetary aggregate of all life, there are many more suicide notes than there are suicides. They're like poems in that respect, suicide notes: nearly everyone tries their hand at them some time, with or without the talent. We all write them in our heads. Usually the note is the thing. You complete it, and then resume your time travel. It is the note and not the life that is cancelled out. Or the other way round. Or death. You never can tell, though, can you, with suicide notes.

You're dealing with people who are suiciding slowly. You've got to get to the bottom of what is psychologically motivating them to self-destruct.

We have to fight off the demons that have been hanging around suicide for centuries.

I know from my own experience that suicide is not what it seems. Too easy to try to piece together the fragmented life. The spirit torn in bits so that the body follows.

Suicides aren't heroic in my opinion. And I don't think anybody ever really knows why somebody commits suicide.

So much pressure in this life of mine, I cry at times, I once contemplated suicide and woulda tried, but when I held that nine, all I could see was my mama's eyes, no one knows my struggle, they only see the trouble, not knowing it's hard to carry on when no one loves you.

I'm really quite bipolar, and the depressed times, when everything felt like night, sometimes you get to such a low point that you physically beat at it until it bleeds - as you would say - bleeds till sunshine.

I wanted to die, then. I wanted to destroy the body I was trapped in, become what she was, no matter what it took. No matter how much mutilation or pain. But he looked away, at me. He pulled my face down and pressed my lips against his like he was almost trying to suffocate us both.

I know a man who gave up smoking, drinking, sex, and rich food. He was healthy right up to the day he killed himself.

My own life was filled with so much love and joy that when depression struck, it was like a prison door slamming shut and I was being placed in an isolation cell. No one else could possibly be feeling what I was. I hated my depression and all of its symptoms.

Depression is close to me, but suicide hasn't been.

The little depression I experienced during my manic-depression was not like depression as anyone else had ever described it. It was very violent and angry, and I was full of rage. I wasn't lying in bed.

Early on, if I was alone two three nights in a row, I'd start writing poems about suicide.

I never tried to kill myself or anything.

I never worried about topping myself.

I have a suicide impulse.

The man, who in a fit of melancholy, kills himself today, would have wished to live had he waited a week.