I would see him at the library when I studied, at the dining halls, which always caused me to lose my appetite, and, although I didn’t see him at night, I spent many sleepless nights thinking about him, with that terrible look he gave me haunting my dreams.
You can love someone in a way you never loved your ex.
Go to brunch and see how exhaustingly average most people are. Invite an old friend to a flea market and remind yourself why you stopped hanging out with them.
About one year ago, I was secretly dealing with depression and fed up with everything.
I’ve never been ashamed of this per se, but I’ve never broadcast it either. I see no reason to, as it doesn’t define me. Except when it does.
Mental illness does not mean being “crazy.”
It’s easy to stay in your room and watch Netflix all night.
When all else fails, remember that this thing is big, huge, and terrifying, but it is not impossible.
A wrong turn here and there and you’re stuck in the labyrinth of sadness forever.
We have built an idealistic outline of what it means to happy: a certain amount of friends/social status, a relationship, a specific body type, a socio economic status, etc. But what happens when a person has met all of these ideals and still feels empty?