Compound Grief Quotes

The only way past the pain is through it. You can't escape it. You can't ignore it. Pain, grief, anger, misery...they don't go away- they just increase and compound and get worse. You have to live through them,acknowledge them. You have to give your pain its due.

The only way past the pain is through it. Pain, grief, anger, misery...they don't go away--they just increase and compound and get worse. You have to live through them, acknowledge them. You have to give your pain its due.

Trap. Horrible trap. At one’s birth it is sprung. Some last day must arrive. When you will need to get out of this body. Bad enough. Then we bring a baby here. The terms of the trap are compounded. That baby also must depart. All pleasures should be tainted by that knowledge. But hopeful dear us, we forget. Lord, what is this?

tormented souls have this incredible ability to recognize and approach one another, thus compounding their grief.

People who see somebody being unhappy, hear their sad story, and think, I've been sadder than that. As if grief negates grief as opposed to compounding it.

But tormented souls have this incredible ability to recognize and approach one another, thus compounding their grief. Why hadn't I noticed this in him? Why did I see only the superficial way he talked about politics or the pedantic way he tasted the wine?

Please don't trivialize my loss by making excuses for my failures or comparing me to someone who never had what I have lost. It compounds my distress and discounts what I once was without even allowing me the opportunity to express my grief. Though entirely unintentional, it adds insult to injury.

You look … ,” Gavriel breathed, sinking into his chair. “You look so much like her.” Aedion knew Gavriel didn’t mean Aelin. Even Fenrys looked at the Lion now, at the grief rippling in those tawny eyes. But Aedion barely remembered his mother. Barely recalled anything more than her dying, wrecked face. So he said, “She died so your queen wouldn’t get her claws on me.” He wasn’t sure his father was breathing. Lysandra stepped closer, a solid rock in the thrashing sea of his rage. Aedion pinned his father with a look, not sure where the words came from, the wrath, but there they were, snapping from his lips like whips. “They could have cured her in the Fae compounds, but she wouldn’t go near them, wouldn’t let them come for fear of Maeve”—he spat the name—“knowing I existed. For fear I’d be enslaved to her as you were.” His father’s tan face had drained of all color. Whatever Gavriel had suspected until now, Aedion didn’t care. The Wolf snarled at the Lion, “She was twenty-three years old. She never married, and her family shunned her. She refused to tell anyone who’d sired me, and took their disdain, their humiliation, without an ounce of self-pity. She did it because she loved me, not you.” And he suddenly wished he’d asked Aelin to come, so he could tell her to burn this warrior into ashes like that commander in Ilium, because looking at the face—his face … he hated him. He hated him for the twenty-three-year-old his mother had been, younger than he now was when she’d died, alone and sorrowful. Aedion growled, “If your bitch of a queen tries to take me, I’ll slit her throat. If she hurts my family any more than she already has, I’ll slit yours, too.

But what if the great secret insider-trading truth is that you don’t ever get over the biggest losses in your life? Is that good news, bad news, or both? The good news is that if you don’t seal up your heart with caulking compound, and instead stay permeable, people stay alive inside you, and maybe outside you, too, forever. This is also the bad news, not because your heart will continue to hurt forever, but because grief is so frowned upon, so hard for even intimate bystanders to witness, that you will think you must be crazy for not getting over it. You

Reflecting on something that hurts you only prolongs your pain, and when death is involved, the pain is often compounded by a relentless sense of guilt that attacks the moment you start to heal, as if duration of grief somehow proves the depth of your love for the person you lost.

Does the grief you are experiencing seem unreal? Are you expecting your loved one at any minute to come walking through the door? Do you feel that your life has come to an end without him or her? Are you at a bottomless abyss, feeling out of control? Have you lost trust in your ability to continue on? These feelings and more are not unusual for many mourners. They are common characteristics of the sudden confrontation with change after the death of a loved one. You seem to be losing your sanity; it just doesn’t make sense. All of this is compounded by a series of obstacles: sudden feelings of abandonment, inability to find a good listener, lack of confidence to deal with the future, and lack of reliable information to help ease the searing pain of loss. There

The role played by stress in the causation of cancer is so great that it would not be an exaggeration to say that 80% or more cancer cases have their immediate origin in some form of mental pressure or strain. Grief, distress, fear, worry, and anger are emotions which have horrible effects on the body's functions. Researchers have discovered that these emotions cause the release of chemicals from the brain called neuropeptides. These potent compounds have a profound immune-suppressive action. Scientists have traced a pathway from the brain to the immune cells proving that negative emotions can stop the immune cells dead in their tracks. This results in part from the release of chemicals from nerve endings. Once this happens, harmful microbes or cancer cells can invade any tissue in the body.

She wasn’t sure when she realized that she wasn’t alone. She’d heard a louder murmur from the crowd outside, but she hadn’t connected it with the door opening. She looked over her shoulder and saw Tate standing against the back wall. He was wearing one of those Armani suits that looked so splendid on his lithe build, and he had his trenchcoat over one arm. He was leaning back, glaring at the ceremony. Something was different about him, but Cecily couldn’t think what. It wasn’t the vivid bruise high up on his cheek where Matt had hit him. But it was something…Then it dawned on her. His hair was cut short, like her own. He glared at her. Cecily wasn’t going to cower in her seat and let him think she was afraid to face him. Mindful of the solemnity of the occasion, she got up and joined Tate by the door. “So you actually came. Bruises and all,” she whispered with a faintly mocking smile, eyeing the very prominent green-and-yellow patch on his jaw that Matt Holden had put there. He looked down at her from turbulent black eyes. He didn’t reply for a minute while he studied her, taking in the differences in her appearance, too. His eyes narrowed on her short hair. She thought his eyelids flinched, but it might have been the light. His eyes went back to the ceremony. He didn’t say another word. He didn’t really need to. He’d cut his hair. In his culture-the one that part of him still belonged to-cutting the hair was a sign of grief. She could feel the way it was hurting him to know that the people he loved most in the world had lied to him. She wanted to tell him that the pain would ease day by day, that it was better to know the truth than go through life living a lie. She wanted to tell him that having a foot in two cultures wasn’t the end of the world. But he stood there like a painted stone statue, his jaw so tense that the muscles in it were noticeable. He refused to acknowledge her presence at all. “Congratulations on your engagement, by the way,” she said without a trace of bitterness in her tone. “I’m very happy for you.” His eyes met hers evenly. “That isn’t what you told the press,” he said in a cold undertone. “I’m amazed that you’d go to such lengths to get back at me.” “What lengths?” she asked. “Planting that story in the tabloids,” he returned. “I could hate you for that.” The teenage sex slave story, she guessed. She glared back at him. “And I could hate you, for believing I would do something so underhanded,” she returned. He scowled down at her. The anger he felt was almost tangible. She’d sold him out in every way possible and now she’d embarrassed him publicly, again, first by confessing to the media that she’d been his teenage lover-a load of bull if ever there was one. Then she’d compounded it by adding that he was marrying Audrey at Christmas. He wondered how she could be so vindictive. Audrey was sticking to him like glue and she’d told everyone about the wedding. Not that many people hadn’t read it already in the papers. He felt sick all over. He wouldn’t have Audrey at any price. Not that he was about to confess that to Cecily now, after she’d sold him out. He started to speak, but he thought better of it, and turned his angry eyes back toward the couple at the altar. After a minute, Cecily turned and went back to her seat. She didn’t look at him again.

I didn’t know you would be here,” I say. “Well, what did you think I did at the Bureau? Just wandered around cracking jokes?” He smiles. “They found a good use for my Dauntless expertise. I’m part of the security team. So is George. We usually just handle compound security, but any time anyone wants to go to the fringe, I volunteer.” “Talking about me?” George, who was standing in the group by the doors. “Hi, Tris. I hope he’s not saying anything bad.” George puts his arm across Amar’s shoulders, and they grin at each other. George looks better than the last time I saw him, but grief leaves its mark on his expression, taking the crinkles out of the corners of his eyes when he smiles, taking the dimple from his cheek. “I was thinking we should give her a gun,” Amar says. He glances at me. “We don’t normally give potential future council members weapons, because they have no clue how to use them, but it’s pretty clear that you do.” “It’s really all right,” I say. “I don’t need--” “No, you’re probably a better shot than most of them,” George says. “We could use another Dauntless on board with us. Let me go get one.

It’s often hard to explain how we feel when someone close to us dies. Even to those we love. People can put on a bit of a brave front. Wilfred did pass away very unexpectedly. Maybe Mr Belderboss hasn’t quite come to terms with it yet. Grief is a peculiar business anyway and when it’s compounded with shock, it can take a wee while longer to get over it.

It is easy to imagine grief as an ennobling, purifying emotion—uncluttering the mind of what is petty and transient, and illuminating the essential. In reality, of course, grief doesn’t resolve anything, any more than a blow to the head or a devastating illness. It compounds stress and complication. It multiplies anxiety and tension. It opens fissures into cracks, and cracks into gaping chasms.

I think that’s why a lot of cops are drinkers, or why a bunch of them eat a gun when they retire. You don’t slough those things off. They stay with you and compound over the years until you’re carrying around everyone else’s grief.” He glanced out the window. “Grief is heavy.” “Yes

Because grief compounds. Which is something I never realised before (but then again, why would I?). A first horrible loss makes the second one even worse, because you have precedent.

With a sigh, I whisked the moisture off my cheeks, then studied Narian’s handsome features, creating a portrait in my mind. I traced his cheekbones and jaw, lingering over his lips. Impulsively, I leaned down to kiss him and his eyelids flicked open. “I will always love you, Alera,” he murmured, momentarily regaining clarity. “And I will always love you.” I curled up beside him, my arm across his chest, willing him to stay with me for as long as possible. I continually fought against drowsiness, but exhaustion and grief eventually got the best of me, and I drifted off to sleep. Someone was shaking my shoulder and I slowly came awake to see London crouched down beside me. I bolted upright, then reached out to touch his face, certain I was seeing a ghost. “Alera, it’s all right. I’m here to bring you safely home.” I nodded, then shifted onto my knees, my voice urgent. “The High Priestess has poisoned Narian. She doesn’t want him to fight against her if she sends reinforcements to Hytanica.” London placed a hand upon Narian’s chest, feeling for a heartbeat, for the rise and fall of breathing, for warmth. “He’s still alive,” he told me. “How long ago was he poisoned?” “About ten hours now. He can’t have much time left. According to what the High Priestess told me about the poison, he should already be dead.” “Listen to me. He may still have some of Nantilam’s healing power inside of him.” “From when the Overlord tried to kill him?” London nodded and hope surged within me. It had been the residual effect of Nantilam’s healing abilities that had enabled the deputy captain to withstand the Overlord’s torture. “That’s probably why his dying is prolonged,” London continued. “With any luck, she may have miscalculated what it will take to kill him. But we need to help him fight, Alera.” “How?” London retrieved his water flask and bedroll from his horse, handing them to me. “Get as much water as possible into him, to dilute the toxin in his bloodstream, and we’ll cover him with all the blankets and cloaks we have. He’s fevered, so let’s help his body sweat out some of the poison.” I began to cover Narian while London added wood to the fire. Then he removed his own cloak and tossed it to me. “I’m going to gather some herbs that might help. I’ve learned a few things about Cokyrian compounds over the years, knowledge that I’m guessing the High Priestess would like to take away from me about now. You stay here and care for him as you have been doing. And, Alera, keep talking to him. He is strong and will fight to hear the sound of your voice--fight to come back to you.” “I think the High Priestessis in love with you, London.” “Just proves folly knows no limit.

But tormented souls have this incredible ability to recognize and approach one another, thus compounding their grief.

He's worried about you, Charles.  They all are." "They should hate me." "No they shouldn't, and they don't.  You're being absurd, and you know it." "But I've failed them.  I doubted their love, allowed myself to be deceived by letters I should have known were false, and caused them untold grief and sorrow . . . and now I have compounded that by coming back and showing them just what depths I've sunk to.  How ashamed they must be of me.  How ashamed I am of myself.  What must they think?" "They're your family, Charles.  You don't need to impress them, or pretend you're something you're not.  If you can't be yourself around them, and be accepted for the man that you are, then who can you be yourself around?" "You," he said bleakly.  "I can be myself around you.  I tell you things I've never told anyone else, I feel completely at ease around you, but then, you know all of my secrets and I have nothing to hide from you.  You have seen inside my head —" he gave a bitter little laugh — "literally.  'Sdeath, why shouldn't I feel comfortable around you?  You can see right through me." "And you think that Lucien cannot?" she asked, smiling and raising one brow.  "Really, Charles.  You are underestimating him." "Lucien is accustomed to seeing capability and confidence from me.  He was disappointed in me tonight.  Disgusted." "Worried, perhaps, more than disappointed.  Never disgusted.

Across the board, the idea was that these people might come back for their shit, so let us not compound their stress with panic.

Along with its unforgettable description of the eerie space this woman inhabits, the poem also locates her very precisely in time, offering two almost unique words which transport the reader into the exact moment of her sorrow. First is uhtcearu, a compound which means ‘sorrow before dawn’ or ‘grief at early morning’. In Old English uht is the name for the last part of the night, the empty chilly hours just before the dawn, an especially painful time for grief and loneliness (as well as other kinds of threat: the dragon in Beowulf is called an uhtfloga, a creature who flies before dawn). The word suggests the sting of waking to the memory of sorrow, or the anxiety of lying awake in the early morning, worrying over what the day will bring.

A child doesn’t recover from losing a parent. It ends your world, yet the world doesn’t end. It’s the strangest sensation to lose somebody you love, a pain inevitably compounded by the realization that not everybody shares your grief, that somehow life continues, largely indifferent to your loss.

We are so obsessed with the quick clean end, the end that takes no longer than the length of a Hollywood film, that we have invented this word 'closure' for it-hoping that the truth of of this heroic compound will follow shortly after the naming of it. If the word exists, the concept must, mustn't it? But I will tell you differently. All that exists at the end is the sheer animal act of forgetting, and the act of forgiving ourselves for forgetting. It is a physical thing born of years of harrowing repetition and replay: the road so often travelled that the scenery is no longer visible, the paragraph so often read that the sense is no longer apparent. - Sanjay de Silva

emotional trauma. As with loss associated with the death of a partner, it can dismantle your identity. But the grief of this type of heartbreak is compounded by rejection, which, I came to learn, we humans feel as a deeply evolved threat to our survival.

Every recent death dredges up every other loss, which compounds the grief. That old hurt comes right back...

But what if the great secret insider-trading truth is that you don't ever get over the biggest losses in your life? Is that good news, bad news, or both? The good news is that if you don't seal up your heart with caulking compound, and instead stay permeable, people stay alive inside you, and maybe outside you, too, forever. This is also the bad news, not because your heart will continue to hurt forever, but because grief is so frowned upon, so hard for even intimate bystanders to witness, that you will think you must be crazy for not getting over it. You think it's best to keep this a secret, even if it cuts you off from certain aspects of life, like, say, the truth of your heart, and all that is real. The pain does grow less acute, but the insidious palace lie that we will get over crushing losses means that our emotional GPS can never find true north, as it is based on maps that no longer mention the most important places we have been to.

In 1992, Murray gave a sermon at the Tolkien Centenary entitled “Tolkien and the Art of the Parable” where he said that one of the most convincing pieces of evidence that connects fairy story with parable is Tolkien’s concept of eucatastrophe. “Many of the parables represent persons coming to a moment of decision, the outcome of which has all-important consequences,” wrote Murray. “Undoubtedly Jesus intended, by picturing vivid examples, to confront people with a challenge to realize the reality of God in a new way, and to change their values and way of life.” 225 Tolkien defined eucatasrophe as a “sudden joyous ‘turn’” in the narrative, a “miraculous grace.” 226 Eucatastrophe “denies (in the face of much evidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far is evangelium, giving a fleeting glimpse of Joy, Joy beyond the walls of the world, poignant as grief.” 227 The word “eucatastrophe” is a compound Greek word which literally means “good down-turn.” 228 It refers to the ability that only God has to bring good out of evil. According to Pearce, “Gandalf’s resurrection, like the resurrection of Christ, is indeed a sudden and miraculous grace, offering a tantalizing glimpse of the joy of the good news (evangelium) beyond the walls of the world.” 229 For Tolkien, eucatastrophe was the heart of the fairy story and its central function and gave the reader a glimpse of the gospel.

WE ALL have a duty to see that our efforts to heal from grief do not compound the tragedy and punish the innocent.