Terry McMillan Quotes

Kill me, I don't care. I do not want to be on this Earth anymore.

I've been in pain hope it doesn't show I've been insane well the time is slow

If wild my breast and sore my pride, I bask in dreams of suicide, If cool my heart and high my head I think 'How lucky are the dead.

I wonder how many times each day she dies a little.

I realize now I didn't really want to die. I just wanted to stop the hurt and pain.

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.

I almost died, secretly, behind closed doors.

It got to a point where I didn't care if I lived or I died.

I hit my head against the wall because I don't want to know all the terrible things that I know about. I don't want to feel all these wretched things, but they're in me already. If I don't get rid of them, I'm not ever going to feel anything else.

Depression is about as close as you get to somewhere between dead and alive, and it's the worst.

How could you not want to draw breath one more day? How could your own life be such a cheap commodity? But then I started to understand: when your existence is hell, death must be heaven.

When I'm in pain and grief and despair, my throat is clenched and my heart hurts.

There is a dark place calling to me, but I will not go just yet. I know I can't return from it.

He did not know which was more painful, the waking or the sleeping. When he slept, he dreamed: dark disturbing dreams of blood and broken promises. When he woke, there was nothing to do but think, and his waking thoughts were worse than nightmares.

They flank me - depression on my left, loneliness on my right. They don't need to show their badges. I know these guys very well. ... Then they frisk me. They empty my pockets of any joy I had been carrying there. Depression even confiscates my identity; but he always does that.

Man survives earthquakes, epidemics, the horrors of disease, and all the agonies of the soul, but for all time his tormenting tragedy is, and will be, the tragedy of the bedroom.

The greater part of human pain is unnecessary. It is self-created as long as the unobserved mind runs your life.

Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering—this is an all-weather beatitude for gloom in general and fairly salutary day-time advice for everyone. But at three o’clock in the morning, a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn’t work—and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day.

I stumbled out into the courtyard to try to flee my misery, but of course we can never flee the misery that is within us.

She was as one who, in madness, was resolute to throw herself from a precipice, but to whom some remnant of sanity remained which forced her to seek those who would save her from herself.

But the division in him was a sorrow and a torment, and he became accustomed to it only as one gets used to an unhealed and frequently reopened wound.

I've lived too long with pain. I won't know who I am without it

I kept thinking how marvellous it would be if I could somehow tear my heart, which felt so heavy, out of my chest.

I knew I would always want to go on living with myself, however hollow I became, however diseased.