Quotes About Conflict

Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. (But who also kind of likes my bullshit.) And yet: Don't land me in one of those relationships where we're always pecking at each other, disguising insults as jokes, rolling our eyes and playfully scrapping in front of our friends, hoping to lure them to our side of an argument they could not care less about.

He has that look, like I am being unreasonable, like he is so sure I am being unreasonable that I wonder if I am.

You stopped loving me. We're a sick, fucking toxic Möbius strip, Amy. We weren't ourselves when we fell in love, and when we became ourselves - surprise! - we were poison. We complete each other in the nastiest, ugliest possible way. You don't even really love me, Amy. You don't even like me. Divorce me. Divorce me, and let's try to be happy.

Who would I be without Amy to react to? Because she was right: As a man, I had been my most impressive when I loved her -- and I was my next best self when I hated her.

You do realize, that if you actually dated her, saw her on a regular basis, lived with her, that she would find some fault with you, right? That she would find some things about you that drove her crazy. That she'd make demands of you that you wouldn't like. That she'd get angry at you?

A town so small, you tripped over people you hated every day.

I suppose it's not a compromise if only one of you considers it such, but that was what our compromises tended to look like. One of us was always angry.

I was never really on my side in any argument.

being conflicted means you can live a shallow life without copping to being a shallow person.

Tears ran down my mother's cheeks and dripped loudly onto the leather purse she held in her lap. The woman next to her patted her hand. I slipped my notepad from my jacket pocket and began scribbling notes to one side until my mother slapped her hand on mine and hissed, "You are being disrespectful and embarrassing. Stop or I will make you leave." I quit writing but kept the pad out, feeling stabbingly defiant. But still blushing.

What have we done to eachother?

Amy. Please. He has that look, like I am being unreasonable, like he is so sure I am being unreasonable that I wonder if I am.

If you don't have money, gossip isn't bad leverage. Even inside one's own family.

I suppose it's not a compromise if only one of you considers it such, but that was what our compromises tended to look like.

I waited her out. Empathetic silence is one of the most underused weapons in the world.

occurred! Amy was shot! But then I realized

You fucking bitch you fucking bitch you fucking bitch. Come home so I can kill you.

It's probably why I was so hateful to her, she kept me from what I wanted the most.

He never beat her, but his pure, inarticulate fury would fill the house for days, weeks, at a time, making the air humid, hard to breathe, my father stalking around with his lower jaw jutting out, giving him the look of a wounded, vengeful boxer, grinding his teeth so loud you could hear it across the room.

I stopped loving you." "Why?" "You stopped loving me. We're a sick, fucking toxic Möbius strip, Amy. We weren't ourselves when we fell in love, and when we became ourselves—surprise!—we were poison.

I'd wanted to die for years, but not lately and definitely not by those bitches.

What have we done to each other? What will we do?

I got secretly furious, spent ten minutes just winding myself up—because at this point of our marriage, I was so used to being angry with her, it felt almost enjoyable, like gnawing on a cuticle: You know you should stop, that it doesn't really feel as good as you think, but you can't quit grinding away.

I was a callow boy, and then a man, good and bad. Now at last I'm the hero. I am the one to root for in the never-ending war story of our marriage.