Бјанка Бањац

“It's been a long time since i've been me.”
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet: The Complete Edition

“Yep! I was twenty-six years old and an associate beauty editor at Lucky, one of the top fashion magazines in America, and that’s all that most people knew about me. But beneath the surface, I was full of secrets: I was an addict, for one. A pillhead! I was also an alcoholic-in-training who drank warm Veuve Clicquot after work, alone in my boss’s office with the door closed; a conniving uptown doctor shopper who haunted twenty-four-hour pharmacies while my coworkers were at home watching True Blood in bed with their boyfriends; a salami-and-provolone-puking bulimic who spent a hundred dollars a day on binge foods when things got bad (and they got bad often); a weepy, wobbly hallucination-prone insomniac who jumped six feet in the air à la LeBron James and gobbled Valium every time a floorboard squeaked in her apartment; a tweaky self-mutilator who sat in front of The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, digging gory abscesses into her bikini line with Tweezerman Satin Edge Needle Nose Tweezers;”
― Cat Marnell, How to Murder Your Life

“There’s this place deep inside myself that I’m trying to reach. A calm, quiet place where I don’t exist as a girl with a body that grows too big. A place where I can finally sleep. I’m trying to reach that place, every day I try, and I know there will be a point when I’ll be able to slip through. I know the point, I’ve almost been there, the point when I’m so hungry, I can’t feel it, the point of numbness, of suspension, the window of time when it’s okay to say yes, to let go, to fly. That’s the point I work toward, my own personal hunger point; a point when I feel everything and nothing at all. When all it takes is one more step and I’ll be safe.”
― Jillian Medoff, Hunger Point

“Feeling of discontinuity as a person. My various selves—how do they all come together? And anxiety at moments of transition from one “role” to another. Will I make it fifteen minutes from now? Be able to step into, inhabit the person I’m supposed to be? This is felt as an infinitely hazardous leap, no matter how often it’s successfully executed.”
― Susan Sontag, As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980