Sometimes I think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom. I have known so many sick women all my life. Women with chronic pain, with ever-gestating diseases. Women with conditions. Men, sure, they have bone snaps, they have backaches, they have a surgery or two, yank out a tonsil, insert a shiny plastic hip. Women get consumed.
Gillian FlynnStichwörter: women illness sick
There was nothing I wanted to do more than be unconscious again, wrapped in black, gone away. I was raw. I felt swollen with potential tears, like a water balloon filled to burst. Begging for a pin prick.
Gillian FlynnI ached once, hard, like a period typed at the end of a sentence.
Gillian FlynnI felt something loosen in me, that shouldn't have loosened. A stitch come undone.
Gillian FlynnI have a meanness inside me, real as an organ. Slit me at my belly and it might slide out, meaty and dark, drop on the floor so you could stomp on it.
Gillian FlynnI was not a lovable child, and I'd grown into a deeply unlovable adult. Draw a picture of my soul, and it'd be a scribble with fangs.
Gillian FlynnI am, I guess, depressed. I guess I've been depressed for about twenty-four years. I can feel a better version of me somewhere in there - hidden behind a liver or attached to a bit of spleen within my stunted, childish body - a Libby that's telling me to get up, do something, grow up, move on. But the meanness usually wins out. (2)
Gillian FlynnSometimes if you let people do things to you, you're really doing it to them.
Gillian FlynnDaydreams can be dangerous.
Gillian FlynnTo spend a life in dreams, that sounded too lovely.
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