Restore Me (Shatter Me, #4)

by Tahereh Mafi

I have a great fear of drowning in the ocean of my own silence. In the steady thrum that accompanies quiet, my mind is unkind to me. I think too much. I feel, perhaps, far more than I should.

“Men,”

“are always so baffled by women’s clothing. So many opinions about a body that does not belong to them. Cover up, don’t cover up”—she waves a hand—“no one can seem to decide.”

here in the dark, dusty corners of my mind I feel a strange relief. I am always welcome here in my loneliness, in my sadness in this abyss, there is a rhythm I remember.

The steady drop of tears, the temptation to retreat, the shadow of my past the life I choose to forget has not will never ever forget me

So this— This is agony. This is what they talk about when they talk about heartbreak. I thought I knew what it was like before. I thought I knew, with perfect clarity, what it felt like to have my heart broken, but now—now I finally understand.

My baby :(

This is suffering. This is full, unadulterated torture. And I have no one to blame for this pain but myself, which makes it impossible to direct my anger anywhere but inward. If I weren’t better informed, I’d think I were having an actual heart attack. It feels as though a truck has run over me, broken every bone in my chest, and now it’s stuck here, the weight of it crushing my lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t even see straight. My heart is pounding in my ears. Blood is rushing to my head too quickly and it’s making me hot and dizzy. I’m strangled into speechlessness, numb in my bones. I feel nothing but an immense, impossible pressure breaking apart my body. I fall backward, hard. My head is against the wall. I try to calm myself, calm my breathing. I try to be rational. This is not a heart attack, I tell myself. Not a heart attack. I know better. I’m having a panic attack.

I thought I was prepared for this, but I was so, so wrong