Quotes About Emotional

Most of me was glad when my mother died. She was a handful, but not in a cute, festive way. More in a life-threatening way, that had caused me a long time ago to give up all hope of ever feeling good about having had her as a mother.

Her pride had once been a mile wide. So fierce and strong that she'd thought she could survive on the trait alone. The constant ache in her belly, the desperation, Kenny's fate...all had shown her otherwise.

The bitterness and sense of defeat she experienced at her mother's accusation never quite left her. Nor did her need to please her father.

I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.

I'm beginning to think that maybe it's not just how much you love someone. Maybe what matters is who you are when you're with them.

After what others would call a fun day out together, we feel as if we have been at the Red Cross, donating blood.

Some in the outside world might call our traumas trivial. Were you gang-raped? Sold into slavery? Imprisoned in a concentration camp? Did you accidentally tweet a naked picture of yourself to twenty million strangers? No? Then stop whining! They would not understand that it is possible to be annihilated by a smirk, a scowl, an empty threat.

You're right, Jottie, but what good is it? Rightness is nothing. You can't live on it. You might as well eat ashes." I glanced at Father, his bloodshot eyes and the stain on his pants. I loved him so. Once more, I tired to explain. "This is all we can do; it's all we're allowed. We can't go back. The only thing time leaves for us to decide" -- I picked up Father's hand and held it tight-- "is whether or not we're going to hate each other.

I can feel pretty critical of people, and I understand that sort of feeling of when you're going through something that's painful, taking it out on the world and projecting onto other people, finding faults with other people because it's harder to find faults in yourself.

I loved getting to do Promised Land with him. I mean, he's really there for you. We did one very emotional scene in the church. He's just a wonderful acting partner. You feel very safe with him.

I know that I've overfed myself trying to prop myself up because I'm exhausted.

I knew I was going to lose my house in Ireland and all the other properties. It's all gone. But my house was the one material thing that was very important to me.

We can't help identifying with the protagonist. It's coded in our movie-going DNA.

A protective self-narrative during conflict and duress sometimes obscures us from seeing the worst in ourselves. When the self-sustaining haze lifts after that conflict has subsided, we may recognize in ourselves the flaws the other saw in us at the time that we didn't have the emotional bandwidth to examine in the moment.

Every film is like a baby for me; it's like my own child. I feel protective and aggressive each time my film hit theatres.

We busted a lot of family secrets with this. But to make a long story short, my parents relationship was built heavily on security issues for my Mom, and when my Dad couldn't provide security, the relationship unraveled.

The failures of other genres to provide an emotional connection with some of their characters and narratives gives memoir a toehold.

MEDEA: The children are dead. I say this to make you suffer.

I finally know the difference between pleasing and loving, obeying and respecting. It has taken me so many years to be okay with being different, and with being this alive, this intense. (xxvi)

Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering—this is an all-weather beatitude for gloom in general and fairly salutary day-time advice for everyone. But at three o'clock in the morning, a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn't work—and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.

One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger, or of the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should there is nothing to be done about it.

All that kept her from breaking was that it was not an image of strength that was leaving her; she would be just as strong without him.

It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.

You're not sentimental?' 'No, I'm romantic-- a sentimental person thinks things will last-- a romantic person hopes against hope that they won't. Sentiment is emotional.