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Quote by Sara Sheridan

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Brighton Belle

Brighton Belle is a captivating novel that delves into the romantic and mysterious atmosphere of the English coastal city of Brighton. The story weaves together elements of romance and intrigue, offering readers a glimpse into the lives of its characters amidst the picturesque backdrop of the city. more

Author

Sara Sheridan
Sara Sheridan

Sara Sheridan is a British writer born in 1968. Her works span across historical novels, children's literature, and adult fiction. Sheridan is known for her rich imagination and deep understanding of history, often blending elements of mystery and adventure in her novels. more

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“THE NEXT DAY WAS RAIN-SOAKED and smelled of thick sweet caramel, warm coconut and ginger. A nearby bakery fanned its daily offerings. A lapis lazuli sky was blanketed by gunmetal gray clouds as it wept crocodile tears across the parched Los Angeles landscape. When Ivy was a child and she overheard adults talking about their break-ups, in her young feeble-formed mind, she imagined it in the most literal of essences. She once heard her mother speaking of her break up with an emotionally unavailable man. She said they broke up on 69th Street. Ivy visualized her mother and that man breaking into countless fragments, like a spilled box of jigsaw pieces. And she imagined them shattered in broken shards, being blown down the pavement of 69th Street. For some reason, on the drive home from Marcel’s apartment that next morning, all Ivy could think about was her mother and that faceless man in broken pieces, perhaps some aspects of them still stuck in cracks and crevices of the sidewalk, mistaken as grit. She couldn’t get the image of Marcel having his seizure out of her mind. It left a burning sensation in the center of her chest. An incessant flame torched her lungs, chest, and even the back door of her tongue. Witnessing someone you cared about experiencing a seizure was one of those things that scribed itself indelibly on the canvas of your mind. It was gut-wrenching. Graphic and out-of-body, it was the stuff that post traumatic stress syndrome was made of.”

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Book:Remains To Be Seen
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“I always am in a role, lovely – for you, for them – even for myself. Yeah... Even when I’m alone, I am still in a role – and I myself am the most exacting audience I have ever had.”

PlayFeelingsRomanceStrongActingEmotionAudienceStrengthEmotionalDramaDemandWeaknessRomanticLonelyWeakTheaterYoung AdultTheatreAloneSuspenseFakeDramaticMaskControlHidingPretendingForbiddenGothicFeelSelf ImageAlwaysPostmodernismHidePretendActorGothMasksPostmodernGothic RomanceActressDemandingEmotionlessForbidSternYoung Adult Gothic RomanceExactExactingFeelless
Book:Nightmarish Sacrifice
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“I had a bizarre rapport with this mirror and spent a lot of time gazing into the glass to see who was there. Sometimes it looked like me. At other times, I could see someone similar but different in the reflection. A few times, I caught the switch in mid-stare, my expression re-forming like melting rubber, the creases and features of my face softening or hardening until the mutation was complete. Jekyll to Hyde, or Hyde to Jekyll. I felt my inner core change at the same time. I would feel more confident or less confident; mature or childlike; freezing cold or sticky hot, a state that would drive Mum mad as I escaped to the bathroom where I would remain for two hours scrubbing my skin until it was raw. The change was triggered by different emotions: on hearing a particular piece of music; the sight of my father, the smell of his brand of aftershave. I would pick up a book with the certainty that I had not read it before and hear the words as I read them like an echo inside my head. Like Alice in the Lewis Carroll story, I slipped into the depths of the looking glass and couldn’t be sure if it was me standing there or an impostor, a lookalike. I felt fully awake most of the time, but sometimes while I was awake it felt as if I were dreaming. In this dream state I didn’t feel like me, the real me. I felt numb. My fingers prickled. My eyes in the mirror’s reflection were glazed like the eyes of a mannequin in a shop window, my colour, my shape, but without light or focus. These changes were described by Dr Purvis as mood swings and by Mother as floods, but I knew better. All teenagers are moody when it suits them. My Switches could take place when I was alone, transforming me from a bright sixteen-year-old doing her homework into a sobbing child curled on the bed staring at the wall. The weeping fit would pass and I would drag myself back to the mirror expecting to see a child version of myself. ‘Who are you?’ I’d ask. I could hear the words; it sounded like me but it wasn’t me. I’d watch my lips moving and say it again, ‘Who are you?”

ChangeEmotionIdentityAbuseMental HealthTraumaSurvivorChildDreamingSexual AbuseDissociative Identity DisorderUnrealDissociationMirrorAmnesiaMultiple Personality DisorderIncestIdentity CrisisUnrealityMemory LossDissociativeSplit PersonalityTriggerIdentity ConfusionImpostorTriggeredDissociated StateDream LikeLookalikePersonality SwitchEmotionalsIdentity AlternationIdentity Switch
Book:Today I'm Alice: Nine Personalities, One Tortured Mind
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