Quotes About Denial

The world we are a part of now is difficult to accept, unimaginably difficult. I don't know if I accept everything even now. I don't know how I can. But acceptance moves past denial, and maybe there's defiance in that, too.

The brief devoted little attention to defending Trump's actual conduct. Nor, really, did Trump's lawyers deny what he was alleged to have done.

It can be difficult to envision a new start but impossible to deny one.

A veces es más fácil decir que odias lo que no tienes que reconocer cuánto lo quieres.

Humans are good at denial. Especially when it comes to me.

That's stupid. I said no because you don't love me. - John

Better you than Cameron " McGillicuddy grumbled. "I know where Cameron's been." Sean snorted. Cameron said "I already told you I did NOT come on to Lori.

It's your favorite person." "No. You're not." "I won't embarrass you by proving I am.

Pretending something doesn't matter doesn't make it matter less.

You know that just because you ignore something, that doesn't make it go away.

But this... us..." He swallowed. "It can't happen, Avery. I've seen the way Jameson looks at you.

Did Jameson tell you that I killed her?

Because that's what our family does. Pretends that if we don't talk about a thing, it didn't happen. As if we could shape the truth with our stories, or lack thereof.

For some people, Rose, it's easier to pretend the things that frighten us most don't exist at all.

The history of doubt is not only a history of the denial of God; it is also a history of those who have grappled with the religious questions and found the possibility of other answers.

This is the way you always are. When you can bear the misery of your reality no longer but will not pay the price necessary to change it, only then you come to me.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion- Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine. And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

Sorrow comes with so many defense mechanisms. You have your shock, your denial, your getting wasted, your cracking jokes, and your religion. You also have the old standby catchall—the blind belief in fate, the whole things happening for a reason drill.

I guess she's been like this since her arrival here, maybe even our whole lives, but sometimes when you know someone well, you don't see them as they really are. So I honestly think I've managed to ignore this fundamental part of her personality, perhaps not wanting to see my closest friend in this light.

Sorrow comes with so many defense mechanisms. You have your shock, your denial, your getting wasted, your cracking jokes, and your religion. You also have the old standby catchall--the blind belief in fate, the whole things happening for a reason drill. But my personal favorite defense has always been anger, with its trusty offshoots of self-righteous indignation, bitterness, and resentment.

A fast didn't go fast; it was the slowest thing there was. Fast meant a door shut fast, firmly. A fastness, a fortress. To fast was to hold fast to emptiness, to say no and no and no again.

Adults could be barefaced liars too, of course, and about no subject so much as their own bodies. In Lib's experience, those who wouldn't cheat a shopkeeper by a farthing would lie about how much brandy they drank or whose room they'd entered and what they'd done there. Girls bursting out of their stays denied their condition till the pangs gripped them. Husbands swore blind that their wives' smashed faces were none of their doing. Everybody was a repository of secrets.

I did not believe that a Cause which stood for a beautiful ideal, for anarchism, for release and freedom from convention and prejudice, should demand the denial of life and joy. I insisted that our Cause could not expect me to become a nun and that the movement would not be turned into a cloister. If it meant that, I did not want it.

ON THE night of December 21, 1919, together with two hundred and forty-eight other political prisoners, I was deported from America. Although it was generally known we were to be deported, few really believed that the United States would so completely deny her past as an asylum for political refugees, some of whom had lived and worked in America for more than thirty years.