Quotes About Grief

I was not good at the whole making-death-a-positive-transition thing. How could I? I wanted her to fight to the last breath. It was a mistake. I should have listened to her fear, comforted her. Instead I'd promised her that everything would be okay, that she would heal.

Coping with any death is traumatic; suicide compounds the anguish because we are forced to deal with two traumatic events at the same time. According to the American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the level of stress resulting from the suicide of a loved one is ranked as catastrophic–equivalent to that of a concentration camp experience.

The roller coaster of emotions following a suicide causes intense feelings of isolation and a breaking apart from all that once seemed familiar.

Most of us adapt; eventually learning to navigate on ground we no longer trust to be steady. We gradually come to accept that our questions will not be answered. We try not to torture ourselves for having failed to predict the coming catastrophe and preventing our loved ones from taking their lives.

My dad died at a point in his life when he was mentally at peace.

The city gate opened when she and Harper reached the causeway. Her mind barely registered the new walls and the number of soldiers lining the ramparts who were cheering them. Oh, don't, she wanted to tell them. We have lost so much.

Memory is this, not the target dead on center but the hurt unwept.

I've taken to talking to the ground as if it is Stacy. I tell her how happy I am to still be with her, even though we can't see each other. I'm sure she feels the same way, comforting her lonely nights by knowing that I am still inside her, thinking about her. After my voice starts to get scratchy, I just speak to her in my head.

Oh mother. I didn't know that when you died, I'd never be me anymore.

Como una bandada de cuervos posados en las ramas del árbol del ahorcado, así las amigas de Angustias estaban sentadas, vestidas de negro, en su cuarto, aquellos días.

Some creatures are born to live, others to work, others to watch life. I had a small, miserable role as a spectator. Impossible to get out of it. Impossible to free myself. A dreadful grief was the only reality for me then

Some creatures are born to live, others to work, others to watch life. I had a small, miserable role as spectator. Impossible to get out of it. Impossible to free myself. A dreadful grief was the only reality for me then.

I hold him in the casket of my widow's head as he held me upon that next best bed.

This was Maude's legacy; she left Alice with her heart weakened, its chambers bruised. She was no longer up to the enthusiasm required by love.

Our regret would not change what had happened, only make our grief for the big laughing youth more bitter.

The streets are still impassable, so the funeral has been postponed indefinitely. I think the family

For people like us, the life span of dogs is the world's dirtiest trick.

Will you be all right?" she asked How could I be? Would you be all right, I felt like screaming, if you'd just watched your family taken away, watched your entire town taken away, to be murdered . I'll never be alright.

Grief was a strange companion. At first it had hit hard and strong, like a blast of frigid wind, a shuddering blow that left no air in his body. Then it subsided for a while, rising up from time to time like an adder, coiled and poised to sink its teeth into the flesh of its victim. Ian had tried outrunning it, then fighting it, but quickly found the best thing was to lie still and let it crash over him like a wave.

The dead slip out quietly and leave furious holes in their wake. It's Fortune's strong suit. She keeps catching us unprepared, again and again.

Tragedy whores don't feel the foundation break apart beneath their feet—the reeling blast of emptiness, though to watch them you might think so. They're voyeurs. They feed like coffin flies on drama, embroiled in virtual grief and the illusion of heartbreak. They all have stories they want to tell, insist on telling, proclaiming their link to tragedy. Emotional rubberneckers. I

You never stop thinking you might have beaten it somehow, and there were moments when we thought we had. Your husband can be dead years, and you can't stop thinking how you might have beaten it. Or how they could have left ten minutes earlier, or the next morning. Or that damn lighthouse could have flickered through the fog.

She supposed that there were some things, some lost things, some things that could never be recovered, that would always be regretted; mourned; grieved over.

there is a use-by date for everything, a statute of limitations on grief. I wish the custom of wearing a black armband could be reinstated to signal fragility and a need for gentle treatment. We are all in too much of a hurry now to move on, to demonstrate a resilience we may not feel. I long for the unspoken subtleties of the Victorian mourning code with its spectrum of colours from ebony to crimson, indicating various stages of recovery.