Quotes About Emotions

I have been trying, for some time now, to find dignity in my loneliness. I have been finding this hard to do ... It is easier, of course, to find dignity in one's solitude. Loneliness is solitude with a problem.

A]fter all, what does it mean for pain to be 'memorable'? You're either in pain or you're not. And it isn't the pain that one forgets. It's the touching death part. As the baby might say to its mother, we might say to death: I forget you, but you remember me.

For to wish to forget how much you loved someone—and then, to actually forget—can feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of your heart.

You've punctured my solitude, I told you.

Poor marriage! Off we went to kill it (unforgivable). Or reinforce it (unforgivable).

There is simply no way that a year from now you're going to feel the way you feel today", a different therapist said to me last year at this time. But though I have learned to act as if I feel differently, the truth is that my feelings haven't really changed.

Drinking when you are depressed is like throwing kerosene on a fire", I read in another self-help book at the bookstore. What depression felt like a fire? I think, shoving the book back on the shelf.

100. It often happens that we count our days, as if the act of measurement made us some kind of promise. But really this is like hoisting a harness onto an invisible horse. "There is simply no way that a year from now you're going to feel the way you feel today," a different therapist said to me last year at this time. But though I have learned to act as if I feel differently, the truth is that my feelings haven't really changed.

It is easier, of course, to find dignity in one's solitude. Loneliness is solitude with a problem. Can blue solve the problem, or can it at least keep my company within it? --No, not exactly. It cannot love me that way; it has no arms. But sometimes I do feel its presence to be a sort of wink -- Here you are again, it says, and so am I.

187. Is it a related form of aggrandizement, to inflate a heartbreak into a sort of allegory? Losing what one loves is simpler, more common, than that. More precise. One could leave it, too, as it is. -- Yet how can I explain, that every time I put a pin in the balloon of it, the balloon seems to swell back up as soon as I turn away from it?

Eventually I confess to a friend some details about my weeping—its intensity, its frequency. She says that she thinks we sometimes weep in front of a mirror not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair. (Can a reflection be a witness?)

How clearly I have seen my condition, yet how childishly I have acted," says Goethe's sorrowful young Werther. "How clearly I still see it, and yet show no sign of improvement.

We sometimes weep in front of a mirror not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair.

For it isn't just moments of happiness, which is all I thought we got. It's happiness that spreads.

After years of feeling like the dutiful daughter, now I just felt like a complete shit.

I am getting the bad feeling that my friends are growing tired of me. I am growing tired of me, too.

This is one of the things I've learned about happiness: when you feel it, it's good to say so. That way, if and when you say later in depression or despair, "I've just never been happy," there will be a trail of audible testimony in your wake indicating otherwise.

We sometimes weep in front of the mirror not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair.

Babies grow in a helix of hope and fear.

I have been trying, for some time now, to find dignity in my loneliness. I have been finding this hard to do. 72. It is easier, of course, to find dignity in one's solitude. Loneliness is solitude with a problem.

How often I've imagined the bubble of body and breath you and I made, even though by now I can hardly remember what you look like, I can hardly see your face.

I admit that I may have been lonely. I know that loneliness can produce bolts of hot pain, a pain which, if it stays hot enough for long enough, can begin to simulate, or to provoke -- take your pick -- an apprehension of the divine. (This ought to arouse our suspicions.)

I have been trying, for some time now, to find dignity in my loneliness. I have finding this hard to do. It easier, of course, to find dignity in one's solitude. Loneliness is solitude with a problem. Can blue solve the problem, or can it at least keep me company within it? -No, not exactly. It cannot love me that way; it has no arms. But sometimes I do feel its presence to be a sort of wink -Here you are again, it says, and so am I.

I am not yet sure how to sever the love from the lover without occasioning some degree of carnage.