Quotes About Vulnerability

I really had to come to the conclusion, the sort of humbling conclusion that, guess what, I'm no different than anybody else: I've got to sort of ask for help - not something I ever did, ever. And then part two of that is, like, accept it when it comes, and, you know, believe what people tell me.

Writing is so humbling; there's no confidence involved.

When I jumped off a roof in Cannes in a bee costume, I looked ridiculous. But this is my business; I have to humiliate myself.

I have no ego, I'll make fun of myself, and I'll make fun of being humiliated. I get it.

I know what it's like to be humiliated.

Acting is a humiliating job, from start to finish.

It's possible the only thing I love more than working with Gabe Diani and Etta Devine is humiliating myself on film for all to see.

Reading aloud could be humiliating, I was shy about doing it. Bear in mind I failed my English GCSE and A levels, which goes to prove that if I can embrace it, so can anyone.

Art is born of humiliation.

To write is a humiliation.

There's something about being afraid, about being small, about enforced humility that draws me to climbing.

Nobody likes to lose power or reach a point of humility.

If I ever have sex with someone I might be able to develop a sense of humor.

Self-deprecating humor and brutal honesty is a really freeing thing.

I haven't got the normal protective whorls, so that touching anything, especially fabric, causes such irritation that I need long nails to protect them.

I feel myself trying to be charming, and then I realize I'm obviously trying to be charming, and then I try to be even more charming to make up for the fake charm, and then I've basically turned into Liza Minnelli: I'm dancing in tights and sequins, begging you to love me. There's a bowler and jazz hands and lots of teeth.

Can you imagine, finally showing your true self to your spouse, your soul mate, and having him not like you? So that's how the hating first began. I've thought about this a lot, and that's where it started, I think.

Every time people said I was pretty, I thought of everything ugly swarming beneath my clothes.

There was nothing I wanted to do more than be unconscious again, wrapped in black, gone away. I was raw. I felt swollen with potential tears, like a water balloon filled to burst. Begging for a pin prick.

He could cheat on me and he would never tell me, and he would think less and less of me for not figuring it out. He would see me across the breakfast table, innocently slurping cereal, and know that I am a fool, and how can anyone respect a fool?

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 felt something loosen in me, that shouldn't have loosened. A stitch come undone.

Women get consumed. Not surprising, considering the sheer amount of traffic a woman's body experiences. Tampons and speculums. Cocks, fingers, vibrators and more, between the legs, from behind, in the mouth.

Sometimes I think I won't ever feel safe until I can count my last days on one hand.