Bring Me Back

by Kristen Granata

I have suffered from depression and anxiety since I was a child.

Same

Cancer can go fuck itself.

You’re not going to have all the answers on day one, so tell your anxiety to fuck right off.”

It’s fine. It’s probably nothing. Or it’s an escaped convict here to murder you. No, that’s not helpful. Maybe a bird flew into the window. Birds don’t fly at night, you idiot. Shit. That’s actually true.

“Is your dad home? Should I call the cops?” “I am the cops.”

“Look at me like that again, and I’ll make the beating your brother gave you last night feel like a tickle fight.”

“We all carry around the weight of our traumas and try to survive. We do what we have to in order to cope.” I glance up at the night sky. “It’s not us who’s fucked up. Life is fucked up.”

“When you have darkness inside you, it helps you recognize darkness in others.”

“You’re a caretaker.” “I am.” “That’s a learned behavior, you know.” I roll my lips together and work the towel down her arms. “What does that mean?” “It means you grew up thinking you had to take care of your family, instead of them taking care of you.”

“You save everyone, but who saves you?”

Regardless of what you’ve been through, you’re still standing. That seems pretty damn strong to me.”

“Why do I smell bacon?” “Is that a cop joke, or do you actually smell bacon?” “As much as I’d love to take credit for a joke like that, I’m not that quick first thing in the morning.”

Felt

“They’re not porn books. They just have…” “Porn in them.”

“Because they matter to you.”

*SWOON*

“I told you: I’ve got your six.”

😭😭

“This is my dog. I brought him over because I heard you loved puppies.” She gives me an emphatic nod. “I do. Mommy said I can get one when I’m old enough to pick up his shit.” Denise tries to hide her mortified expression behind her hand. “Madison, remember what I said about cursing?” Madison nods. “Not in front of other people because they’re going to think you’re a bad mommy.” Denise grins. “Good girl.”

Me as a mom

It has been said that the best love songs are written about heartbreak. The same can be said about books. People love those soul-crushing, gut-wrenching, oh-my-god-this-is-the-most-painful-thing-I’ve-ever-read-and-I-might-fling-my-Kindle-out-a-window-if-they-don’t-end-up-happy books as we’re sobbing into a package of Oreos at two o’clock in the morning on a twelve-hour reading bender. Some of us are masochists like that.

“She could’ve moved the fuck over and shared that door with Jack. Titanic doesn’t count. Rose was an asshole.”

“I just can’t wait for this to bring in more women. A hot EMT with tattoos? They won’t be able to resist.”

He knowss