Quotes About Self-pity

Bathe in self-pity if you must, soulscaper. But I want you healthy and preened.

I thought about all the people I knew who spent many of their waking hours feeling sorry for themselves. How useful it would be to put a daily limit on self-pity. Just a few tearful minutes, then on with the day.

Mitch, I don't allow myself any more self-pity than that. A little each morning, a few tears, and that's all. I thought about all the people I knew who spent many of their waking hours feeling sorry for themselves. How useful it would be to put a daily limit on self-pity. Just a few minutes, then on with the day. And if Morrie could do it, with such a horrible disease . . .

Self-pity is not a pleasant emotion and is a fruitless one as well, for its point of no return is an onset of black despair in very short order.

A sharp sense of the ironic can be the equivalent of the faith that moves mountains. Far more quickly than reason or logic, irony can penetrate rage and puncture self-pity.

Warriors are incapable of feeling compassion because they no longer feel sorry for themselves. Without the driving force of self-pity, compassion is meaningless.

Self-pity is the real enemy and the source of man's misery. Without a degree of pity for himself, man could not afford to be as self-important as he is. However, once the force of self-importance is engaged, it develops its own momentum. And it is this seemingly independent nature of self-importance which gives it its fake sense of worth.

Aunt Lavinia always had a near-religious belief that it was wicked to inflict one's personal despair on others. Any display of self-pity or self-dissatisfaction she saw as a social cruelty that was very nearly criminal.

If you want to wallow in self pity, then do so. Just admit that you are where you want to be. Don't be blaming everyone else for you being there because you are tough enough to crawl out of it.

Oh, yes, he'd spent a good portion of his day in self-pity. And now? Now he felt shame.

You aren't feeling sorry for yourself over wrapping paper, are you? Yes, yes, she was. It was certainly possible to like your life 364 days a year, and then come Christmas, begin to wonder about it. But what could she do? Nobody came into a bar to hear a bartender's problems, did they?

Shutting down behind self-pity and secret shame; sacrificing themselves to childish mothers and selfish men; vaguely yearning, self-medicating; painting someone else's pictures; obediently tracing the magic circle. afraid, entranced. There are so many different ways to drown.

In the weeks since I had made the decision to leave my father's house, I had grown up. And I had learned that not every battle can be fought by firing an arrow from a bow. But I would have to face whatever new challenges came my way as bravely as I had faced the Huns. I could not wallow in self-pity, thinking about what might have been. I had to do my duty. It was the only way to stay true to myself.

You can come with me and triumph against impossible odds, or you can reject the challenge of the gods and stay here. Would you rather be a hero in charge of your own destiny or a martyr wallowing in self-pity? What will it be?

Would you rather be a hero in charge of your own destiny or a martyr wallowing in self-pity? What will it be?

She did not understand music and it upset her, it had only sad, tragic things to say. These leaping forms, these pursuits and insistences, these elusive desperate repetitions, always seemed to her like one long cry of agony. She could not, in this company, allow herself the luxury of self-pitying tears, which was her highest tribute to the art. She looked about her and let the music gather to her the people with whom she was so deeply concerned.

Spud has two expressions: totally-scoobied-as-to-what-the-fuck's-going-on and the constantly-on-the-verge-of-tears look he is currently deploying. Assailed with self pity and self loathing, regarding his folly in sitting next to Begbie, he glances around. - Aye... it's bad, like say, he concedes, wondering how he can manoeuvre into another seat.

I grew up haphazard, wounded and tortured in mind, full of self-pity and hatred of others.

There's nothing more boring than listening to successful adults whine about how mistreated they were as children, is there?

She wasn't going to let them make her cry. She'd cried enough self-pitying tears in her life to drown a goat, and all it had gotten her was a big fat nothing. She made herself take a deep breath, but it didn't help break the traffic jam in her throat. Might as well call a spade a spade. That traffic jam came from shame. There was a big difference between knowing people still hated your guts and seeing it in their faces.

Emptiness and boredom: what an understatement. What I felt was complete desolation. Desolation, despair, and depression. Isn't there some other way to look at this? After all, angst of these dimensions is a luxury item. You need to be well fed, clothes, and housed to have time for this much self-pity.

I watched him skip down the trail and felt annoyed by all this joy; then I wondered why I couldn't be that joyful. Maybe everything really was attitude. I had mastered self-pity and realized maybe it was time to work on joy. Doesn't the Dalai Lama say happiness is a decision? Pain is inevitable, suffering a choice. Could it be that I simply suffered from a bad attitude? Maybe I needed to try harder to enjoy all of it even if it wasn't exactly fun.

I think if you allow yourself to mope and feel sorry for yourself, it can take years off your life.

I have two choices: Sit at home and feel sorry for myself, or make lemonade out of lemons.