Quotes About Self-loathing

This question goes way beyond my own little episodes of transcending overcaffeination and melancholy. It applies, in principle, to all negative feelings: fears, anxieties, loathing, self-loathing, and more. Imagine if our negative feelings, or at least lots of them, turned out to be illusions, and we could dispel them by just contemplating them from a particular vantage point.

enferma, y entonces, asqueado de sí mismo, saltaba del lecho, le entregaba el dinero a la prostituta, y sin haberla usado, huía hacia otro infierno a gastar el dinero que no le pertenecía, a hundirse más en su locura que aullaba a todas horas.

At night Ward tossed in self-loathing: how, he wondered, can you want something so badly, finally get it, and yet wind up discontented? And how can it happen so quickly? When he finally could sink into sleep his dreams boiled with faceless devils; he woke--gasping--with their talons on his windpipe.

All the bad press I was getting puts you on a downer, so really, you come to a stage where you start hating yourself, in a way, because you're not in control.

It's sort of admirable that America is big enough to put up with the contemptuous self-loathing. Americans are freer than anyone in the world to say and do whatever they like, but when freedom cluelessly turns against itself, it can become a liability.

That was one plus about profound self-loathing. Nobody could hate you worse than you hated yourself.

People label themselves with all sorts of adjectives. I can only pronounce myself as 'nauseatingly miserable beyond repair'.

The darkest moments for me weren't necessarily winding up in the hospital or anything like that. It was those quiet moments alone when I just hated the person I had become.

I punished myself and avoided my reflection in mirrors and any windows. I would see myself reflected back, and I would look away, trying to pretend I didn't exist, because I hated myself so much.

What crushed my soul was hanging out with bitter, desperate comics backstage. They're a different breed than the bitter yet eager psyches in the wings of an improv theatre. Struggling stand-ups have externalized self-loathing into an art form. They're a hunching, quaking, unshaven lot.

I pace up and down from one wall to the other talking to myself like a patient in a mental hospital. That naked body I catch sight of every time I pass the mirror makes me feel like throwing up. The grey flesh with its covering of black hairs somehow attracts me and disgusts me at the same time.

He was suddenly overcome with hatred for his own face, for its flat, hard tightness, the narrow lips, the pale, cold eyes, the deadness. Overkill, he thought. That's what was showing on his face. Overkill. Shambles. You try hard, too hard, to get rid of that juvenile romantic in you and what happens then? You succeed, that's what happens. And it shows forever on your face. It turns to stone.

If there was an implicit self-hatred in trusting only your own, then how much deeper was the self-loathing that led a group of men to distrust someone for no reason other than that he was one of them?

He let Julius go. There was beginning to rise in him a feeling of profound disgust--a kind of hatred almost, of himself, of Julius, of everything.

Nothing is loathsomer than the self-loathing of a self one loathes.

After all this time, he had hope, and then hope was gone, and he hates himself for giving in to hope. He, who exists only to kill the hopes of others, could not destroy the hope within himself.

Momilo had once explained to me the mentality of Bosnia's killers in a few short words: 'In the morning they hate themselves, in the afternoon the world.' So, Momilo, where are you now?

He who despises himself esteems himself as a self-despiser.

Alas, the time of the most despicable man is coming, he that is no longer able to despise himself. Behold, I show you the last man. 'What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?'—thus asks the last man, and he blinks. The earth has become smaller, and on it hops the man who makes everything small...'We have invented happiness'—say the last men, and they blink.

Music is so therapeutic for me that if I can't get it out, I start feeling bad about myself - a lot of self-loathing.

I hate the human race. Of course, therefore, I hate myself the most, because I am the least of the human race.

I'm a 'specist.' I hate the human race. Of course, therefore, I hate myself the most, because I am the least of the human race. I'm the product of 6 million years of evolution? Come on, man.

I hated being Gareth Thomas. I hated the man I looked at in the mirror.

When I was in my early forties, I slept with a loaded gun under my bed. I'd become severely depressed in my thirties, and for almost a decade I spiraled down into paranoia, rage, self-loathing, and thoughts of suicide.