Quotes About Trauma

It was in this atmosphere of national trauma, political extremism, violent conflict and revolutionary upheaval that Nazism was born.

What happened to your face?" she says idly. "Which time?" "The new one." "I got shot.

Fuck my old self. My old self got his life stolen by morons and the person he cared about most killed. If I start turning into that asshole again, I'll peel these scars off myself and put a shotgun to my forehead.

How could she explain all my scars? "His mom swaddled him in burlap and razor wire when he was a baby . . .

What happened to your face?" she says. She pulls down my shirt a few inches. Spots more scars. "And the rest of you." "Never follow a foul ball into a wood chipper," I say. "We didn't even win the game.

Memories are bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you in pieces.

Trauma has a way of indelibly linking the incidentals to the profound.

Survivor's guilt is a peculiar thing. Why would our psyche torture itself for doing what it was primarily designed for?

Dark echo chambers did that to you, squeezed those suppressed childhood nightmares from under your bed into your present.

You don't write about the horrors of war. No. You write about a kid's burnt socks lying in the road.

It starts with bloodshed, always bloodshed, always the same running from something larger than yourself story

Unseen wounds are very painful, even more painful than the wounds you can see." It was clear to me that he was talking about himself too.

They scooped out our insides, Saul. We are not responsible for that. We are not responsible for what happened to us. None of us are," Fred said. LBut our healing - that's up to us.

They scooped out our insides, Saul. We're not responsible for that. We're not responsible for what happened to us. None of us are. Fred said. But our healing--that's up to us. That's what saved me. Knowing it was my game.

Too bad. Family members hit you by accident. Psychopathic whores tend to come back for more.

Rose: "Wow. You beat up your dad. I mean, that's really horrible... what happened. But, wow. You really are a god."... Dimitri: "What?" Rose: "Uh, nothing.

Do not even suggest jazz. I saw Newsies and was traumatized for, like, five years.

What did she do to you? Matilda asked. I don't want to talk about it, Miss Honey said. It's too horrible. But surely you could have complained to somebody? Matilda said. To whom? Miss Honey said. And anyway, I was far too terrified to complain. I told you, I was her slave. Did she beat you? Let's not go into details, Miss Honey said.

Emmett Till's murder" instilled in Anne Moody, a fourteen-year-old black girl from Alabama, "the fear of being killed just because I was black." It was the senselessness of the murder of the fourteen-year-old boy that she couldn't get out of her mind, she was to say. "I didn't know what one had to do or not do as a Negro not to be killed. Probably just being a Negro period was enough, I thought.

Be raped quietly, you mean.

On the other hand, he was compassionate because he knew pain, real pain, and real suffering too. Yet even in those bouts when it looked for sure as if he would die, he was never given morphine, not even as his screams of pain rattled the palace windows. That poor child had traveled to the bottom of life and back again, and naturally that had had a profound effect on him.

Hitler was a trauma intellectually because of his batty theory of the Elders of Zion plotting to take over Europe; the horrible results of his paranoia created a prejudice about thinking about conspiracies at all. To talk of conspiracy is called the Devil Theory of History and historians make fun of it.

For the longest time, Mimi Warren did not move, then she looked at me and said, "I don't feel anything." I said, "Kid, you've had so much done to you that the part that feels went dead a long time ago." Maybe Carol Hillegas could fix it. Mimi cocked her head the way a bird will, as if I'd said something curious, and smiled. "Is that what you think?

The begging snapped into a sharp muffled shriek, just one, just the one terrible muted cry. Krista couldn't move. She stared at the door as if it were a nightmare painting from Hieronymus Bosch's personal, tortured hell. Then