Quotes About Fragmented self

If Jesus were to ask me, as He did that poor demoniac in the Gospel: "What is your name?" I too would have to reply: "My name is legion, for there are many of us" (Mk 5:9). There are as many of us as there are desires, plans and regrets which we harbor, each one different from and contrary to others which pull us in opposite directions. They literally dis-tract us, drag us apart.

you yourself were split into several parts. Just as I had a double existence, you did too. If I was another person wearing a stranger's mask, you were another person wearing the mask of yourself. Another wearing the mask of himself … a gruesome combination.…

Trauma waits for stillness. Lydia feels like a cracked egg, and she doesn't know if she's the shell or the yolk or the white. She is scrambled.

I am a thousand scattered pieces that no one has bothered to put together.

I Am In Pieces

I thought of the pieces of me I'd left behind, a piece here, a piece there, scattered like bread crumbs. How much of me was left?

J'ai lu les postmodernistes avec un certain intérêt avec même admiration. Mais quand je les lis, j'ai toujours cet horrible sentiment lancinant que quelque chose d'absolument essentiel est oublié. Plus on dit qu'une personne est un produit social, ou un confluent de forces ou fragmentée, ou marginalisée et plus on ouvre tout un nouveau monde d'excuses.

Er fühlte einen unsäglichen Widerwillen, mit diesen Resten seiner selbst in Berührung zu kommen.

I came unglued and went back together the wrong way and fell apart again.

I want to cry but I don't. I don't. There are pieces of yourself, so many pieces of yourself, that, once you give away, you cannot get back again.

Whatever you can conceive or imagine is but a fragment of yourself.

You feel like you know me, Cady, but you only know the me who comes here," he says. "It's--it's just not the whole picture. You don't know my bedroom with the window onto the airshaft, my mom's curry, the guys from school, the way we celebrate holidays. You only know me on this island...

He must give up his identification with original unconscious wholeness and voluntarily accept being a real fragment instead of an unreal whole.

Because if you are fragmented and uncertain it is terrifying to find the boundaries of yourself melt. Survival in a desert, then, requires that you lose this fragmentation, and fast. It is not a mystical experience, or rather, it is dangerous to attach these sorts of words to it.

The sense that we are unified subjects is a fiction, produced by a multitude of separate processes and structures of which we are not aware and over which we exert no conscious control.

I realize that I have left part of myself in a place where I shall probably never come back.

By contrast, the late-modern and post-modern self has in essence no essence. To this fragmented, fluid and compartmentalized self, denial, far from being an aberration, is only to be expected. This, however, is not just a change in world-views. Freud himself was quite clear that the unitary self of even the healthiest, 'integrated' person was permanently under siege. The self could never be fully socialized; denial and self-deception are part of being human.

The strange and scattered pieces of ourselves we leave behind,

Man has no individual i. But there are, instead, hundreds and thousands of separate small "i"s, very often entirely unknown to one another, never coming into contact, or, on the contrary, hostile to each other, mutually exclusive and incompatible. Each minute, each moment, man is saying or thinking, "i". And each time his i is different. just now it was a thought, now it is a desire, now a sensation, now another thought, and so on, endlessly. Man is a plurality. Man's name is legion.

Her face felt like it was scattered in pieces and she could not keep it straight. The feeling was a whole lot worse than being hungry for any dinner, yet it was like that. I want—I want—I want—was all that she could think about—but just what this real want was she did not know. After

It was too easy to lose focus, to scatter my energies, to fragment—perhaps (and this was the hard part) because I lacked the sense of purpose that would bind all the loose pieces of myself together.

You look up for a moment and you're not sure which life is real. You've split yourself into so many honeycombed parts that they barely notice each other---all of them pacing, concurrently, parallel streams of though, and each one thinks of its self as me.

An astute observer might suggest that my emphasis on connection probably comes from experience of its opposite. And that's true. I know what it's like to feel disconnected, on the outside, estranged, not only from other people, but also from myself. I spent many years trying to reassemble the fragments of my divided self and reconnect them.

These pieces of you, imperfectly sewn and patched all over, blur by like a blinding pitch