Quotes About Vulnerability

I am a great husband because I am very afraid she may kill me.

It really is true. It took this awful situation for us to realize it. Nick and I fit together. I am a little too much, and he is a little too little. 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 don't feel the need to explain my actions to her. I don't clarify, I don't doubt, I don't worry. I don't tell her everything, not anymore, but I tell her more than anyone else, by far. I tell her as much as I can.

I'm here, I said, and it felt shockingly comforting, those words. When I'm panicked, I say them aloud to myself. I'm here. I don't usually feel that I am. I feel like a warm gust of wind could exhale my way and I'd be disappeared forever, not even a sliver of fingernail left behind. On some days, I find this thought calming; on others it chills me.

Ironic people always dissolve when confronted with earnestness, it's their kryptonite

I am not okay. I will be okay, but right now I am not okay. I want my husband to put his arms around me, to console me, to baby me a little bit. Just for a second.

Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. (But who also kind of likes my bullshit.) And yet: Don't land me in one of those relationships where we're always pecking at each other, disguising insults as jokes, rolling our eyes and playfully scrapping in front of our friends, hoping to lure them to our side of an argument they could not care less about.

I never knew I was capable of being ridiculous over a man. It's a relief.

Sometimes I think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom.

I'm in a foreign land, trying to explain myself, trying to make myself known. Because isn't that the point of every relationship: to be known by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. She gets me. Isn't that the simple magic phrase?

If she's sad or upset or angry, she needs to be alone-she fears a man dismissing her womanly tears.

I always feel sad for the girl that I was, because it never occurred to me that my mother might comfort me. She has never told me she loved me, and I never assumed she did. She tended to me. She administrated me.

Committing to Nick, feeling safe with Nick, being happy with Nick, made me realize that there was a Real Amy in there, and she was so much better, more interesting and complicated and challenging, than Cool Amy. Nick wanted Cool Amy anyway. 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.

Depression to me is urine yellow. Washed out, exhausted miles of weak piss.

You do realize, that if you actually dated her, saw her on a regular basis, lived with her, that she would find some fault with you, right? That she would find some things about you that drove her crazy. That she'd make demands of you that you wouldn't like. That she'd get angry at you?

Because isn't that the point of every relationship: to be known by someone else, to be understood?

Can you imagine, finally showing your true self to your spouse, your soul mate, and having him not like you?

What can I say about a man who knows how I think and still sleeps next to me with the lights off?

This morning he was stroking my hair and asking what else he could do for me, and I said: My gosh, Nick, why are you so wonderful to me? He was supposed to say: YOU DESERVE IT. I LOVE YOU. But he said, Because I feel sorry for you. Why? Because every morning you have to wake up and be you. I really, truly wish he hadn't said that. I keep thinking about it. I can't stop.

But I know I'll never sleep again. I can't close my eyes when I'm next to her. It's like sleeping with a spider.

I think, immediately, that there is something wrong with us, perhaps unfixable, if my husband wouldn't think to tell me this. Sometimes I feel it's his personal game, that he's in some sort of undeclared contest for impenetrability.

I was not a lovable child, and I'd grown into a deeply unlovable adult. Draw a picture of my soul, and it'd be a scribble with fangs.

ArkadaÅŸlar birbirlerinin kusurlar?n? görür. EÅŸlerse birbirlerinin en kuytu kusurlar?n? bilir.

When I'd been sad, I hurt myself. Amma hurt other people. When I'd wanted attention, I'd submitted myself to boys: Do what you want; just like me. Amma's sexual offerings seemed a form of aggression. Long skinny legs and slim wrists and high, babied voice all aimed like a gun. Do what I want; I might like you.