Holly Bourne Quotes

Because trying to use logic to explain anxiety is like using a banana to open a locked safe.

It was all very well being a strong independent woman, but it was hard when boys' confusing behaviour kept making you lose your focus.

Everyone's on the cliff edge of normal. Everyone finds life an utter nightmare sometimes, and there's no 'normal' way of dealing with it... There is no normal, Evelyn.

Yeah, well, your penis seemed to really like someone else on Saturday.

All I'm saying is, love changes over time. No person is ever perfect for another person

Mental illnesses grab you by the leg, screaming, and chow you down whole.They make you selfish. They make you irrational. They make you irrational. They make you self-absorbed. They make you needy. They make you cancel plans last minute. They make you not very fun to spend time with. They make you exhausting to be near.

No one ever tells you how much a heartbreak physically hurts. How it literally feels like you've been kicked down the stairs. How you can't swallow. How every muscle aches. How your heart lurches inside you like it's been poisoned. Nobody tells you that.

What was the point? What is the point in love, and promises of it, when it can just jump from one person to another like that?

This is life, Lottie. There's no such thing as a happy ending. Because there's no such thing as an ending. More days keep coming, some good, some bad. You can't just stay limboed in a moment of happiness. That's not realistic.

Being interesting isn't important. But being happy is. As well as being a person you're proud of

I find sentences pushing their way into my brain - demanding to be listened to. Words arranging themselves into order, feelings tapping me on the shoulder and begging to be understood. My mind is cluttered and busy and I know I won't relax until I let them out (...) You can do just as much damage by not saying anything as you can by saying something.

There's a certain type - who use their diagnosis like a human shield. They think it's a reason to find offence in anything. Accuse everyone of triggering them. Act like the world should wrap them up in cotton wool and lie coats over puddles for them just because they're on antidepressants or whatever.

Maybe there in a set amount of crying your body needs to deal with any trauma. There's a certain water-level of tears you need to shed until you can find acceptance or move on or whatever. And, if you don't cry them out, they just catch up with you.

But what if you needed to get what you want... just once?

I don't know. How are you supposed to know? Why can't God come down from the sky with a giant foam finger, point at some bloke, and say, "That one, Evie, you're supposed to fall in love with that one. He's not a douche, I checked for you.

Nobody really likes coffee. They just pretend to because drinking coffee makes them feel like a proper adult.

Because now mental health disorders have gone "mainstream". And for all the good it's brought people like me who have been given therapy and stuff, there's a lot of bad it's brought too.
Because now people use the phrase OCD to describe minor personality quirks. "Oooh, I like my pens in a line, I'm so OCD."
NO YOU'RE FUCKING NOT.
"Oh my God, I was so nervous about that presentation, I literally had a panic attack."
NO YOU FUCKING DIDN'T.
"I'm so hormonal today. I just feel totally bipolar."
SHUT UP, YOU IGNORANT BUMFACE.
Told you I got angry.
These words – words like OCD and bipolar – are not words to use lightly. And yet now they're everywhere. There are TV programmes that actually pun on them. People smile and use them, proud of themselves for learning them, like they should get a sticker or something. Not realizing that if those words are said to you by a medical health professional, as a diagnosis of something you'll probably have for ever, they're words you don't appreciate being misused every single day by someone who likes to keep their house quite clean.
People actually die of bipolar, you know? They jump in front of trains and tip down bottles of paracetamol and leave letters behind to their devastated families because their bullying brains just won't let them be for five minutes and they can't bear to live with that any more.
People also die of cancer.
You don't hear people going around saying: "Oh my God, my he

Why love is never like the movies

I will always try to live.

Common dates in romance movies:
Seats in a box at the opera or ballet
Walking around a beautiful foreign city
Night-time picnics in empty parks
Finding some gorgeous abandoned house that the boy fills with candles

Common dates in real life:
Nando's...

(...) love isn't just a feeling. Love is a choice too. And you may no be able to help your feelings, but you are responsible for the choices you make about what to do with them.

Bad stuff happens, people are mean, there are no steps you can take that ensure the world leaves you alone. All you can do is try not to be one of those people who contributes to the bad.

It would've been the perfect time to tell her. To tell anyone. To say, 'I'm drowning and I need someone, anyone, to be my life raft.' To say, 'I thought it had gone, and it hasn't and I'm so scared by what that means.' To say, 'I just want to be normal, why won't my head let me be normal?

Because now people use the phrase OCD to describe minor personality quirks. "Oooh, I like my pens in a line, I'm so OCD."
NO YOU'RE FUCKING NOT.
"Oh my God, I was so nervous about that presentation, I literally had a panic attack."
NO YOU FUCKING DIDN'T.
"I'm so hormonal today. I just feel totally bipolar."
SHUT UP, YOU IGNORANT BUMFACE.

British?" I tried to explain. "We make jokes about uncomfortable topics to feel less awkward about them?" How Hard Can Love Be? chapter 22

It's not fair to set people tests and then get annoyed when they fail them.

It's hard enough, feeling the clock ticking and yet life not obliging to give you the things others have. To feel defunct and left behind and scared as hell about it -- and the more nervous you get about it, the more you give off some smell that makes it less likely to happen.

Sometimes that's all you can do in life, when it comes to pain - try and understand it. We all carry scars and scorch marks around with us. We cuddle up each night with ghosts of damaging memories - we let them swirl around our heads, never able to settle or heal because we can't make sense of this terrible thing that happened to us, and why we're finding it so impossible to get over. You can't force pain to leave until it's ready to.

Somehow the gusts of wind we rode on in our twenties have landed us somewhere and we have to make this somewhere work. Because you can't turn back the clock. It's too late now to figure out whether you're on the right gust or not. And you don't want people to know you're so stuck, and so scared and think it's too late to get yourself out of this situation. You don't want to fail when everyone else is supposedly thriving. And, you are happy, right? Sometimes you're happy, anyway. And isn't that what happiness is? Fleeting moments, rather than a permanent state of euphoria. And as long as it looks OK on the outside who cares, right?

Everything is always my fault. I touch things and they crumple into shit, like the opposite of King Midas and his gold finger. If I was in a fairy tale, I would be called "PooFinger", and everyone would shun me and make me go live in some naff shack under a bridge, telling scary stories to all the children in the kingdom about the wench who turns everything to shit, just by touching it.

I wonder how many times in a given second girls are told that their guts are wrong? Told our tummies are misfiring, like wayward fireworks. No, no, no, dear, it's not like that at all. Where did you get that from? I promise you that's not the case. You are overreacting. You are crazy. You are insecure. You are being a silly little thing. And, then, days or weeks or even years later, we look back on The Bad Thing that happened to us because we ignored all the signs, and we say to ourselves I wish I had listened to my gut.

When you fight for what you believe in, you come across a lot of obstacles. People who don't agree with you, people who agree with you but only some bits, people who delight in ripping you down, people who are threatened by the strength of your belief.

But I was beginning to realise, the biggest hurdle to overcome was the hurdle of yourself.

Maybe all you needed in life was the belief you could change things. Somehow. Some way.

Writing's much more romantic when its pen and ink and paper. It's... More timeless. and worthwhile. Think about it. There are so many words gushing out into the universe these days. All digitally. All in Comic Sans or Times New Roman. Silly Websites. Stupid news stories digitally uploaded to a 24-hour channel. Where's all this writing going? Who's keeping a note of it all? Who's in charge of deciding what's worthwhile and what isn't? But back then... Back then, if someone wanted to write something they had to buy paper. Buy it! And ink. And a pen. And they couldn't waste too many sheets cos it was expensive. So when people wrote, they wrote because it was worthwhile... not just because they had some half-baked idea and they wanted to pointlessly prove their existence by sharing it on some bloody social networking site.

(...) is the more you're trying to prove to people you're happy, the less happy you actually feel.

So you gotta fight for your right to be ruddy miserable

We need to kill with kindness. Cure with compassion.

A mess. That's what I was, at this lonely number thirty-seven bus-stop.
And here I am, still a mess.
A mess with no messages on her phone. Let alone a message with three kisses.

If we expect all men to have six-packs and biceps, we can't get mad when they expect us to be stick-figures with DD boobs.

Crying is a very obvious sign that something isn't going right in your life. You should not ignore tears.

I can't, guys," I said. "Tonight I'm making a cherry pie from scratch.

I'm terrified that my journey won't tie up all the loose ends nicely. Because this is a life, not just a story, and life doesn't always go the way stories tell you.

I wanted to grab his mum's face and yell, "I'm not a horrible person, I'm not. But I'm broken too and I've never been on the recovering end of this behaviour before and I can't handle it and I have to look after me first, before anyone else.

Because there's nothing more comforting than someone who actually gets it. Really gets it. Because they've been to the same hell as you have and can verify you've not made it up.

Life doesn't happen to you. You can't just sit on a park bench and expect amazing things to whizz by on a conveyor belt. Life is what you put into it.

Learning anything interesting?"
"Not really. Psychology sounds a lot more interesting than it actually is."
Dad looked at me over the paper. "I'm afraid that's the same with most things in life.

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Shit, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," I yelped.
Harry was rubbing his jaw. "What was that?"
My keys were in my fingers, my back was to him. I fumbled with the lock. I had to get out of here. Oh my God, I'd tried to kiss him and ended up headbutting him. Like a freaking.. WWE wrestler.
"I don't know what happend. I'm sorry. I have to go. Thanks for... everything...sorry."
The door opend. I couldn't get through it quickly enough. What was wrong with me? Seriously, what was I doing? I HEADBUTTED HIM.

Everyone's always scared for someone else's generation

There are the times when the only appropriate thing to do is stop crying, let it go, with light and love in your heart, and to continue living your life to the best of your ability.

Trauma. It doesn't eke itself out over time. It doesn't split itself manageably into bite-sized chunks and distribute itself equally throughout your life.
Trauma is all or nothing. A tsunami wave of destruction.
A tornado of unimaginable awfulness that whooshes into your life - just for one key moment - and wreaks such havoc that, in just an instant, your whole world will never be the same again.

Of course, you're always a cynic before you fall in love yourself...

Almost there..." I said, like I was taking my child to Disneyland.

Failure is never getting hurt. Because that means you've not done anything you cared about.

Did all the horrid little moments where girls got treated like crap somehow create a society where the horrid big moments could happen

The only love affair I needed to invest in right now was one with myself. Spend some time with me. Figuring out myself and why I picked the relationships I did. I was holding out my heart to me. Because I'd realised I was the only person who could give me a happily-ever-after.

Reality doesn't wait for you to be ready for it. It doesn't go away when you tell it to. It's like a persistent mosquito, determined to suck your blood and leave you with a bumpy itch that you can't stop scratching.

But it takes strength to reject all the things the world tells you to be.

Time can be strange sometimes. It can leave imprints in particular places, leaving ghosts of memories trapped.

I'm conscious of laughing attractively, so when the photo goes up on the website in two months' time, people will think I look pretty. Even though they'll probably only scroll past to see what they look like, I must still look pretty.

My life is so crap that i cant even think of ten stupid things that can give me reason not to be miserable.

It's not going to be easy. But then interesting things never are, are they?

Do you think maybe your writing isn't going anymore because you're unhappy? Because you're not living the life you could? A life worth writing about? You must know that cliche-write what you know-but what do you know, Bree, when you shut the world out?

Maybe people like you and me are just prime numbers. We don't neatly divide into a world that demands order. And they keep trying to find out why, and what makes us the way we are, but they can't.

You know that bit in the first Lord of the Rings film? Where Gandalf stands up to that fire demon on the bridge and yells, 'YOU SHALL NOT PASS'? Well…" I paused, feeling so ashamed. "Essentially my vagina had a Gandalf standing at the entrance, and he thought Milo's dick was a fire demon.

Life is so ridiculously clichéd sometimes I wonder why we bother living it when nothing is ever a surprise any more.

Jane simpered and curled herself back around Joel, like he'd said something romantic rather than creepy and sinister.

It's such a simple torture – the silent treatment. As basic as tripping someone over or pulling their chair out before they sit down. And yet it's so very effective. When someone has the willpower to pretend you're not there, it nullifies you. How do you fight against that humiliation?

Happy endings are reserved strictly for the fiction shelves of bookstores

Who cares what a writer looks like as long as their words are beautiful?

Love, as always, is what it comes down to. You have to love. It's the only way. Love for life. Love for others. And, most importantly, love for yourself.

You never know if happy memories are going to become sad ones. They glow and shine in the vast realms of our subconscious, making that part of our brain feel like it's filled with glitter. We pick them up and cradle them like expensive cats, or wriggle into them like they are jumpers we've left to warm on a radiator. Until the day when, for one reason or another, life can suddenly make this happy memory into a sad memory instead. Good memories exist in the naivety of not knowing any better.

She needed to understand her pain and why it had brought her here.

He smiled without his teeth. Small, shyly. I found myself smiling back. Like an impulse
Then he ruined it by saying…
"You're not like other girls, are you?"
And I activated.
Every single emotion I'd been squashing into my guts exploded like a burst appendix. I jumped off the bed and turned to him with a scowl I was sure he'd need permanent therapy to recover from.
"Are you kidding me Harry?"
"Woah Audrey. Hey, hey, hey. It's a compliment."
I felt like screaming.
"It's NOT a compliment.
I threw my arms up, any motion to get rid of the rage pulsing through me.
It's an insult to every single woman on this PLANET. Don't you DARE try and pull that shit on me.
"What shit?!" Harry was stupid enough to ask. "I was saying something nice…"
I shook my head so hard.
"No, you were saying something clichéd and UNTRUE. I AM like other girls, Harry. Don't misinterpret my hatred of romance as some kooky, laid-back, manic pixie NONSENSE. I am DAMAGED. I am not CUTE. I am emotionally-fucking-traumatised right now, okay? I am screaming on the inside. I am too angry and messed up to contain all the stuff girls spend every day containing. That's why I seem different. That is NOT sexy.

Ha, that's the problem. You have to exert brain control in order to do it, and isn't a lack of control over your brain why you're in therapy in the first place?

I'm sick of all the pressure. I'm sick of feeling like I'll ruin all their happiness if I don't do what they want me to do.

He's been so changeable with her I'm surprised he's not been accepted to Hogwarts for his transfiguration skills.

Nobody tells you that large houses have this horrible habit of making you feel utterly alone.

Do you ever worry you're being a teenager wrong?" I thought of the last three years. "I KNOW I'm being one wrong." "I mean, what's wrong with finding songs glorifying domestic violence offensive? What's wrong with finding live music too loud? What's wrong with a nice cup of tea and a chat?