Quotes About Self-image

How frequently do you look in the mirror? Does your face please you? Are you disgusted to detect familial features? Do you worship or hate your ancestors? Do you consider your image erotic? Do you pretend that you are a star's child? If you squint, does your reflection become abstract? Is abstraction a transcendental escape from identity or a psychotic spasm of depersonalization?

The more you see yourself as what you'd like to become, and act as if what you want is already there, the more you'll activate those dormant forces that will collaborate to transform your dream into your reality.

All I know is when you have somethin' cut off, it means there's less of you left, and I like as much of you as can be, Lu. Maybe you should gain some weight.

In my daydreams I'm always much prettier (and smarter, funnier, and more popular). I also never fall into drainpipes.

I don't expect to meet the man of my dream today, but if I do, then I guess if he's really the man of my dreams he won't reject me when he sees the pudge around my knees.

At forty-five not even expensive highlights and a boatload of Lycra could disguise the fact that her body had given up its struggle against gravity.

All superheroes had pretty much the same problem. Batman was flash and sexy compared to Bruce Wayne and even Robin was a lot cooler than Dick Grayson. As for Superman, well. It was a fucking miracle that Clark Kent had never committed suicide.

I stare at Isabel without blinking. I stare until I can see the pale roots of her natural hair and the expensive skin cream that changed her skin from milk to olive and the colored lenses that gave her yellow eyes and I wonder how she changed her breasts and ass and shortened her legs. I stare at her until her eyes are pointed and her teeth glitter like fangs and I have to close my eyes. If she said her name was Lucy and she faked her death I would believe her.

As the ample Hedda, who disguised her ampleness behind a billow of yellow summer dress, told it, her life up 'til she hoisted this very bloody mary in her hand was a convoluted tale of bubbly love gone flat, fine talents unnoticed and similarly woeful bullshit.

Living inside an over-sized body, I felt safer than I had in years. But something was missing. My heartbeat, I could no longer feel it beneath the walls of fat and pain." Small Pleasures: Mya's Story

I can't really speak for the right, but it seems to me that people on the right are less bothered about a virtuous self-image.

I see people that live by the fake it until you make it mind frame as a half-baked pizza, Hot and Toasty on the outside and Frozen solid in the middle

That's all anybody has got. It depends on how strong your fantasy is, and whether you really — really — in your own mind, fit into your own fantasy, whether you measure up to what you've fantasized. I don't know what yours is, but I'll bet you don't come up to it.

His companion grandiose self-image felt good, unique, or special when he received perfect wisdom, direction, and knowledge from the omnipotent mother and father, which he equated with love.

We all start out thinking that there is such a thing as perfection and that there's something wrong with us if we settle for less. First we won't eat the food with the brown spots. Then we hate ourselves because we have our own brown spots—pimples or ears that are too big or legs that are too skinny.

I saw my face today And it looked older, Without the warmth of wisdom Or the softness Born of pain and waiting. The dreams were gone from my eyes, Hope lost in hollowness On my cheeks, A finger of death Pulling at my jaws. So I did my push-ups And wondered if I'd ever find you, To see my face With friendlier eyes than mine.

Merton wrote, "Every one of us is shadowed by an illusory person: the false self." With his typical insight, Merton identifies the false self as the person that we wish to present to the world, and the person we want the whole world to revolve around: Thus

Harriet was going to be in the eighth grade next year; and what she had not expected was the horrifying new indignity of being classed-for the first time ever-a Teen Girl: a creature without mind, wholly protuberance and excretion, to judge from the literature she was given.

Harriet felt as though one of the gruesome transparencies of Your Developing Body-all womb, and tubes, and mammaries-had been projected over her poor dumb body; as if all anybody saw when they looked at her-even with her clothes on-were organs and genitalia and hair in unseemly places. Knowing that it was inevitable (just a natural part of growing up!) was no better than knowing that someday she would die. Death, at least, was dignified: an end to dishonor and sorrow.

Es terrible destruir la imagen que una persona tiene de sí misma en aras de la verdad o cualquier otra abstracción. ¿Cómo saber si será capaz de crear otra que le permita seguir viviendo?

protested Mrs. Featherstone, a lady in her thirties, whose violently compressed figure suggested that she was engaged in a perpetual struggle to compute her weight in terms of the first syllables of her name rather than the last.

You ARE Zaphod Beeblebrox?' 'Yeah,' said Zaphod, 'but don't shout it out or they'll all want one.' 'THE Zaphod Beeblebrox?' 'No, just A Zaphod Beeblebrox, didn't you hear I come in six packs?' 'But sir,' it squealed, 'I just heard on the sub-ether radio report. It said you were dead...' 'Yeah, that's right, I just haven't stopped moving yet.

I used the phrase 'a certain age.' What I mean by this is the age people are in their heads. It's usually thirty to thirty-four. Nobody is forty in their head. When it comes to your internal age, chin wattles and relentless liver spots mean nothing.

Whatever the image of yourself, it's a mask and it's hiding emptiness.