Miri_

“Tears fall down my cheeks while I drive home, trying desperately to process everything. Laura suggested that Mom was abusive. My whole life, my entire existence has been oriented to the narrative that Mom wants what's best for me, Mom does what's best for me, Mom knows what's best for me. Even in the past, when resentments started to creep in or wedges started to come between us, I have checked those resentments and wedges, I have curbed them so that I can move forward with this narrative intact, this narrative that feels essential to my survival.

If Mom really didn't want what's best for me, or do what was best for me, that means my entire life, my entire point of view, and my entire identity have been built on a false foundation. And if my entire life and point of view and identity have been built on a false foundation, confronting that false foundation would mean destroying it and rebuilding a new foundation from the ground up. I have no idea how to go about doing this. I have no idea how to go about life without doing it in the shadow of my mother, without my every move being dictated by her wants, her needs, her approval.”
― Jennette McCurdy, I'm Glad My Mom Died

“My entire life's purpose, keeping Mom alive and happy, was for nothing. All those years I spent focusing on her, all the time I spent orienting my every thought and action toward what I thought would please her most, were pointless. Because now she's gone.

I tried desperately to understand and know my mother--what made her sad, what made her happy, and on and on and on--at the expense of ever really knowing myself. Without Mom around, I don't know who I am. And I certainly don't know what to wish for.”
― Jennette McCurdy, I'm Glad My Mom Died

“And Cardan is even more beautiful than the rest, with black hair as iridescent as a raven's wing and cheekbones sharp enough to cut out a girl’s heart. I hate him more than all the others. I hate him so much that sometimes when I look at him, I can hardly breathe.”
― Holly Black, The Cruel Prince

“Tell me again what you said at the revel," he says, climbing over me, his body against mine.

"What?" I can barely think.

"That you hate me," he says, his voice hoarse. "Tell me that you hate me."

"I hate you," I say, the words coming out like a caress. I say it again, over and over. A litany. An enchantment. A ward against what I really feel. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you."

He kisses me harder.

"I hate you," I breathe into his mouth. "I hate you so much that sometimes I can't think of anything else.”
― Holly Black, The Wicked King