Quotes About Neglect

Shelby has absolutely nothing inside of her. She's a black hole. A sinkhole. A whole lot of nothing. She's told Ben that, but he doesn't want to believe her. Who would have imagined he'd turn out to be such an optimist?

It was already there," he said. "Someone left it behind. They didn't want it. The super said they couldn't even rent the apartment for a few weeks because it takes up the whole bedroom and nobody wanted to pay to take it out. Can you believe it? A Steinway." "Lucky that you play," she said. She

Every criminal was humiliated, neglected, or abused in childhood, but few of them can admit to it. Many genuinely do not know that they were. Thus denial gets in the way of statistical surveys based on the question-and-answer method, none of which will have any practical prophylactic effect as long as our eyes and ears remain closed to the issues posed by childhood.

An adult can be fully aware of his feelings only if he had caring parents or caregivers. People who were abused and neglected in childhood are missing this capacity and are therefore never overtaken by unexpected emotions. They will admit only those feelings that are accepted and approved by their inner censor, who is their parents' heir. Depression and a sense of inner emptiness are the price they must pay for this control.

None of us mattered to her, not me, or her critics or defenders. No more than bugs on a lampshade.

This is what happens. You put it away for a little while, and now and again you look in the closet for something else and you remember, and you think, soon. Then it becomes something that is just there, in the closet, and other things get crowded in front of it and on top of it and finally you don't think about it at all. The thing that was your bright treasure. You don't think about it. A loss you could not contemplate at one time, and now it becomes something you can barely remember.

How wearying to think nobody in this courtroom has ever listened to them. I see each one of them as the little child my father was always so concerned about, screaming her terror eternally into her own ear.

He never ast me nothing bout myself. He clam on top of me and fuck and fuck, even when my head bandaged. Nobody ever love me, I say.

what is not voiced scarcely exists; silence would gradually erase everything, and the memory would fade.

Truth is, I didn't really tell him anything much anymore. Richard had gone off into the forest o his own journey to self-discovery, as people do at our age, but he forgot to drop a trail of crumbs for me to follow him. I had no clue where he was and I'd stopped trying to find out, mainly because he didn't seem to notice or care at I wasn't looking anymore. Too much of the time, I felt like a single parent.

Over all was that air of abandonment and decay which seems nowhere so fit and significant as in a village of the forgotten dead.

The one thing she hated worse than being fussed over was being ignored.

It went to show that no one knew, when they abandoned a thing, what misuses it would be put to later by others.

Most people took no more notice of the profoundly deaf than they did of their own shadows. They

I don't know, maybe I'm boring, but I never really feel like you're there when we're out to dinner. You live in your head. I can't. No room for me in there. I don't know, maybe you'd be more interested in me if I were a book.

It was a childhood of mud, barking dogs, barbed wire, dilapidated farm buildings, squealing pigs with their flaking skin and squashed-in faces, and little human contact, beyond a mother who sat most of the day at the kitchen table wearing the slack, staring aspect of someone who had been lobotomized, and his father, who ruled their acres of pig shit and ruin with his angry laughter and his fists.

The projects looked like a place where dreams went to commit suicide and hope got screwed in the ass.

The term generally given this sickness in the Christian tradition is "sin," a multivalent term that points to the myriad ways in which humans –individually, collectively, and systemically –neglect, deny, and refuse simply to be human –that is, to embrace and live out their vocation as creatures made in the image of God.

My life is like a lone, forgotten Q-Tip in the second-to-last drawer.

The un-conscious distortion of the facts is almost harmless compared to the unconscious neglect of an animal's mental life until it verges on the unusual and marvelous.

We often despise what is most useful to us.

The neglected heart will soon be a heart overrun with worldly thoughts; the neglected life will soon become a moral chaos.

Most of the pathetic scenes in almost everybody's life are scenes unnoted by anyone and totally disregarded by the person in question.

It's as if we live in a house which has a vast treasury in one of its rooms. Only we've forgotten about it. So, instead of living a life of royalty, we go about in poverty.