Jenny Lawson Quotes

In short? It is exhausting being me. Pretending to be normal is draining and requires amazing amounts of energy and Xanax.

[On acupuncture:] The needles are small and won't hurt at all. In fact, they'll feel good. Ha, ha! Just kidding. They feel like needles. Because they are.

Because you are defined not by life's imperfect moments, but by your reaction to them. And because there is joy in embracing - rather than running from - the utter absurdity of life.

One moment I'm perfectly fine and the next I feel a wave of nausea, then panic. Then I can't catch my breath and I know I'm about to lose control and all I want to do is escape. Except that the one thing I can't escape from is the very thing I want to run away from... me.

The first thing I do when I come home is check the refrigerator for cats because I'm convinced that if one dies, my husband will hide it in there because I don't cook and so I won't see it. I do drink Cokes, though ,so technically he should hide the corpse in the oven. And now I need to start checking the oven.

Every time I get scared or feel like I'm not going to be good enough at something, I say that mantra to myself. "Pretend you're good at it."

I have trouble getting approvals from my heath insurance company for basic antidepressants. And I have the best plan my agency has. I can't get high off this stuff! I'm not going to sell it! Getting my medication is critical. It's me saying, "I just want to live." And their response seems to be, "We agree that it's a matter of life and death; that's why we're declining it." Every time I get a cold, I have Tylenol with codeine coming out the wazoo. But the medication I need to live? Nah.

When I was young, my family didn't go on outings to the circus or trips to Disneyland. We couldn't afford them. Instead, we stayed in our small rural West Texas town, and my parents took us to cemeteries.

When Hailey was born my first thought was that I needed a drink and that hospitals should have bars in them.

So many of us feel like we're misfits until we finally find our tribe - the other people who are are strange in the same way - and suddenly everything clicks.

It’s amazing how much you’re missing in a depressive state until you start to come out on the other side. It’s like breathing again after being underwater for far too long.

When I was in junior high I read a lot of Danielle Steele. So I always assumed that the day I got engaged I'd be naked, covered in rose petals, and sleeping with the brother of the man who'd kidnapped me.

I was always shy. Writing was my only outlet. Because I always hid in a room, I spent a lot of time watching people. When I was a small child I could detect hidden body language in others only I could see. People's emotions rub off on me. When I told this to my therapist she said, "Well, you're an empath." I thought, "No way. Like Star Trek?" And she clarified: because I am so socially uncomfortable, I have compassion for others who I recognize are also struggling. People with anxiety are acutely aware.

Pretty much everyone hates high school. It's a measure of your humanity, I suspect. If you enjoyed high school, you were probably a psychopath or a cheerleader. Or possibly both. Those things aren't mutually exclusive, you know. I've tried to block out the memory of my high school years, but no matter how hard you try, it's always with you, like an unwanted hitchhiker. Or herpes. I assume.

But really, what else are you going to talk about in line at the liquor store? Childhood trauma seems like the natural choice, since it’s the reason why most of us are in line there to begin with.

Meanwhile, I was doodling pictures of vampiric cougars.

I can finally see that all the terrible parts of my life, the embarrassing parts, the incidents I wanted to pretend never happened, and the things that make me "weird" and "different," were actually the most important parts of my life. They were the parts that made me ME.

If you enjoyed high school, you were probably a psychopath or a cheerleader. Or possibly both.

No," I replied testily. "I'm pretty sure 'digital' is Latin for 'fingeral,' so finger cancer equals digital cancer. This is all basic anatomy, Dr. Roland." The Dr. Roland told me that he thought I was overreacting, and the "fingeral" wasn't even a real word. Then I told him that I though he was underreacting, probably because he's embarrassed that he doesn't know how Latin works. Then he claimed that "underrecating" isn't a word either. The man has a terrible bedside manner.

High School Is Life’s Way of Giving You a Record Low to Judge the Rest of Your Life By)

In fact almost everyone in my yearbook wrote the same thing to me: "To weird girl, you're nice." I didn't think it was bad. When I showed my mother she said, "Everyone is different." Being weird became my tool. I'm weird; that's who I am. It was my coping badge.

It's funny because the most sane women I've ever met are my mom and my grandmothers. I think you have to be incredibly sane and self-aware to function in relatively insane environments.

One ox, two oxen. One fox, two foxen.

A hug is like a strangle you haven't finished yet.

That night I looked up at those same stars, but I didn't want any of those things. I didn't want Egypt, or France, or far-flung destinations. I just wanted to go back to my life from my childhood, just to visit it, and touch it, and to convince myself that yes, it had been real.

I try to be appreciative of what I have instead of bitter about what I’ve lost.

I once threw myself a surprise party on Twitter because I was lonely. It was awesome. Thousands of people showed up and then Wil Wheaton and I made a bunch of monkey-ponies. It was the most successful surprise party I've ever thrown in my life. It was also the only surprise party I've ever thrown in my whole life.

Writing is my therapy. In addition to my real therapy. God knows where I'd be without it. I'd probably still be at my last job, working in HR at a religious organization. I was horribly miscast.

Then I yelled through his door, "It's an anniversary gift for you, asshole. Two whole weeks early. FIFTEEN YEARS IS BIG METAL CHICKENS.

I'm pretty sure 'ferral cats' is code for 'vampire cougars.

Even at age 10, I already knew that I was different from most people. My anxiety disorder was still years from being diagnosed, but it affected me quite deeply. I was too afraid to speak out in class, too nervous to make real friends.

...and whenever I had menstral cramps, I could just pretend that Voldemort was close.

I picked up the phone to call the police, but then I considered how it would sound when I told them that I was calling from inside my bathroom, where I’d OD’ed on laxatives, and that a possible rapist was quietly passing me notes under the bathroom door.

Have you ever been homesick for someplace that doesn't actually exist anymore? Someplace that exists only in your mind?

Like books, the Internet has saved my life. It helped me recognize that so many people I adore suffer from the same things I do.

A friend is someone who knows where all your bodies are buried. Because they're the ones who helped you put them there." And sometimes, if you're really lucky, they help you dig them back up.

When you're really crazy you don't question it. Being aware of my behaviors stops them. Sure, a lot of people pick their cuticles, but how many people cut big parts of their skin off? It's unfair because I have been judged.

YOU are using a frisbee as a plate." "Uh, what? I'm not using a--oh hang on, this is a frisbee. Weird." Victor glared at me. "Dude, calm down, I'll wash it afterward. It's probably dishwasher safe.

I wanted to write about my disorders for people like my husband or mother who don't suffer but have saved people. Mentally ill people don't have a choice in who they are. But those that stand by the mentally ill make an enormous difference. Even when I'm healthy enough to take care of myself I face constant battles, especially with insurance companies.

It's interesting with my blog, because it feels to me less like a blog and more like a forum, because my readers are so funny and leave hysterical comments. And I'm not being humble when I say that very often, the comments are so much better than the post originally was.

People assume that because I'm a girl and my blog is hot pink that my readership is 90% women, but it's not. It's probably only about 65%. When I do tours, it's pretty much the same thing: it's about one-third guys.

The hardest thing to write was explaining what anxiety feels like. Every time I'd try to really write about what it feels like to have an anxiety attack, I would actually have an anxiety attack. It was good material but so incredibly uncomfortable.

There's so much shame involved in not being like everyone else. But I learned that the things that made me unique were good. Dealing with problems can be awful. But in the end I got positive results. I don't think I would have been a writer if I didn't have anxiety.

Writing about my illness put me into places. It was very triggering. I had to completely remove myself and practice self-care. I learned to be patient.

I very much own the fact that I'm a misfit. The Internet makes everyone realize they're screwed up.

Some people we define as trolls are just critics. Sometimes they have a point. And I hear them. But for the ones who comment "I want to kill you in your sleep," I respond to them too.

Knock-knock, motherfucker.

I was having problems with depression and anxiety disorder, and it felt like not blogging about it was creating a false history. When I did finally share the problems I was having, I was shocked - not only by the support that was given to me, but also by the incredible amount of people who admitted they struggled with the same thing.

...you are defined not by life's imperfect moments, but by your reaction to them.

When I was little, my father used to sell guns and ammo at a sporting goods store, but I always told everyone he was an arms dealer, because it sounded more exciting.