Mothers support certain illusions about their children, and one of my illusions was that I liked who I was, because she did. When she passed away, so… - Mitch Albom

Hurting ourselves to inflict pain on others is just another cry to be loved.

Sometimes during the night, your father awakened. He rose from his bed, staggered across the room, and found the strength to raise the window sash. He called your mother's name with what little voice he had, and he called yours, too, and your brother, Joe. And he called for Mickey. At that moment, it seemed, his heart was spilling out, all the guilt and regret. Perhaps he felt the light of death approaching. Perhaps he only knew you were all out there somewhere, in the streets beneath his window. He bent over the ledge. The night was chilly. The wind and damp, in his state, were too much. He was dead before dawn.

Despair has its own voice. It is a prayer unlike any other.