Corey Ann Haydu Quotes

We are LornaCruzCharlotteDelilahIsla and we aren't afraid of love, even if we're supposed to be.

I try Dr. Pat's breathing exercises but they're not working because my entire mind is focused on keeping myself glued to the couch. I don't want to move any closer to the bathroom just in case. But I hate myself for the thought. I know it's not right or normal. I know I'm not simply some cute quirky girl like Beck says, and every moment I can't get off the couch is a moment that makes me one level crazier. That heavy, pre-crying feeling floods my sinuses and I drop my head from the weight of it. Cover my face with my hands long enough to get out a cry or two. Because there is nothing, nothing worse than not being able to undo the crazy thoughts. I ask them to leave, but they won't. I try to ignore them, but the only thing that works is giving in to them.
Torture: knowing something makes no sense, doing it anyway.

Sometimes it's a comfort to tell the same stories over and over; sometimes it's a torture

I think of everything and I'm pretty sure if I could use my organizational skills for something else, like wildlife survival kits or preparing people for nuclear warfare, I'd be a millionaire. Or at the very least actually a useful human being.

I can't quite figure out the difference between loving someone and loving things about them.

Even when everything hurts, even when other cities are exploding and people we love are disappearing, there's still space for sweet things.

On our own, we'd look totally normal. Together, we're something else. Together, we're special.

The human mind is a complicated place ... We hold on to things, images, words, ideas, histories that we don't even know we're holding on to.

Love is insanity, apparently.

I want to know if we are the same, in the moments when we're stripped bare.

It's like, I'm scared and there're a lot of ugly things, but I'd rather be shipwrecked on this lovely island than safe in a sad, gray cell.

That's the thing about anxiety: It's a real time suck.

Carrying all of these thoughts is downright heavy.

I feel stupid for thinking the future was going to be easy and simple and ours.

You never know what's going to be in the garden in June when you're looking at it in January.

Maybe, if you love something enough, being near it can change everything.

Maybe, if you love something enough, it matters more than fitting in and belonging and being safe.

Sleep comes, no matter how deep the sadness cuts. It's like a gift from the universe.

I close my eyes and make a wish that I'll stop having OCD so that I can be a decent friend again. If I want it badly enough, hopefully it will come true.

I am a vacation. I am the Caribbean, and a fruity drink and a sunburn and a break from real life. But I am not real life. No one lives in the Caribbean. No one wants a fruity drink every day. I'd rather be water: necessary.

You are more wonderful than rain.

Torture: knowing something makes no sense, but doing it anyways.

I was usually on xylophone. On my worst days she gave me a wooden block and a drumstick and tried to convince me that was a valid musical instrument.

I like how love lets everyone in.

Like Christmas trees and Easter egg hunts and the block party on the last day of summer, we do things because traditions feel cozy and safe.

Feelings are like blankets, covering you up so you can't see clearly, or like mazes you can too easily get lost inside. I am terrified of getting lost.

If you love someone and they vanish, you are left nodding like a zombie and throwing teacups at a wall.

Even the worst things about Devonairre Street are better than the rest of the city.

How could you live somewhere so icy cold and imposing, so clearly in conflict with the rest of the city, the rest of the human population, and stay in love? As far as I can tell, love takes place in townhouses and cozy cottages and cramped studio apartments and rundown guest houses. This place might as well be an office building or a spaceship.

We have to give up so many things when the people we love die. So we hang on to other familiar things.

It's strange how in the craziest moments you reach for normal things like handshakes and formal introductions.

This is another awful truth of losing people you love: everyone needs something different. And the needs almost never match up.

Hearts expand to fit more love in them over time . You think there can't possibly be anymore room but there always is.

I see my mother exactly as she is – sad and strong, tense and trying.

An ache is just an ache: something that settles into your heart and reminds you that love is there even if the person you love isn't.

It feels like giving up.
It feels like falling into bed after an all-night rave.
It feels that right.
It's surrender. It's that thing I have been searching for.

Everyone else's Minute of remembering is over, but ours stretches on and on. It doesn't
end.

Memories are quiet things.

We are our mothers' daughters, are we not?

We're all a little broken, on the sidewalk. On the street. In the city.

If I didn't know better, I'd think I suffer from some sort of Tourette's-autism hybrid, but Dr. Pat insists I can control the impulse to say whatever pops into my head. That it's, like, a defensive mechanism, not a biological imperative. Therapists think everything is a defense mechanism. Just my thinking that in my head, right now, is a defense mechanism.

It sounds like love just sort of happens, whether you want it to or not, whether you're married or not.