Quotes About Emotional

I have a great relationship with animals, and with children. I get to their level. I try to see the way a child looks at the world, it's hugely different.

I'm one of the most sensitive human beings on Earth - and I know it.

Friendships are among the most fundamental of human needs.

The brutalization of humans by other humans never fails to get to me in some angry-making way. It shot up in me like an explosion.

It really is true. It took this awful situation for us to realize it. Nick and I fit together. I am a little too much, and he is a little too little. I am a thornbush, bristling from the overattention of my parents, and he is a man of a million little fatherly stab wounds, and my thorns fit perfectly into them.

I've had the blues for twenty-four years.

I thought being home might do you good, but Ã¢â'¬Â¦ I forget sometimes parents aren't always Ã¢â'¬Â¦ good for their kids.

You know how people sometimes say they have to hurt because if they don't, they're so numb they won't feel anything?

It was kind of romantic. Catastrophically romantic.

I paced a bit, tried to remember how to breathe right, how to calm my skin. But it blared at me. Sometimes my scars have a mind of their own.

For so many years, my husband has lauded the emotional solidity of midwesterners: stoic, humble, without affectation! But these aren't the kinds of people who provide good memoir material. Imagine the jacket copy: People behaved mostly well and then they died.

I was a man of jagged risings

Throwing things near her but not exactly at her. I'm sure he told himself: I never hit her. I'm sure because of this technicality he never saw himself as an abuser. But he turned our family life into an endless road trip with bad directions and a rage-clenched driver, a vacation that never got a chance to be fun. Don't make me turn this car around. Please, really, turn it around.

I stopped loving you." "Why?" "You stopped loving me. We're a sick, fucking toxic Möbius strip, Amy. We weren't ourselves when we fell in love, and when we became ourselves—surprise!—we were poison.

IT WAS MISERABLE, wet-bone March and I was lying in bed thinking about killing myself, a hobby of mine.

He took away chunks of me with blasé swipes: my independence, my pride, my esteem. I gave, and he took and took. He Giving Treed me out of existence. That whore, he picked that little whore over me. He killed my soul, which should be a crime. Actually, it is a crime. According to me, at least.

As a child, I don't remember ever telling Adora my favorite color, or what I'd like to name my daughter when I grew up. I don't think she ever knew my favorite dish, and I certainly never padded down to her room in the early-morning hours, teary from nightmares. I always feel sad for the girl that I was, because it never occurred to me that my mother might comfort me. She has never told me she loved me, and I never assumed she did.

He was verbally poking a bruise.

Pero soy una romántica.

Because isn't that the point of every relationship: to be know by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. She gets me. Isn't that the simple magic phrase?

For so many years, my husband has lauded the emotional solidity of midwesterners: stoic, humble, without affectation! But these aren't the kinds of people who provide good memoir material.

He killed my soul, which should be a crime.

It took this awful situation for us to realize it. Nick and I fit together. I am a little too much, and he is a little too little. I am a thorn bush, bristling from the overattention of my parents, and he is a man of a million little fatherly stab wounds, and my thorns fit perfectly into them.

More than anything else, I wanted not to be alone — yet all my actions guaranteed I'd be lonely. Like wearing a vest of explosives when you're coming in for a hug, insatiable need is a form of sabotage.