Quotes About Self-loathing

Conozco ahora lo que soy, delante de mí tengo mis iniquidades; me detesto a mí mismo […] sin embargo, experimento cierto consuelo, cierto placer que en toda mi depravada vida jamás he experimentado.

Yes, I can understand that. It must be a hard thing to kill a man you don't know and don't hate." "Maybe that makes it easier," said Louis. "You have a point, Louis. But some men are friends with the whole world in their hearts, and there are others that hate themselves and spread their hatred around like butter on hot bread.

Ama baz? insanlar için için bütün dünyayla dosttur, baz?lar? da kendilerinden nefret eder, nefretleri etrafa k?zarm?? ekmeÄŸin üstündeki tereya?? gibi yay?l?r.

Boys with a 'failure to launch' are invisible to most girls. With poor social skills, the boys feel anger at their fear of being rejected and self-loathing at their inability to compete.

You can't stop killing yourself, If you can't stop hating yourself.

It's not all bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness, an inability to join in, physical shame and self-loathingthey are not all bad. Those devils have been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared into language, literature, the mind, laughter and all the mad intensities that made and unmade me.

Quizá eso nos haya unido. Tal vez unido no sea la palabra más apropiada. Me refiero al odio implacable que cada uno de nosotros siente por su propio rostro. 

But gradually we learn something very precious under the tutelage of these wounds. We learn a compassion for others that replaces judging, self-loathing, and the compulsion to find someone to blame. We learn a reverent joy before our wounds that replaces the condemnation of and comparison of ourselves with others that used to fuel our anxiety. We learn that the consummation of self-esteem is self-forgetful abandonment to the Silence of God that gives birth to loving service of all who struggle.

The inner and hidden part of this wisdom is nothing else than knowing oneself thoroughly, and therefore hating oneself.

When we don't know who to hate, we hate ourselves.

By November, you wish you were dead. You want nothing more. Every day, every fucking day, you run up the steps of the house, breathing hard, swing open the cupboards, thinking: You pitiful little bitch. Fucking cow. Greedy pig. All day, your stomach pinches and spits up its bile. You sway when you walk. You begin to get cold again.

And being that happy makes me feel guilty. Because I shouldn't be. Not while my mum is feeling the way she is. How I can dare to be happy is beyond me, and I hate my guts for it. I hate myself so much that it makes my head spin.

The common challenges of earning a living, maintaining a relationship and ageing are becoming battlegrounds of existential angst and self-loathing in a culture that demands conspicuous consumption, high-octane partnerships and perpetual youth.

Donald Trump became a symbol of the media's own self-loathing: the interest in and promotion of Donald Trump was a morality tale about the media.

Depression can be a form of self hatred. We don't feel comfortable in our own skin.

I need magic. I want spells and incantations. I want someone to help me. I can't do this by myself. This is how a criminal feels when she has pleaded guilty and stands all alone, when the judgment has been given and the gavel dropped down. This is how she feels, full of self-loathing and a smothering terror, unable to breathe, choking on her very life.

Self-loathing was on the agenda for the foreseeable future and he found it hard to imagine a way past it.

Do you know what it's like to absolutely, positively, and wholeheartedly hate yourself? Let me say something nice (for a change): I hope not.

I hate myself so much I want to stick a knife in my heart.

I hate myself. I feel like an idiot saying it because, blah, blah, teen angst, boo hoo, but I do. I hate myself. Almost all the time. I try not to tell anyone because I don't want to burden them, but I feel like I'm falling farther and farther away from them. Like the well's getting deeper and I'm running out of energy to climb it and any minute now, any second , it's going to stop being worth even trying.

He was so full of disgust, disgust at the world and at himself, that he could not weep.

And finally - he was neither able nor willing to prevent it - the self-loathing dammed up inside him spilled over and gushed out, gushed out of glaring eyes that grew ever grimmer, angrier, beneath the rim of his cap, flooding the outside world as perfect, vulgar hate.

There was only one thing the perfume could not do. It could not turn him into a person who could love and be loved like everyone else. So, to hell with it he thought. To hell with the world. With the perfume. With himself

I felt, watching Jim Morrison, that I could do that. I can't say why I thought this. I had nothing in my experience to make me think that would ever be possible, yet I harbored that conceit. I felt both kinship and contempt for him. I could feel his self-consciousness as well as his supreme confidence. He exuded a mixture of beauty and self-loathing, and mystic pain, like a West Coast Saint Sebastian. When