Quotes About Disappointment

The trouble with friends was that you couldn't get rid of them. There was no way to take back a friendship in the wake of betrayal or disappointment. The friendship, and everything that went with it, stayed. It just became unreliable, like an abandoned house; you still knew where all the rooms were, and which stairs creaked underfoot, but you had to check every floorboard for rot before trusting your weight to it.

I have been like a mediocre concert pianist playing in front of a tone-deaf family, who applaud out of duty rather than for accomplishment.

I have such a lowered bar of expectation, and they managed to crawl underneath it. ~ Jon Stewart

They waited nearly two hours, but it was becoming increasingly clear that, for whatever reason, he wasn't going to show.

Why didn't he show up?

my favorite chapter in Cheryl Richardson's book The Art of Extreme Self-Care (Hay House, 2009) is the one titled "Let Me Disappoint You.

easier to assume that people have it out for you than to be disappointed when they don't come through.

Some memories are realities and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again." Maybe so, I think. Maybe my memories of sweeter times are vivid enough, and present enough, to overcome the disappointments that followed. And to sustain me through the rest.

It's as if she assumes everything will go right, and when it doesn't - which, of course, is pretty often - she is surprised and affronted.

I know all too well how it is when the beautiful visions you've been fed don't match up with reality.

Molly is the opposite. So many things have gone wrong for her in her seventeen years that she's come to expect it. When something does go right, she hardly knows what to think.

At breakfast—lumpy oats with no sugar—when I ask how to get to school and what time I'm expected to be there, Mrs. Byrne looks at her husband and then back at me. She pulls her dark paisley scarf tight around her shoulders. "Dorothy, Mr. Byrne and I feel that you are not ready for school.

The smallest things get to her. It's as if she assumes everything will go right, and when it doesn't -- which, of course, is pretty often -- she is surprised and affronted.

I couldn't tell if, as husbands went, Paul was unusual, but he seamed to need lots more care and feeding than I bargained on. If only he'd come with an instruction booklet, like our new steam iron did, or even with a little plastic stick with tips about watering and sunlight, like a florist azalea.

She would never again try to knit even one stitch in the long chain of their married life. She hated all that was to come.

You fall madly in love with one man and nearly break your heart because he throws you over and years later you find out you would have been miserable with him; and you go to a man you don't care for and it's just the same with him too. Life is nothing but rags and tags and filthy rags at that. Why was I ever born?

Like many Waifs, Angela never learned to nourish herself emotionally, and suffered from an eating disorder. She simply could not take in or tolerate good feelings. She had to reject what she needed in order to protect herself from disappointment. She could not lose what she did not have.

I never found anyone who was good enough, who I could trust enough.

Dating is like driving on the freeway; I can never get to where I'm supposed to be. I know I should be at the corner of "Engaged to Be Married," but instead I'm stuck in the "Valley of Haven't Had an Orgasm for Three Months."

McGregor had another look at each of the boats, as though he might have failed to notice the first time that one of them was actually fine. They remained consistently jiggered. Short of sticking one of the outboards up his arse, lying on his back and opening his legs, it looked like he was here for the duration.

I went into the kitchen, took the cognac out of the icebox and had a long drink from it. It didn't help. I had another, that didn't help either.

There is a character in The Count of Monte Cristo who digs through solid rock for years and finally gets somewhere: he finds himself in another cell. It was that kind of moment.

Tom has a theory that homosexuals and single women in their thirties have natural bonding: both being accustomed to disappointing their parents and being treated as freaks by society.

I'm no good at anything. Not men. Not social skills. Not work. Nothing.