Amanda Robinson

“I started feeling afraid of my own body, like it was a torture chamber I’d been trapped inside.”
― Talia Hibbert, Get a Life, Chloe Brown

“I was going to do some more work when I got home, but…” She sighs, rubbing her knuckles against her eyes. “I didn’t have enough juice.”
“Ah,” I say.
For her birthday this summer, I splurged and bought a small bushel of oranges, which we squeezed into glasses and pretended was the real, gourmet orange juice our father used to make. As we sat at the table, acting like the drink wasn’t sour and pulpy, we got to talking about how her illness had come to affect her life. She explained to me that her energy reserves were like that glass of yellow juice. Every action of daily life—getting out of bed, bathing, dressing, doing research—siphoned juice away. Once the glass was empty, no matter how much she had left she needed to do or how much she’d hoped to get done, her body needed to rest. To refill the glass. If she tried to push beyond that, it could knock her out for days. Even weeks.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“It is like walking down a street and every so often someone beats the shit out of you. You mostly heal, but some injuries just don’t, and then you go out and walk some more, and someone comes by and beats the shit out of you again.”
― Jade Sharma, Problems

“Do you ever just…” I pick up my hands and then drop them. “I don’t know. Do you ever just get really fucking mad at healthy people for doing nothing but…living their lives, and it’s not their fault, and you love them, but you just fucking hate them?”
― Hannah Moskowitz, Sick Kids in Love