Quotes About Identity

And worst of all, what if you don't know what you like at all? What if nothing sticks? Then you spend half your life wondering what it is you're supposed to be doing next. What happens after that?

I have a hard enough time being me, not pulling myself apart every single day. And if it wasn't just my personality and my life choices, but then also my art too? I would die." I

But I cry anyway because it was a path I could have taken and didn't. I cry for the lost idea, the lost concept. Sometimes I cry, too, for who I was as an artist and what my life could have been like if only I had kept going. I weep for my lost identities. I weep for my possibilities.

It's not that you want a baby, or want to get married, or any of it. It's not your bag. You just feel tired for some reason. Tired of the world. Tired of trying to fit in where you don't.

The thing that made you special is gone.

She had refined her brain as much as possible to not give a fuck about what her father thought, and yet, every once in a while, she still saw herself through his eyes, heard his voice in her head, although it was not him, specifically, but a collective male vision, what she imagined men to be. And then she caught herself assessing her physical form, and it was not with love, no joy at its bounty, but rather through a skewed, screwed-up lens.

Mas choro na mesma, porque era um caminho possível e eu não fui por aí. Choro pela ideia, pela opção que se perdeu. Às vezes também choro pela artista que havia em mim e pelo que a minha vida poderia ter sido se eu tivesse continuado. Choro por todas as minhas identidades perdidas. Pelas possibilidades que tive.

Old college friends post links to reviews of it on my Facebook wall and say things like, "Sounds like something you'd like," or "This reminded me of you." I think, Am I supposed to like this? I don't, in fact, like it. I dislike it. Where is my dislike button? Where do I click to scream?

I don't know who I am. I don't know what to do with myself. Here I am, being me. I don't know what that means.

She ran off the hate she had for herself, ingrained since a young age from a mesmerizing array of influences: things her father said and did, things her mother didn't say and do, magazines, television, girls she went to high school with, a hundred men whistling at her on the street, America in general. She loathed herself, she forgave herself. She loathed them, she did not forgive them.

There are plenty of reasons why I write. This is just one of them. The sense that I want to own something, own my work, own my creativity, own my name. It is perhaps not the purest reason, not truest of heart, for there is some ego attached to it. But it is real.

I had teen angst for a while, but I think every teenager has the angst.

I really wanted to just be a musician. I didn't want to be anything else, but I was funny and all that.

I think my capacity to change has given me tremendous happiness, because who I am today I am completely content to be.

If you just watch a teenager, you see a lot of uncertainty.

I think happiness comes from self-acceptance. We all try different things, and we find some comfortable sense of who we are. We look at our parents and learn and grow and move on. We change.

The more I like me, the less I want to pretend to be other people.

I don't think any woman wants to be known for being beautiful or busty. I think you want to be known for who you are.

People thought tolerance was the opposite of intolerance. Whereas in fact it was some meaningless neutrality. A child, any child, growing up, discovering herself and the nature of her deepest, most native desires - what use was tolerance to a child? It was encouragement she needed, encouragement first to be, then to love, herself. Or himself, whichever.

Being true to oneself creates the integrity and self-respect we need to have if we are to extend that respect to others.

Gender identity belongs to the person who lives it, but one cannot deny that observers will make assumptions about us based on their understanding or comprehension of gender signals.

Imagine... You feel great about yourself, but when you look down, your body is the opposite sex from who you know yourself to be. Imagine what it would feel like to live with that descrepancy.

Isn't it a blessing when the Lord shows us the path to who we really are?

I'm just me – half a family, no awareness whatsoever about style, or what's in and what's out. I'm not like the lizards. I don't really even know how I'm supposed to be with a guy that I'm attracted to. I've never been a game player. I don't know how to be coy… or sexy… or whatever. I have no finesse.