What can I say, I’m a sucker for abandoned stuff, misplaced stuff, forgotten stuff, any old stuff which despite the light of progress and all that, still vanishes every day like shadows at noon, goings unheralded, passings unmourned, well, you get the drift.
As a counselor once told me -a counselor for Disaffected Yought, I might add: “You like that crap because it reminds you of you.” Couldn’t of said it better or put it more bluntly. Don’t even disagree with it either.
-Mark Z Danielewski, House of Leaves
I do not write this in a spirit of sourness or personal disappointment of any kind, nor do I have any romantic attachment to suffering as a source of insight or virtue. On the contrary, I would like to see more smiles, more laughter, more hugs, more happiness and, better yet, joy. In my own vision of utopia, there is not only more comfort, and security for everyone — better jobs, health care, and so forth — there are also more parties, festivities, and opportunities for dancing in the streets. Once our basic material needs are met — in my utopia, anyway — life becomes a perpetual celebration in which everyone has a talent to contribute. But we cannot levitate ourselves into that blessed condition by wishing it. We need to brace ourselves for a struggle against terrifying obstacles, both of our own making and imposed by the natural world. And the first step is to recover from the mass delusion that is positive thinking.
― Barbara Ehrenreich, Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America
Also, my life is so stupid I just made my therapist cry when I was talking about stuff. I was talking about the old rape or something and she starts tearing up and then crying and I was like, “Why are you crying?” and she said, “Your life,” and I said, “Is it really that bad?” Because I thought this was just growing up. Maybe not. Maybe I’m special in the worst way.
-Elissa Washuta, My Body is a Book of Rules
Side note: something similar happened to me when I was in college, and it had the awesome effect of me thinking that I was broken beyond repair (I mean, if my story was so fucked up that it made a psychologist cry, it kinda follows…) and therapy would never help me.