Anne Clendening Quotes

I've always felt safer at night. You can be much more forgiving of yourself, not to mention the world and everyone in it, when your shortcomings aren't threatened by the brazen light of day. And by shortcomings, I mean damage. The scars are still there, but at least they're easier to hide. I never understood why they shine a fluorescent spotlight in the faces of alleged culprits in old movies to get them to tell the truth. Put me to bed and turn off the lights. I'll tell you everything. I'll be who you want me to be, I'll be honest. I'll be who I want to be, I'll be braver. Just don't ignore me. I really do want to be stronger, sweeter, less afraid all the time. Maybe it's a within-the-womb thing, but it's safer in the dark. What they should really warn you about is the light.

Love is a lady. Lust is a tramp.

It's amazing how fearless you can be when you want something bad enough, the lengths to which you'll go, the grit you'll put into the scheming and maneuvering. That's determination for you. I would have made a good bounty hunter.

I want to belong. Belonging makes things okay, and I want to be okay. I just want to be okay.

I needed a time machine. I needed to run around the past and gather up all the old, unbroken parts of me and try to Frankenstein myself back together again. My healthy body, my unjaded sixteen-year-old heart, my baby brain. I may not make such a pretty monster, but at least I'd feel like myself again.

The panic was there, staring me down in the face, all the time, like I had a hoodie on backwards and I couldn't get it off.

An addict newly separated from their thing, whether it's drinking, drugs, throwing up ten times a day or anything else is like a person with no head. Your entire identity goes M.I.A. once you're no longer doing it.

Fear is a bastard. Fear is an attention whore. I want to ask fear if it has mommy issues, because that's the only reason I can think why it needs attention so bad. I want fear to get Parkinson's. Then maybe fear will know how it feels to be on the run from something it doesn't understand.

One of the hardest things you'll ever do is give yourself permission to be in pain of any kind. There's a reason we have survival instincts, so that we don't die. That goes for humans, animals (redundant, I know), all the fishes in the sea, everyone. Some researchers even say that even plants feel pain and a cucumber will scream when you cut it. (And some others say that's crap because they have no brain or central nervous system.) The point is, we're all wusses. And emotional pain is the worst.

Addiction, at its worst, is akin to having Stockholm Syndrome. You're like a hostage who has developed an irrational affection for your captor. They can abuse you, torture you, even threaten to kill you, and you'll remain inexplicably and disturbingly loyal.

One thing's for sure, everyone has something. Not everyone has a giant scar or a missing limb to show for it, but it's there. The indelible mark of that thing. It's that thing that will not just go away quietly. That thing you resent because it can't let one day go by without making you think about it no matter how hard you try, until you end up depressed/angry/drunk/isolated (at best), disassociated (middle) or utterly self-destructive (at worst). It's that thing that went and branded you without your permission.

Take a moment in between breaths to let yourself see what's left to be seen, all the places you've been. Your old haunts. I pass by them every day, and after all these years I'll find myself wondering if they're just facades, like the saloon fronts and gun shops of an old ghost town set. As if I can poke my head inside the doors in the light of day and see nothing but framed out rooms and sandy floors, existing for no other reason than to give structure to who I used to be.

Rise up and lift your sword, peaceful warrior. Keep it strong and steady. You've already lived and fought a thousand battles, and you're not here - again - to cower in fear and pain.

Who knows the meaning of life, death, or anything else quasi-important. Maybe the starving poets on street corners and oceanside piers. I'd give 'em my last dollar to inspire me. That's all I really want.

I don't want to hide. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to wander off into the desert in shame and die and become vulture food. Or end up keeling over just because I'm too self-conscious to leave the house. Cause of Death: Unnecessary Loneliness.