“Don't you get it? You can't tell me what to feel.”

“We're on the other side of the fence now, Lena,' she says, tiredly, as she passes. "Don't you get it? You can't tell me what to feel.”

“You can't tell me what to feel”

“The thing is, you don't get to know. It's not like you wake up with a bad feeling in your stomach. You don't see shadows where there shouldn't be any. You don't remember to tell your parents you love them or--in my case--remember to say good-bye to them at all.”

“Don't you get that yet? You don't know shit about me, I don't know shit about you. You don't even know shit about you.”

“The worst is knowing I can't tell anybody what's happening -or what's happened- to me. Not even my mom.”

“It's not my fault I can't be like you, okay? I don't get up in the morning thinking the world is one big, shiny, happy place, okay? That's just not how I work. I don't think I can be fixed.”