Elliot Page Quotes

In our society anger and masculinity are so intertwined—I hope to redefine that in my own life.

We deserve to experience love fully, equally, without shame and without compromise.

We do not realize the extent of the energy we are losing until we find where it is seeping from.

I am evolved as I freed myself from the expectations of others. These memories shape a nonlinear narrative, because queerness is intrinsically nonlinear, journeys that bend and wind. Two steps forward, one step back.

Her visibility meant the world to me. I think about this as I walk through the world now.

I’ve spent much of my life chipping away toward the truth, while terrified to cause a collapse.

Let me just exist with you, happier than ever.

How do people do it? How do they shut off the noise? And I don't mean "happy", they may not be happy, but they seem to be able to exist at least.

I’ve nothing new or profound to say, nothing that hasn’t been said before, but I know books have helped me, saved me even, so perhaps this can help someone feel less alone, seen, no matter who they are or what journey they are on. Thank you for wanting to read about mine.

I was not and had never been a part of a queer community, how to access such a thing was not just a mystery but an impossibility. The loss of which was sizable. Agony in isolation, the shame and pain that I thought was mine alone. My heart aches for my younger self. A tiny bug running to the rim of an upside-down juice glass. What a difference it would have been to sit with queer and trans pals and have them say "I feel that way, too. I felt that way, too. We don't have to feel that way. You don't have to feel that way.". Not a magic eraser of shame, but it would have undoubtedly quickened things up.

My imagination was a lifeline. It was where I felt the most unrestrained, unselfconscious, real. Not a visualization, far more natural. Not a wishing, but an understanding. When I was present with myself, I knew, without exception. I saw with startling clarity then. I miss that.

I could block myself out, I was a person I didn't know, I'd gaze into what felt like the universe, my eye a planet of its own. I must be somewhere in there, I'd think.

Hollywood is built on leveraging queerness. Tucking it away when needed, pulling it out when beneficial, while patting themselves on the back. Hollywood doesn’t lead the way, it responds, it follows, slowly and far behind. The depth of that closet, the trove of secrets buried, indifferent to the consequences. I was punished for being queer while I watched others be protected and celebrated, who gleefully abused people in the wide open.

Those were some of the best times of my life...traveling to another dimension where I was...me. And not just a boy but a man, a man who could fall in love and be loved back. Why do we lose that ability? To create a whole world? A bunk bed was a kingdom, I was a boy.

He smiled but it was a sad smile. Bittersweet as if he had skipped to the last page of a book and didn't know what to make of the ending.

The closet was grueling, it suffocated me. Stewing in my shame, exhausted, lonely, and depressed, I wished to be the person so many wanted me to be. It felt like the only option.

A never-ending exercise in empathy, opening the heart, hoping it all sinks in, waiting for that release of emotion.

The OLD NAVY sign seduced my mother like a moth to a dwindling gas lantern.

It often seems like more people step forward to defend being unkind than they do to support trans people as we deal with an onslaught of cruelty and violence.

Too many times those who were supposed to protect me did nothing, or if anything, only furthered my silence.

I don’t want to disappear. I want to exist in my body, with these new possibilities. Possibilities. Perhaps that is one of the main components of life lost to lack of representation. Options erased from the imagination. Narratives indoctrinated that we spend an eternity attempting to break. The unraveling is painful, but it leads you to you.

Idly, I flipped through the ledger's pages, for I cannot resist a book set before me no matter its kind. Writing draws my eye; I am impelled as by sorcery to read even if it is an accountant's list or a solicitor's instructions or, as here, nothing more than a record of travelers who have passed through this inn.

I had to be isolated, I had to not be something to someone or someone to something. I'd exhausted myself, trying with all of me to figure out what was wrong, running from one place to the next, fooling myself into thinking I could find it. But the answer was in the silence, the answer would only come when I chose to listen.

I often wonder if I have actually experienced deep love. I feel as though I have, but is it real if you were never there?

Someone will break your heart, and you will break one too.

When the topic of gender came up, I could not speak, I would just weep. It was too hot to touch.

Why do I feel this way?' I'd plead. 'What is this feeling that never goes away? How can I be desperately uncomfortable all the time? How can I have this life and be in such pain?

The movement for trans liberation affects us all.

Why do we lose that ability? To create a whole world? A bunk bed was a kingdom, I was a boy.

I know books have helped me, saved me even, so perhaps this can help someone feel less alone, seen, no matter who they are or what journey they are on.

What was best meant fitting neatly into our society's expectations. Staying inside the lines.

Shame had been drilled into my bones since I was my tiniest self, and I struggled to rid my body of that old toxic and erosive marrow.

Loneliness had always been a staple for me, an inherent disconnect from my surroundings, a foundational dissociation. Lured away from my existence, I thought those around me wanted me to disappear—that I was preferred as an illusion.

Research has shown that transgender and gender-nonconforming youth are four times more likely to struggle with an eating disorder. My brain became consumed by counting calories, time passing, how to make myself full without making myself full. When

Even though I am extremely lucky, this narrative where trans people have to feel lucky for these crumbs-that we fought hard for and still fight for-is perverse and manipulative. Here is the thing-I almost did not make it, the permanent emptiness, a mystery I would never solve. Incessant, without language, a depth of despair...I should not have to grovel with gratitude. Am I grateful? Fuck, yeah! But everyone should have access to gender-affirming health care and lifesaving health care. It just should be.

It's nice when one of these books falls into your hands. It's nice when you read through the first few pages and realize it's going to be a good one, and you settle down, knowing you've got pages and pages to go. You settle into the sofa and put your feet up, feel all that thickness in your hand, and just wonder what it's got in store for you.

We’ve never been closer, and her willingness to change and grow and move through the discomfort has been powerful and inspiring. She’s become my ally. She loves her son endlessly. I’m lucky to have that, to feel such profound and genuine love. What was the most beautiful and meaningful was to watch her bloom as her old narratives and doctrines faded.

Write a two-page reflection about your life. What do you like about it? What don’t you like about it? What do you live for? There’s a French term for the latter question. Raison d ’être. It means “reason for being.” My mum used to say that Elliot and I were her raison d’être. Mum had a reason, now she lacks a being. I have a being, I just lack a reason. I live because of the law of inertia. An object in motion stays in motion unless acted upon by an unbalanced force. If I were to reflect on my life, I would say it’s like being engulfed in quicksand, and as much as I want to get out, I slowly sink deeper, towards an inevitable end. I want someone to pull me out, but I don’t know how they can. Their only reactions are to stand on dry land and watch me with concerned expressions, urging me to just walk like they are. Living is being in the middle of a dark tunnel, claustrophobic and boxed in, and feeling something closing in behind you, and realising you can only beat it by running. But the tunnel never ends, and you come to realise that you can’t run forever. You go for as long as you possibly can, hoping to God that you’ll see a light before you can’t run anymore. You desperately want to live. But everyone has their limit. And when you eventually hit yours, there’s nothing more you can do. Life is temporary. Nothing is certain about it except for the fact that it will end. It can end on your terms or as a surprise. The thing is . . . I don’t like surprises.

What was it like to spend your whole day in rooms stuffed with thirty elementary school students and then have to come home, make dinner, and judge your kid’s fake diving competition? She’d been on her feet all day and now was crouched on the cold tile floor, I’m sure desperate for a comfy seat, warm food, and a cold beer, none of which were going to magically appear before her. These are important moments to remember. They aren’t small.

Writing a book has come up a few times over the years, but it never felt right and, quite frankly, it didn’t feel possible. I could barely sit down, let alone be still long enough to complete such a task. My brain’s energy was being wasted, a ceaseless drip attempting to conceal and control my discomfort. But now is different. New. At last, I can sit with myself, in this body, present—typing for hours, my dog, Mo, lounging in the sun, my back straighter, my mind quieter.

After Nikki left, I was alone in the woods again, which I love. I wasn't sure if I could be someone who lived in a cabin by themselves in the middle of the forest for months, but turns out, I very much am and it may be necessary in order for me to get to the bottom of my own brain. I had to be isolated, I had to not be something to someone or someone to something. I'd exhausted myself, trying with all of me to figure out what was wrong, running from one place to the next, fooling myself into thinking I could find it. But the answer was in the silence, the answer would only come when I chose to listen.

Secrets Series, Book 1) (Elliot, Kendra) - Your Bookmark on page 66 | Location 857 | Added on Saturday, January 10, 2015 10:38:49

While he recognized that you were unhappy and unwell, I think he couldn't help but feel that there was some part of you, some part bound inextricably to your illness, that everybody could do with a little more of. Not the melancholy, of course, or even the capacity for quips and one-liners ("Give me lithium or give me death," remember?). Perhaps it was just what he more than once described as a mixture in you of acuity and romanticism that made most other people's versions of sanity appear hollow compromises, or evasions.

They were aware that the first missionary to have entered Auca territory—Pedro Suarez, a Jesuit priest—had been murdered by spears in an isolated station near the confluence of the Napo and Curaray. That was in 1667. His murderers were Indians who might have been the ancestors of some present-day Aucas. For about two hundred years after this the Indians had been left in peace by the white man. Then the coming of rubber hunters wrote a dark page in the history of this jungle area. For some fifty years—from about 1875 to 1925—these men roamed the jungles, plundering and burning the Indian homes, raping, torturing, and enslaving the people. It was a time when the concept of “lesser breeds without the law” was almost universally accepted. For the Aucas to have no love for the white man was understandable. Could Christian love wipe out the memories of past treachery and brutality? This was a challenge to Jim and Pete as they hoped to bring the message of God’s love and salvation to these primitive people. It was a challenge and leading for which they had both been prepared since childhood.

For one, the lomo saltado was so delicious I thought I might forget my own name. It was beef tenderloin stir-fried so that the sugars in the marinade caramelized on the outside, making it crispy and chewy and as tender as the name in the middle, on a big blue platter piled high with roasted tomatoes, various salsas and chiles, and crispy fries. The idea was to wrap pieces of beef and the toppings in the scallion pancakes that came along with it. What resulted were flavor bombs, savory and spicy and fatty and crispy, all accentuated by the sweet, tangy pop of tomato. Flakes of scallion pancakes drifted from my lips down to my plate as my teeth crunched through each bite. "I can't even handle how good this is," I said, then swallowed because I couldn't wait to say it. The other two dishes we'd ordered were pretty great, too----a whole branzino marinated and charred so that we picked it clean off its spindly bones and ate it with greens and roasted peppers; a half chicken roasted with aji amarillo chile paste and served over shiitake mushrooms and a lime crema---but the lomo saltado was the true star of the table. I could already picture how it was going to look on my page. The golden-brown fries glistening with oil. The beef shaded from light pink in the center to deep brown on the edges. The ruby red tomatoes nestled among them. And the scallion pancakes serving as a lacy backdrop.

I often dreamed of being Aladdin. But it wasn’t for the rug, or the wishes, or the teeny monkey, but to know what it feels like to delicately touch a girl.

called my then agent, who understood and was furious with them. I was grateful for this, to feel seen, not told to shrug it off. It almost never crossed my mind that I could walk away, or that I could call someone, just pick up the phone and say, “This isn’t okay.” Too many times those who were supposed to protect me did nothing, or if anything, only furthered my silence.

Being in proximity to Jessica changed me. Growing up with hardly any queers around, this person helped me discover myself, someone who had pushed through the fear and the shame to exist proudly. Running into her on the sidewalk, seeing her at a party, eating the wraps she made at the mall, I didn't have a crush, but I yearned to be near what was possible. Her visibility meant the world to me. I think about this as I walk through the world now.

Not long before my heart was shredded by “Ryan,” I saw the superb, painful, and infuriating documentary God Loves Uganda, a film by the astounding Roger Ross Williams. The doc examined the role of American evangelicalism in Uganda, its ties to a recently introduced bill, the Uganda Anti-Homosexuality Act—which then suggested the death penalty for LGBTQ+ people—as it gained serious momentum. It follows missionaries, evangelical leaders, and the LGBTQ+ people of Uganda who fight for their right to exist. These activists were standing up against vicious oppression, rhetoric, and ideas originally introduced and continuously perpetuated by the West. Concealed in “good deeds,” American missionaries created infrastructure for access to indoctrinate the populace, which fueled anti-LGBTQ+ violence and hate.

Better not to text, you can keep your head up if you’re on the phone.

She helped me nourish my body, she made me laugh. I blabbered away about the same shit on repeat and she listened. It didn’t matter how raw, sad, or enraged I was, Julia let me feel.

I unfairly assumed she could read my mind. I was saying, “all good, of course,” but I was asking her to interpret it as the opposite.

but if I was not born, I’d have no perception of what I’d be missing, nor would anyone else miss me.

In a world where queerness all too often alienates us from blood, I am grateful to Julia, and the family I have chosen. Without them, I wouldn't be here.

Is this okay?" "Yes," I answered with a nod. She slid her fingers down my pants and touched me. "You're so wet," she said. And I was. Turned on in a way that was new, I felt the sensation I had only managed to reach on my own until this point. My body quivered, I wish we'd been alone, but the presence of others snapped us out of it. Being in proximity to Jessica changed me. Growing up with hardly any queers around, this person helped me discover myself, someone who had pushed through the fear and the shame to exist proudly. Running into her on the sidewalk, seeing her at a party, eating the wraps she made at the mall, I didn't have a crush, but I yearned to be near what was possible. Her visibility meant the world to me. I think about this as I walk through the world now.

If a part of you is always separate, if existing in your body feels unbearable love is an irresistible escape. You transcend, a sensation so indescribable that philosophers, scientists, and writers can't seem to agree on what the fuck it even is if it even is. I often wonder if I have actually experienced deep love. I feel as though I have, but is it real if you were never there? When you have numbed yourself to the truth? Love was unwittingly an emotional disguise, and my relationship to it is another muscle to be transformed. I don't want to disappear. I want to exist in my body, with these new possibilities. Possibilities. Perhaps that is one of the main components of life lost to lack of representation. Options erased from the imagination. Narratives indoctrinated that we spend an eternity attempting to break. The unraveling is painful, but it leads you to you.

but if I was not born, I’d have no perception of what I’d be missing, nor would anyone else miss me. This would suit me just fine. We are all micro specks, almost nothing in the grand scheme.

We shot the film, almost all of it, in a small studio close by the Oakwood Apartments. Burbank, often considered the media capital of the world, is home to Walt Disney Studios, Warner Bros., Nickelodeon Animation Studio, and a massive porn industry.

Power works in funny ways. He was, and still is, one of the most famous actors in the world.

Like most normal people, I didn't have any M.F.K Fisher quotes memorized. So I selected one of her books at random---well, not random, the one that looked the least valuable---and flipped to a random page. Hoping I'd find something beautiful but decidedly unsexy, maybe about the smell of a mushroom farm or boxes of durian. Where my eyes landed: Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly. Thanks a lot, Mary Frances Kennedy.

The truth is, in many ways, my narrative is still unfolding. I have been on testosterone for over a year now. Every Friday I wake up excited yet content, a new sense of calm in my life. I inject myself with forty milligrams of T, I’m changing, I’m growing, it’s all just beginning.

Stunning cliffs and stone walls, festooned with vines and moss, reach from the promenade to the top tier, which runs along Riverside Drive. Can parks be emotional? Feels that way, its beauty is haunting. I read Riverside Park inspired Edgar Allan Poe to write “The Raven.” Makes sense.

Beyond putting yourself in one box or another, you worry about the future. About college or work or even your physical safety. Trying to create that mental picture of your life—of what on earth is going to happen to you—can crush you a little bit every day. It is toxic and painful and deeply unfair. If we took just five minutes to recognize each other’s beauty, instead of attacking each other for our differences. That’s not hard. It’s really an easier and better way to live. And ultimately, it saves lives. Then again, it’s not easy at all. It can be the hardest thing, because loving other people starts with loving ourselves and accepting ourselves.

I have never had a connection with a dog like I have with Mo. Dogs I have had in the past, I loved them dearly, but Mo is different. We are attached at the hip, I am obsessed, so much it hurts. Mo is an infinitely joyous little being who exudes love every minute of the day. Having Mo gave me a lot—routine, responsibility, walking, but primarily he expanded my heart. The care I feel is bottomless, a lesson learned from Mo.

Mo and I were walking up from the path that runs along the Hudson River to the middle level of Riverside Park on the Upper West Side. The park is one of my favorite places in New York City. It has three levels and runs from 72nd Street to 158th Street.

It was awards season, and a friend, Kiwi Smith, was throwing a party at her house in Los Feliz for Adèle Exarchopoulos, the star of Blue Is the Warmest Colour. This is something people do during awards season, they have parties for people and films, inviting members of the Academy, hoping the support will lead to votes.

My keys are always in my pocket, that is what I tell myself,” explained Drew. “If I’m not sure, if I’m hesitant and scared, I simply remind myself that I have my keys in my pocket and I can leave at any point. You can just leave.” A pretty straightforward suggestion, but one I had not considered. To this day, I will say this to myself, and it still helps.

A couple days later, I was at the studio for a screen test, not to be confused with auditions—more like camera tests. You show up to work as if it is a regular day. You head to hair and makeup, discuss looks, what to start with, the character arcs and whatnot.

Other than the time with Paula at Reflections, and a nerve-racking experience at a bar in Paris with Alia (a story for another book), I had not stepped foot into a gay bar. I was not and had never been a part of a queer community, how to access such a thing was not just a mystery but an impossibility.

I lived various places, Hancock Park, Beachwood Canyon, Studio City, and lastly in Nichols Canyon, not far from where I was staying. West Hollywood is known as an LGBTQ+ area of Los Angeles. Rows of queer bars run along Santa Monica Boulevard, mostly catering to cis white gay men. Rainbows line the streets.

Characters affected me in various ways, how could they not? It’s an exploration of another human’s experience. A never-ending exercise in empathy, opening the heart, hoping it all sinks in, waiting for that release of emotion.

I suppose gratitude is the course of action, but if I was not born, I’d have no perception of what I’d be missing, nor would anyone else miss me. This would suit me just fine. We are all micro specks, almost nothing in the grand scheme.

And, to put it bluntly, I was codependent. Only now am I finally moving away from that. Better boundaries, less fearful, more openhearted. Stronger, with a burgeoning confidence I did not possess before. Reminders and lessons emerge from our most painful moments, ones I’m sure I will forget and have to remember again. But

And you get the privilege of hearing your bones break before the power of embrace causes your veins to explode.

We would go to internet cafés to send a message home. “Hey, we are alive.

These activists should not have to be doing this work, but the reality is that they have no other option, they can’t rest. They face extreme and brutal consequences, in large part because of the exportation of American evangelical anti-LGBTQ+ religious and social doctrine. It is true for those who are the most vulnerable in the States as well, it is simply disguised better.

The thump of the wheels landing, returning to the earth, the reality you are left with.

Two steps forward, one step back. I’ve spent much of my life chipping away toward the truth, while terrified to cause a collapse.

My brain's energy was being wasted, a ceaseless drip attempting to conceal and control my disappointment.

Here was a space with dreams beyond self and ideals that truthfully felt no different from what we’d learned in primary school—be kind, collaborate, take care of the Earth, share—concepts that don’t jibe well with our capitalist system, the ones they push us to forget.

Taking a moment, we joined as a group to express our gratitude, our appreciation for one another, for the earth, for how lucky we were to sit down and consume life-giving plants and grains and water.

slow down, look, listen, and witness what is happening. Let the landscape tell you what to do, make meaningful decisions or adjustments, versus forcing your ideas or expectations.

Perhaps her unconditional love for me has begun to extend to herself.

It's hard to explain gender dysphoria to people who don't experience it. It's an awful voice in the back of your head, you assume everyone hears it, but they don't.

I was ready to talk. I could barely find the words, but I did. As if they moved on their own, wriggling through and up my body, pouring out. My body knew, deep down I knew, and something had shifted, It was now or never. It was alive or not,

Going to sleep, I selfishly prayed the ghosts couldn't swim.

I’d get off around Vine and wander into Amoeba Music, a warehouse-size new-and-used record, CD, and DVD store in Los Angeles. The tack tack tack of potential buyers flipping through the hard plastic cases filled the ears as much as the latest, hippest songs they played, a metronome setting the speed. It helped the time pass.

It is natural indeed. However it's not the only thing God has in mind for us. We are not meant to live merely by what is natural. We need to learn to live by the supernatural. Ordinary fare will not fill the emptiness in our hearts...

I am furious at the seeds planted without our consent, the voices and the actions that made our roads to the truth unnecessarily brutal.

I can see now how moments like these—between me, my mom, my dad—silently paved the way for my future relationship dynamics. I would throw the feelings aside, worried I’d get in trouble for having them, remaining in situations a lot longer than I should have, hide my truth. Inevitably, this would always lead to more damage and more harm. Like the many ways in which I have been difficult for people—my abrupt shifts, shutting down mixed with the instinct to run, being dishonest because I felt so irrationally frightened. It is fruitful to dig through the muck.

As a trans person and a public one, the sensation is that I'm always pleading for people to believe me, which I imagine most trans people relate to. Tired of the wink and nod.

Non Silba Sed Anthar. “Not for oneself, but for others,” she read aloud. That sounds selfless and kind. She scrolled further, scanning the results. This can’t be right. Her heart in her throat, she opened web page after web page, finding multiple confirmations. The lovely-sounding phrase was a common slogan of the KKK.

So here I am, grateful and terrified, writing directly to you.

this book is the story of my untangling. The act of writing, reading, and sharing the multitude of our experiences is an important step in standing up to those who wish to silence us. I’ve nothing new or profound to say, nothing that hasn’t been said before, but I know books have helped me, saved me even, so perhaps this can help someone feel less alone, seen, no matter who they are or what journey they are on. Thank you for wanting to read about mine.

Taking it in my hands, I flipped the cover, heart stalling at the title page. At my name scrawled over and over again in a teenaged cursive, dotted with little pink hearts. I ran my thumb over those tiny annotations like I could draw the ink directly into my veins. I looked at her face again, and made a decision. Screw it. I was going for it.

I fled toward my babysitter’s house, thinking it a wiser choice than my own. There was no time to look over my shoulder, the voices kept coming. Miraculously, we made it to her porch. I could hear her Lhasa apso, Bubba, barking. The boys came to a stop. She came to the door, our panic clear. She looked to the group of boys, understanding coming to her eyes. “Fuck off, you little shits!” I can still see it, her yelling at them, it was rare to feel protected.

As the old constructs continue to crumble, it lets my mother build something new, too. Perhaps her unconditional love for me has begun to extend to herself.

I was coming to understand what all those poems were about, what all the fuss was. Everything was cold before, motionless, emotionless. Any woman I had loved hadn’t loved me back, and the one who maybe had, loved me the wrong way.

We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be,” Vonnegut wrote.

Their relationship was already in trouble by the time I came along. I suppose gratitude is the course of action, but if I was not born, I'd have no perception of what I'd be missing, nor would anyone else miss me. This would suit me just fine. We are all micro specks, almost nothing in the grand scheme.