Samantha Schutz Quotes

When kids make gross face,
parents say, "One day
your face is going to stick like that."
I'm afraid that one day
my panic's going to stick
and it's going to be my entire life,
every second,
and there will be nothing else.

The panic, a voice in the distance -loud enough to hear, but quiet enough to ignore.

An eye here, lips there, all misplaced and disjointed, all make sense.

I feel
empty
confused
hurt
numb
disoriented
mad
vulnerable
insignificant
blurry
tired
sweaty
overwhelmed
temporary
anxious

I am jealous of the little kid
spinning around near the fountain.
What would these people think
if I were to start spinning
with my arms spread wide?
A lunatic on drugs, probably.
My greatest accomplishment here is not caring,
letting go of other people's opinions.
I am not wound as tight.
I can let go,
just no spinning yet.

I am so close to the edge that I could vomit, so close that it would be easy to jump.

I feel like a marionette -
like someone else is pulling the strings
and I have no choice but to comply.

I cry and wonder
how I'm going to fall asleep
because sleeping means waking
and going through all this again

I could always count on him letting me down.

I am in a house. I am in one room and my anxiety is in another. It's close. I can feel it. I can go to it. But I won't.

All bad nights come to an end.

When I try to save other people am I trying to save myself? Am I covering up for my lack of strength by putting people back together?

It's weird to hear this again -
to hear how I was perceived
by people before they got to know me.
Some of the girls thought I was a bitch -
aloof, distant -
but now they see the truth.

I miss how things were familiar with him, even if it was the familiar feeling of being let down.

Most days it feels like I am watching a movie
where the sound isn't in sync,
the speed is all wrong.
Either I'm moving too quickly
and the world is dripping along,
or the world is moving too quickly, cosmic,
and I'm oozing like a slug
barely able to pull my own weight.
It's best if I keep moving
because if I stopped and stood still
people would see me shaking.

I am fearful of romantic dinners,
huge crowds, dusk -
of normal things-
afraid to be loved,
the one thing I want most.
Maybe it's because I don't think I deserve it
because I am not that perfect
little girl that I was supposed to be,
well manicured and well groomed,
because I have nervous breakdowns,
and take pills,
and keep moving on.

It would seem that losing the sadness would be a good thing, but it has been replaced by nothing -a quiet acceptance of this boring, everyday life. I think it's even worse than being miserable. At least being miserable is active.

I hang out inseparably with someone for a few days. We devour each other, tell all our stories, and then move on. Things here are not stable.

Putting the potential for damage into someone else's hands is scary. I have to have control, even if it is the power to self-destruct.

Protection does not come in a bottle. It is in me, in my actions, in my thoughts. I am the best medicine for myself. I am the cure and the disease.

I wish i had been there to hold his hand,brush the dark hair away from his cloudy blue eyes..whisper to him over and over that he was loved..

It's good to know that I'm not the only unsuicidal person thinking about killing herself.

It feels like I have a raging fever, like my insides are melting. This must be what it feels like the moment before you die.

I shut my eyes
and see a pocket of darkness.
I want to fold myself
flat and crisp,
slip inside of it
like a sheet of paper
into an envelope.

All of a sudden the world opened up
and it's doing it again now.
In this garden there are so many stories,
so many other problems besides mine.

So afraid to go outside,
to be happy,
to be with other people,
because they do not understand what it is like.

I feel racing and suspension all at once.

Most days I go home crying
and my dad tells me
welcome to the real world.

I am the cure and the disease.

I visit him a few times downtown
while he paints.
We talk about how he's going to Spain
for the fall semester
and he shows me a painting he did
and points to this one part,
a bridge, and tells me he thought of me
when he painted it.
It is so sad
how knowing something
so small
can make me so happy.

I want things so bad that I force them, push them until they tear.

I don't think that I am happy,
but then again, I don't know.
Sometimes I get so caught up
in the process of living--
of eating, dressing, taking the train to work,
that I don't give it enough thought.
Maybe happiness is being content.
But is it really?

Is this what all the years of schooling were for?
To prepare me for this
Sense of being stuck in the middle?
What was the point?
No one said I was going to be this sad.
No one said I would still be crying.