Blowing Out Of Proportion Quotes

We are created for adventure, and if we cannot find one, we start blowing things out of proportion so it feels like we have one.

Because of course I feared that i might be overreacting, overemotional, oversensitive, weak, playing victim, crying wolf, blowing things out of proportion, making things up. Because generations of women have heard that they're irrational, melodramatic, neurotic, hysterical, hormonal, psycho, fragile and bossy. Because girls are coached out of the womb to be nonconfrontational, agreeable, solicitous, deferential, demure, nurturing, to be tuned in to others, and to shrink and shut up. Because speaking up for myself was not how I learned English. Because I'm fluent in Apology, in Question Mark, in Giggle, in Bowing Down, in Self-Sacrifice.

life, was it. And like he knew exactly what I was thinking, Ivan leaned over and kissed my temple, squeezing me to him even tighter. “Mom, Danny just flicked me on the forehead!” Tati wailed, totally blowing it out of proportion.

I know I have my faults and shortcomings, but the blow them all out of proportion!

Because I questioned myself and my sanity and what I was doing wrong in this situation. Because of course I feared that I might be overreacting, overemotional, oversensitive, weak, playing victim, crying wolf, blowing things out of proportion, making things up. Because generations of women have heard that they're irrational, melodramatic, neurotic, hysterical, hormonal, psycho, fragile, and bossy. Because girls are coached out of he womb to be non-confrontational, agreeable, solicitous, deferential, demure, nurturing, to be tuned in to others, and to shrink and shut up.

When I described Madame de T's night, I recalled the well-known equation from one of the first chapters of the textbook of existential mathematics: the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting. From that equation we can deduce various corrollaries, for instance this one: our period is given over to the demon of speed, and that is the reason it so easily forgets its own self. Now I would reverse that statement and say: our period is obsessed by the desire to forget, and it is to fulfill that desire that it gives over to the demon of speed; it picks up the pace to show us that it no longer wishes to be remembered; that it is tired of itself; sick of itself; that it wants to blow out the tiny trembling flame of memory.

So remember three crucial steps when you are upset: Zero in on those automatic negative thoughts and write them down. Don't let them buzz around in your head; snare them on paper! Read over the list of ten cognitive distortions. Learn precisely how you are twisting things and blowing them out of proportion. Substitute a more objective thought that puts the lie to the one which made you look down on yourself. As you do this, you'll begin to feel better. You'll be boosting your self-esteem, and your

Because I questioned myself and my sanity and what I was doing wrong in this situation. Because of course I feared that I might be overreacting, overemotional, oversensitive, weak, playing victim, crying wolf, blowing things out of proportion, making things up. Because generations of women have heard that they’re irrational, melodramatic, neurotic, hysterical, hormonal, psycho, fragile, and bossy. Because girls are coached out of the womb to be nonconfrontational, solicitous, deferential, demure, nurturing, to be tuned in to others, and to shrink and shut up. Because speaking up for myself was not how I learned English. Because I’m fluent in Apology, in Question Mark, in Giggle, in Bowing Down, in Self-Sacrifice. Because slightly more than half of the population is regularly told that what happens doesn’t or that it isn’t the big deal we’re making it into. Because your mothers, sisters, and daughters are routinely second-guessed, blown off, discredited, denigrated, besmirched, belittled, patronized, mocked, shamed, gaslit, insulted, bullied, harassed, threatened, punished, propositioned, and groped, and challenged on what they say. Because when a woman challenges a man, then the facts are automatically in dispute, as is the speaker, and the speaker’s license to speak. Because as women we are told to view and value ourselves in terms of how men view and value us, which is to say, for our sexuality and agreeability. Because it was drilled in until it turned subconscious and became unbearable need: don’t make it about you; put yourself second or last; disregard your feelings but not another’s; disbelieve your perceptions whenever the opportunity presents itself; run and rerun everything by yourself before verbalizing it—put it in perspective, interrogate it: Do you sound nuts? Does this make you look bad? Are you holding his interest? Are you being considerate? Fair? Sweet? Because stifling trauma is just good manners. Because when others serially talk down to you, assume authority over you, try to talk you out of your own feelings and tell you who you are; when you’re not taken seriously or listened to in countless daily interactions—then you may learn to accept it, to expect it, to agree with the critics and the haters and the beloveds, and to sign off on it with total silence. Because they’re coming from a good place. Because everywhere from late-night TV talk shows to thought-leading periodicals to Hollywood to Silicon Valley to Wall Street to Congress and the current administration, women are drastically underrepresented or absent, missing from the popular imagination and public heart. Because although I questioned myself, I didn’t question who controls the narrative, the show, the engineering, or the fantasy, nor to whom it’s catered. Because to mention certain things, like “patriarchy,” is to be dubbed a “feminazi,” which discourages its mention, and whatever goes unmentioned gets a pass, a pass that condones what it isn’t nice to mention, lest we come off as reactionary or shrill.

I say almost nothing, almost all the time. Obviously, I recognize, in a grander sense, that I have a tendency to alienate myself and blow things out of proportion, and that these women are basically guiltless from a certain perspective.

Wise people throughout history have been those who saw that while life is real, life’s problems are an illusion, they are thought-created. These people know that we manufacture and blow problems way out of proportion through our own ability to think. They also know that if we can step outside the boundaries of our own thinking, we can find the answer we are looking for. This, in a nutshell, is wisdom: the ability to see an answer without having to think of an answer. Wisdom is the ‘ah ha, that’s so obvious’ experience most of us have had many times. Few people seem to understand that this voice is always available to us. Wisdom is indeed your inner sense of knowing. It is true mental health, a peaceful state of mind where answers to questions are as plentiful as the problems you see when you aren’t experiencing wisdom. It’s as if wisdom lies in the space between your thoughts, in those quiet moments when your ‘biological computer’ is turned off.

I had the feeling that Nakajima was taking one aspect of me - the straightforward, easy-going part that emerged when I was with him, the cheerful surface that I had inherited from my mom - and blowing it all out of proportion. If so, he might feel terribly betrayed when my dark, somber side eventually showed its face.

Really, the man’s imagination was blowing this out of proportion. It wasn’t like Sevana would set the whole forest ablaze. At the most, it would be just this section.

10. Drasticizing/Catastrophizing/Hypochondriasizing. I feel afraid but I am not in danger. I am not “in trouble” with my parents. I will not blow things out of proportion. I refuse to scare myself with thoughts and pictures of my life deteriorating.

If you ever want to see something hilarious, hold a condom tightly by the rim, then stick it out the window of a moving car. Half the time, it just blows away. But once in a while you can get it to catch the breeze, and then it blows up to truly epic proportions.

Our marks of piety can actually be evidences of impiety. When we major in minors and blow insignificant trifles out of proportion, we imitate the Pharisees. When we make dancing and movies the test of spirituality, we are guilty of substituting a cheap morality for a genuine one. We do these things to obscure the deeper issues of righteousness. Anyone can avoid dancing or going to movies. These requ ire no great effort of moral courage. What is difficult is to control the tongue, to act with integrity, to reveal the fruit of the Spirit.

Some of us come from families where we were not taught healthy emotional language and habits. We did not get a balanced perspective of the world and relationships, and some of us got a distorted view of where we stood in relation to the rest of the world. We felt (and many of us still do) less than. In order to make up for that, we learned to exaggerate and lie and blow our accomplishments way out of proportion in order to feel of some value. To succeed, we have to stop thinking we are less than other people. We tell ourselves we are not unworthy, inadequate, or unable to cope fully with life’s problems. We begin to see the glass as half full instead of half empty. We have to get rid of feelings of inability before we can make progress. As we learn more about how false pride has held us back from our full potential, we remember, “If we change our thoughts, we can change ourselves.

It is easy to diminish what you experienced because no one hit you physically or sexually abused you. It is common for victims to wonder if they are blowing their experience out of proportion or overdramatizing it. They often see themselves as the one to blame. This is what the CN wants. They do things to distract you and throw you off of seeing the truth. So many victims stay quiet because they don’t feel they have the right to call it abuse. It is such a strong word that we generally associate with bruises and visible scars, with yelling and screaming.

The feminine nature makes even little things significant.  To an extreme, it “blows things out of proportion.”  Typically women embody the feminine energy more than men, and this means that when they’re unbalanced, everything becomes a big deal, and they give a shit about so much stuff, it’s overwhelming and at times unmanageable.  They don’t have as many barriers in their brain to compartmentalize stuff, so giving a shit about one thing spills over to the other things they give a shit about.  It’s easy to become conflicted, over-burdened, and feeling like there is a constant tug-o-war, sometimes in 18 different directions, about what matters most.

So Dad was a tedious, well-connected workaholic. But the other thing you need to understand is that Mom was a living wet dream. A former Guess model and Miller Lite girl, she was tall, curvy and gorgeous. At thirty-eight, she had somehow managed to remain ageless and maintained her killer body. She’s five-foot-nine with never-ending legs, generous breasts and full hips that scoop dramatically into her slim waist. People who say Barbie’s proportions are unrealistic obviously never met my stepmother. Her face is pretty too, with long eyelashes, sculpted cheekbones and big, blue eyes that tease and smile at the same time. Her long brown hair rests on her shoulders in thick, tousled layers like in one of those Pantene Pro-V commercials. One memory seared in to my brain from my early teenage years is of Mom parading around the house one evening in nothing but her heels and underwear. I was sitting on the couch in the living room watching TV when a flurry of long limbs and blow-dried hair burst in front of the screen. “Teddy-bear. Do you know where Silvia left the dry cleaning? I’m running late for dinner with the Blackwells and I can’t find my red cocktail dress.” Mom stood before me in matching off-white, La Perla bra and panties and Manolo Blahnik stilettos. Some subtle gold hoop earrings hung from her ears and a tiny bit of mascara on her eye lashes highlighted her sparkling, blue eyes. Aside from the missing dress, she was otherwise ready to go. “I think she left them hanging on the chair next to the other sofa,” I said, trying my best not to gape at Mom’s perfect body. Mom trotted across the room, her heels tocking on the hard wood floor. I watched her slim, sexy back as she lifted the dry cleaning onto the sofa and then bent over to sort through the garments. My eyes followed her long mane of brown hair down to her heart-shaped ass. Her panties stretched tightly across each cheek as she bent further down. “Found it!” She cried, springing back upright, causing her 35Cs to bounce up and down from the sudden motion. They were thrusting proudly off her ribcage and bulging out over the fabric of the balconette bra like two titanic eggs. Her supple skin pushed out over the silk edges. And then she was gone as quickly as she had arrived, her long legs striding back down the hallway.

Freethinking, Lady Frederick?” She hated that name. It was like a shackle around her neck, engraved with the name of her master. She took a step back, her face openly mutinous in the light of the single lamp. “I don’t like being told what to do.” Captain Reid quirked an eyebrow. “I shall remember that.” Unexpectedly, Penelope grinned. “No, I don’t expect you will. But I shall keep reminding you.” Turning her back on him quite deliberately, she scanned the books scattered across the shelves. “Do you have that Hindustani grammar for me?” “This one.” He reached from behind her to tip a book out of the row. His sleeve brushed her shoulder in passing. It was a coarser weave than Freddy favored, which must have been why it seemed to leave such a trail across her bare skin. She could smell the clean scent of shaving soap on his jaw and port on his breath, almost overwhelming the small space, as though not being able to see him somehow made him larger than he was, blowing his presence out of proportion in the brush of fabric against her back, the whisper of breath against her hair. Penelope twisted around, so that the bookshelf pressed into her back, pinning her between the writing desk on one side and Captain Reid’s extended arm on the other. She tipped her head back to look him in the eye, the ribbons in her hair snagging against the shelf. Captain Reid made no move to remove his arm. They were face-to-face, chest-to-chest, close enough to kiss. But for the fact that they weren’t on a balcony, and there was no champagne in evidence, it might have been a dozen other encounters in Penelope’s existence, a dozen dangerous preludes to a kiss. But this wasn’t a ballroom, and this man wasn’t any of the spoiled society boys she had known in London. He studied her face in the strange, shifting light, as the ship rocked back and forth and they rocked with it, pinned in place, frozen in tableau, his own face dark and unreadable in the half-light. One might, thought Penelope hazily, her eyes dropping to his lips, attempt to seduce information out of him. From what she had heard, it was a far-from-uncommon technique. One needn’t go too far, after all. A sultry glance, a subtle caress . . . a kiss. It was all for a good cause—and it could be so easy. Or maybe not. Captain Reid was no Freddy. Stepping abruptly back, he favored her with a stiff, social smile, the sort one would give a maiden aunt who was being tedious at a party, but to whom one was bound to be polite. With a brusque motion, he thrust the red-bound book into her hands, gesturing her, with unmistakable finality, towards the door. “Here is your grammar, Lady Frederick. I wish you . . . an instructive time with it.” “Oh, yes,” said Penelope, with more bravado than she felt. “It has certainly been most instructive.

Learning what is going on in your mind and body Breaking down what is making you feel sad or overwhelmed Focusing on the thoughts, actions, and feelings that make you depressed Making problems more manageable Correcting the misinterpretations that you may have Controlling the negative thoughts that lead to loss of interest and feelings of worthlessness Helping you learn how to accept loss, disappointment, and failure and how to not blow these experiences out of proportion or dwell on them for too long Learning new strategies to combat sadness and hopelessness Learning techniques for problem-solving

We don’t have to be so afraid of people. They are just people like us. We don’t have to forfeit our peace. It doesn’t help. We have the same facts and resources available to us when we’re peaceful that are available to us when we’re frantic and chaotic. Actually we have more resources available because our minds and emotions are free to perform at peak level. We don’t have to forfeit our power to think and feel for anyone or anything. That is also not required of us. We don’t have to take things so seriously (ourselves, events, and other people). We blow things out of proportion—our feelings, thoughts, actions, and mistakes. We do the same thing with other people’s feelings, thoughts, and actions. We tell ourselves things are awful, terrible, a tragedy, and the end of the world.

Sometimes I get real lonely sleeping with you." "I'm Sorry I make you feel that way," I said. "It's not your fault. It's not like you're thinking of some other girl when we're having sex. What difference would it make anyway? It's just that--" She stopped mid-sentence and slowly drew three straight lines on the ground. "Oh, I don't know." "You know, I never meant to shut you out," I broke in after a moment. "I don't understand what gets into me. I'm trying my damnedest to figure it out. I don't want to blow things out of proportion, but I don't want to pretend that they're not there. It takes time." "How much time?" "Who knows? Maybe a year, maybe ten." She tossed the twig to the ground and stood up, brushing the dry bits of grass from her coat. "Ten years? C'mon, isn't that like forever?" "Maybe," I said.

This is it?” he asked. “Yeah,” Megan replied. “Wow. I thought girls were notorious for overpacking.” “I’m not much of a girl,” Megan replied. What? What did you just say? He looked her up and down and smiled. “Could’ve fooled me.” If the human form could melt spontaneously, Megan would have turned to a puddle of liquid skin right then and there. This six-foot-four, gorgeous hunk of half-naked hottie was flirting with her! Inarticulate, tomboyish, freckle-nosed Megan Meade! He hoisted the mesh bag of soccer balls out of the trunk and flung it over his shoulder. With his other hand he grabbed the large suitcase, leaving only her laptop bag and the smaller suitcase, filled with Megan’s underwear, bras, and pj’s, for her. Even though he had no idea what was in it, Megan was glad that she didn’t have to watch him carry her lingerie up to the house. “I’m Evan, by the way,” he said as she reached up to slam the door. Megan almost choked. “No.” Evan laughed. “Uh…yeah.” “You’re Evan?” Pudgy, stringy-haired, snot-bubble-blowing Evan had morphed into this WB-worthy god of Olympic proportions? “Yeah, I am,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Didn’t you hit me over the head with a baseball bat once?” “It was a wiffleball bat,” she said. “And I think you hung me from a tree first.” “Huh. I always thought it was a baseball bat,” Evan said. “I’m freakishly strong,” she said. Right. Stop talking now. Stop…talking…now! But Evan was, in fact, still smiling. They started up the lawn toward the rest of the family. But Evan was, in fact, still smiling. They started up the lawn toward the rest of the family. “So, you’re a soccer player, huh?” Evan said as they approached. “Good thing. You’re gonna need to be quick to survive this crowd.

So you like me when I’m cute or when I’m angry. Are you just going to keep me in those two moods for the rest of—” Fuck, I was about to say, “our lives.” Wow. Way to blow this shit out of proportion. “Maybe,” Max answered.

There’s confidential screening and a counselling service available, and it’s down to you to actively encourage anyone who is affected by this to talk to the shrink as soon as possible.’ Right, blow everything out of proportion, and make the ones who have got it all sorted out in their heads feel guilty because they’re not basket cases.

Plutarch describes how this system worked in reality: ‘But when the wealthy men began to offer larger rents, and drive the poorer people out, it was enacted by law, that no person whatever should enjoy more than five hundred acres of ground. This act for some time checked the avarice of the richer, and was of great assistance to the poorer people, who retained under it their respective proportions of ground, as they had been formerly rented by them. Afterwards the rich men of the neighborhood contrived to get these lands again into their possession, under other people’s names, and at last would not stick to claim most of them publicly in their own. The poor… were thus deprived of their farms.’ Flushed with righteous zeal, Tiberius Gracchus ran for the office of tribune on a platform of redistributing land to the poor so they could fee themselves. The idea, though riotously popular with the plebs, horrified the plantation owners and their moneyed allies. Gracchus won the election, but… the patricians cried that Gracchus was exploiting those same masses to seize power and declare himself king. ... On the day that Gracchus’s reforms were due for debate in the Curia Julia, the honorable gentlemen of the Senate arrived in a state of eagerness bordering on cannibal savagery… Again, Plutarch describes the scene: ‘Tiberius [Gracchus] tried to save himself by flight. As he was running, he was stopped by one who caught hold of him by the gown; but he threw it off, and fled in his under-garments only. And stumbling over those who before had been knocked down, as he was endeavoring to get up again, Publius Satureius, a tribune, one of his colleagues, was observed to give him the first fatal stroke, by hitting him upon the head with the foot of a stool. The second blow was claimed, as though it had been a deed to be proud of, by Lucius Rufus. And of the rest there fell above three hundred, killed by clubs and staves only, none by an iron weapon.

This form of manipulation and abuse is so covert, you may be suffering in silence before you learn to identify what you are experiencing. This is a common side effect of what we know as gaslighting—a tactic in toxic relationships where your perception and reality are constantly questioned and invalidated, and you are told that you are imagining things, oversensitive, and blowing things out of proportion despite mounting evidence to the contrary.

Sometimes he lashed out just to drive home a point. If he thought it would teach us a lesson, he’d blow some minor grievance out of all proportion, and even as he was yelling he might wink at someone nearby. Then, ten minutes later, he’d be fine, leaving us bewildered and emotionally depleted. There were also times he would leave us emotionally uplifted. He was truly a master at manipulating people.

The question to ask yourself is, Do you always or never do that?  Or is it only once in a while?  One of the favorite tricks of family bullies is to make criticisms global (blowing them out of proportion) so they seem much more important.  Another favorite manipulation is to place a label on you, as in “Too bad you’re not a better mother.”  How would someone know, since they don’t see how you are with your kids day in and day out—only on special occasions?

Also known as “blowing everything out of proportion” or “making mountains out of molehills,” catastrophizing involves giving negative events or outcomes more weight than they deserve.

The moment one is convinced that “I am right” in an interpersonal relationship, one has already stepped into a power struggle. YOUTH: Just because you think you’re right? No way, that’s just blowing things all out of proportion. PHILOSOPHER: I am right. That is to say, the other party is wrong. At that point, the focus of the discussion shifts from “the rightness of the assertions” to “the state of the interpersonal relationship.” In other words, the conviction that “I am right” leads to the assumption that “this person is wrong,” and finally it becomes a contest and you are thinking, I have to win. It’s a power struggle through and through.

Getting It Right" Your ankles make me want to party, want to sit and beg and roll over under a pair of riding boots with your ankles hidden inside, sweating beneath the black tooled leather; they make me wish it was my birthday so I could blow out their candles, have them hung over my shoulders like two bags full of money. Your ankles are two monster-truck engines but smaller and lighter and sexier than a saucer with warm milk licking the outside edge; they make me want to sing, make me want to take them home and feed them pasta, I want to punish them for being bad and then hold them all night long and say I’m sorry, sugar, darling, it will never happen again, not in a million years. Your thighs make me quiet. Make me want to be hurled into the air like a cannonball and pulled down again like someone being pulled into a van. Your thighs are two boats burned out of redwood trees. I want to go sailing. Your thighs, the long breath of them under the blue denim of your high-end jeans, could starve me to death, could make me cry and cry. Your ass is a shopping mall at Christmas, a holy place, a hill I fell in love with once when I was falling in love with hills. Your ass is a string quartet, the northern lights tucked tightly into bed between a high-count-of-cotton sheets. Your back is the back of a river full of fish; I have my tackle and tackle box. You only have to say the word. Your back, a letter I have been writing for fifteen years, a smooth stone, a moan someone makes when his hair is pulled, your back like a warm tongue at rest, a tongue with a tab of acid on top; your spine is an alphabet, a ladder of celestial proportions. I am navigating the North and South of it. Your armpits are beehives, they make me want to spin wool, want to pour a glass of whiskey, your armpits dripping their honey, their heat, their inexhaustible love-making dark. I am bright yellow for them. I am always thinking about them, resting at your side or high in the air when I’m pulling off your shirt. Your arms of blue and ice with the blood running to make them believe in God. Your shoulders make me want to raise an arm and burn down the Capitol. They sing to each other underneath your turquoise slope-neck blouse. Each is a separate bowl of rice steaming and covered in soy sauce. Your neck is a skyscraper of erotic adult videos, a swan and a ballet and a throaty elevator made of light. Your neck is a scrim of wet silk that guides the dead into the hours of Heaven. It makes me want to die, your mouth, which is the mouth of everything worth saying. It’s abalone and coral reef. Your mouth, which opens like the legs of astronauts who disconnect their safety lines and ride their stars into the billion and one voting districts of the Milky Way. Darling, you’re my President; I want to get this right! Matthew Dickman, The New Yorker: Poems | August 29, 2011 Issue

But the object of primitive interchanges of blows between armed men was not the killing of a mass of people in battle or the robbing and razing of their village- but rather the singling out of a few live captives for ceremonial slaughter, and eventually serving up in a cannibal feast, itself a magico-religious rite. Once the city came into existence, with its collective increase in power in every department, this whole situation underwent a change. Instead of raids and sallies for single victims, mass extermination and mass destruction came to prevail. What had once been a magic sacrifice to ensure fertility and abundant crops, an irrational act to promote a rational purpose, was turned into the exhibition of the power of one community, under its wrathful god and priest-king, to control, subdue or totally wipe out another community. Much of this aggression was unprovoked, and morally unjustified by the aggressor; though by the time the historic record becomes clear, some economic color would be given to war by reason of political tensions arising over disputed boundaries or water rights. But the resulting human and economic losses, in earliest times no less than today, were out of all proportion to the tangible stakes for which they were fought. The urban institution of war thus was rooted to the magic of a more primitive society: a childish dream that, with the further growth of mechanical power, became an adult nightmare. This infantile trauma has remained in existence to warp the development of all subsequent societies: not least our own.

Attitude is everything. Of course there will be hard moments on the way. Of course there will be moments when you have to do things you don’t want to do. But you can choose either to see these moments as small blips on the radar of the overall adventure of your life or to focus on them, blow them out of proportion, and make them the entire scope of the landscape. The best thing a champion can do is maximize the good moments and minimize the uncomfortable ones. This is the fastest, best, most fun way to the top.

For example, in answer to “I never do anything right,” you could write, “Forget that! I do some things right and some wrong, just like everyone else. I fouled up on my appointment, but let’s not blow this up out of proportion.

Magnification and Minimization. Another thinking trap you might fall into is called “magnification” and “minimization,” but I like to think of it as the “binocular trick” because you are either blowing things up out of proportion or shrinking them. Magnification commonly occurs when you look at your own errors, fears, or imperfections and exaggerate their importance: