Places I've Cried In Public Quotes

Crying is a very obvious sign that something isn’t going right in your life. You should not ignore tears.

Trauma is trauma. Your brain and body don't differentiate between physical and emotional abuse. They only respond to attack.

It’s such a simple torture – the silent treatment. As basic as tripping someone over or pulling their chair out before they sit down. And yet it’s so very effective. When someone has the willpower to pretend you’re not there, it nullifies you. How do you fight against that humiliation?

Abuse is also when your personality is attacked, not just your body. Abuse is feeling like you constantly have to walk on eggshells around the person you're supposed to love. Abuse is being cut off from your friends, even if you could never prove it was their idea you did it. Abuse is being made to feel you're going crazy. Abuse is being lured in with grand promises and wild declarations of love that can never be sustained. Abuse is being pushed into doing sexual things you're not comfortable with. That is also called rape, another word that has taken me some time to feel belongs to me. Abuse is intentionally humiliating you. Abuse is constantly blaming you for everything, and never them.

What is love? Maybe it's something else. Maybe it's not what we've been told it its. Maybe it's boring words like security and safety, warmth and growth. Maybe it's the comfort of knowing someone really well and them knowing you back. Maybe it's kisses where you sometimes bump noses but you can laugh it off? Maybe it's never getting butterflies because you always know where you stand?

Sometimes that's all you can do in life, when it comes to pain - try and understand it. We all carry scars and scorch marks around with us. We cuddle up each night with ghosts of damaging memories - we let them swirl around our heads, never able to settle or heal because we can't make sense of this terrible thing that happened to us, and why we're finding it so impossible to get over. You can't force pain to leave until it's ready to.

It takes guts to listen to our gut...

You never know if happy memories are going to become sad ones. They glow and shine in the vast realms of our subconscious, making that part of our brain feel like it’s filled with glitter. We pick them up and cradle them like expensive cats, or wriggle into them like they are jumpers we’ve left to warm on a radiator. Until the day when, for one reason or another, life can suddenly make this happy memory into a sad memory instead. Good memories exist in the naivety of not knowing any better.

Is any broken heart ever worth it?

What's more painful - torturing yourself with happy memories or torturing yourself with bad ones?

A mess. That's what I was, at this lonely number thirty-seven bus-stop. And here I am, still a mess. A mess with no messages on her phone. Let alone a message with three kisses.

Good memories exist in the naivety of not knowing any better.

I've used up so many tears on you already, and it's not helping me get over this any better

I wonder how many times in a given second girls are told that their guts are wrong? Told our tummies are misfiring, like wayward fireworks. No, no, no, dear, it’s not like that at all. Where did you get that from? I promise you that’s not the case. You are overreacting. You are crazy. You are insecure. You are being a silly little thing. And, then, days or weeks or even years later, we look back on The Bad Thing that happened to us because we ignored all the signs, and we say to ourselves I wish I had listened to my gut.

It was true at the time. But time changes the truth.

I mean, he’s a YORKSHIREMAN. There isn’t any problem that can’t be solved by pretending it doesn’t exist and having a cup of tea.

Guts and hearts aren’t always the most compatible - I’m starting to learn that. They pull in different directions, ignoring one another when they really shouldn’t.

Self-hatred is like a snake eating its own tail. It feeds on itself - the bacteria of it spawning more bacteria until the infection is out of control.

Here's what I know I should do: Feel nothing. Tell you to fuck off Proceed to fuck off

Only time knows if this is a mistake, if we are worth the risk we're about to take.

His total lack of emotion only made me more emotional.

Maybe with enough time passed, pain can be something that you remember fondly because you're so sure that particular pain has healed.

Sometimes that's all you can do in life, when it comes to pain - try and understand it.

There are so many memories, lurking in all the spaces of everywhere. They lie trapped like frozen ghosts, existing only when someone who knows of that memory thinks about that particular time and place and their mind reactivates it. We walk through these ghosts all the time, not knowing we tread the footprints of another person’s story. Just one bench on top of a viewpoint could be harbouring so many stories. It could be the bench where a couple broke up, or where another couple had their first kiss. It could be the bench where someone thought about taking their own life, or where they got the phone call that something amazing had happened. Layered in just one bench there’s an infinite amount of memories. Multiple people living near one particular bench could all share it as special without even knowing each other. We leave behind echoes of our lives everywhere we go, trapping them into the fabric of the world around us.

I have a system with bathrooms. I spend a lot of time in them. They are sanctuaries, public places of peace spaced throughout the world for people like me. When I pop into Aaron’s, I continue my normal routine of wasting time. I turn the light off first. Then I sigh. Then I turn around, face the door I just closed, pull down my pants, and fall on the toilet— I don’t sit; I fall like a carcass, feeling my butt accommodate the rim. Then I put my head in my hands and breathe out as I, well, y’know, piss. I always try to enjoy it, to feel it come out and realize that it’s my body doing something it has to do, like eating, although I’m not too good at that. I bury my face in my hands and wish that it could go on forever because it feels good. You do it and it’s done. It doesn’t take any effort or any planning. You don’t put it off. That would be really screwed up, I think. If you had such problems that you didn’t pee. Like being anorexic, except with urine. If you held it in as self-punishment. I wonder if anyone does that? I finish up and flush, reaching behind me, my head still down. Then I get up and turn on the light. (Did anyone notice I was in here in the dark? Did they see the lack of light under the crack and notice it like a roach? Did Nia see?) Then I look in the mirror. I look so normal. I look like I’ve always looked, like I did before the fall of last year. Dark hair and dark eyes and one snaggled tooth. Big eyebrows that meet in the middle. A long nose, sort of twisted. Pupils that are naturally large—it’s not the pot— which blend into the dark brown to make two big saucer eyes, holes in me. Wisps of hair above my upper lip. This is Craig. And I always look like I’m about to cry. I put on the hot water and splash it at my face to feel something. In a few seconds I’m going to have to go back and face the crowd. But I can sit in the dark on the toilet a little more, can’t I? I always manage to make a trip to the bathroom take five minutes.

Alfie was consistent, and, because of that, I wasn't crazy. I was calm, I was chill - I was all the things you wanted me to be, Reese. But I was incapable of being those things with you. The more you wanted me to be that "chill" girl - the more you made it clear that your love for me depended on it - the less chill and more crazy I got. Because you weren't consistent. One day you’d be all over me, making my anxiety disappear, being kind and considerate and amazing and everything I’d always wanted. “God I love you, I love you so much,” you’d tell everyone at the lunch table, and the rest of the band would groan while I glowed. But then, later that afternoon, we’d walk past a girl and you’d say, “Wow, she’s so pretty,” then get in a mood with me if I dared to be upset. I’m starting to realize that craziness may not always come from within. I’m starting to think lows aren’t worth the highs - not in love. Not in something where the most important thing is to feel safe. Consistency is underrated.

Has he invited you to dinner, dear? Gifts, flowers, the usual?” I had to put my cup down, because my hand was shaking too much. When I stopped laughing, I said, “Curran? He isn’t exactly Mr. Smooth. He handed me a bowl of soup, that’s as far as we got.” “He fed you?” Raphael stopped rubbing Andrea. “How did this happen?” Aunt B stared at me. “Be very specific, this is important.” “He didn’t actually feed me. I was injured and he handed me a bowl of chicken soup. Actually I think he handed me two or three. And he called me an idiot.” “Did you accept?” Aunt B asked. “Yes, I was starving. Why are the three of you looking at me like that?” “For crying out loud.” Andrea set her cup down, spilling some tea. “The Beast Lord’s feeding you soup. Think about that for a second.” Raphael coughed. Aunt B leaned forward. “Was there anybody else in the room?” “No. He chased everyone out.” Raphael nodded. “At least he hasn’t gone public yet.” “He might never,” Andrea said. “It would jeopardize her position with the Order.” Aunt B’s face was grave. “It doesn’t go past this room. You hear me, Raphael? No gossip, no pillow talk, not a word. We don’t want any trouble with Curran.” “If you don’t explain it all to me, I will strangle somebody.” Of course, Raphael might like that . . . “Food has a special significance,” Aunt D said. I nodded. “Food indicates hierarchy. Nobody eats before the alpha, unless permission is given, and no alpha eats in Curran’s presence until Curran takes a bite.” “There is more,” Aunt B said. “Animals express love through food. When a cat loves you, he’ll leave dead mice on your porch, because you’re a lousy hunter and he wants to take care of you. When a shapeshifter boy likes a girl, he’ll bring her food and if she likes him back, she might make him lunch. When Curran wants to show interest in a woman, he buys her dinner.” “In public,” Raphael added, “the shapeshifter fathers always put the first bite on the plates of their wives and children. It signals that if someone wants to challenge the wife or the child, they would have to challenge the male first.” “If you put all of Curran’s girls together, you could have a parade,” Aunt B said. “But I’ve never seen him physically put food into a woman’s hands. He’s a very private man, so he might have done it in an intimate moment, but I would’ve found out eventually. Something like that doesn’t stay hidden in the Keep. Do you understand now? That’s a sign of a very serious interest, dear.” “But I didn’t know what it meant!” Aunt B frowned. “Doesn’t matter. You need to be very careful right now. When Curran wants something, he doesn’t become distracted. He goes after it and he doesn’t stop until he obtains his goal no matter what it takes. That tenacity is what makes him an alpha.” “You’re scaring me.” “Scared might be too strong a word, but in your place, I would definitely be concerned.” I wished I were back home, where I could get to my bottle of sangria. This clearly counted as a dire emergency. As if reading my thoughts, Aunt B rose, took a small bottle from a cabinet, and poured me a shot. I took it, and drained it in one gulp, letting tequila slide down my throat like liquid fire. “Feel better?” “It helped.” Curran had driven me to drinking. At least I wasn’t contemplating suicide.

I sometimes think maybe all the tears we cry are due to this huge gap between the how-we-think-things-should-go and what-life-actually-gives-you." - Amelie

Oh God. Oh Jesus Christ and Gandhi and God and Moses and Ganesh and holy fucking fuckity.

The thing about undeniable truths is that the truth is never set in stone, so their undeniability always has a sell-by date. What is true morphs and changes as we turn the pages of our lives, morphing and changing ourselves as we inevitably lose control of what happens to us and the impact it will have.

That. That was my first red flag. Right there. There's a whole long line of them, punctuated through the mess that was us. Every single one ignored.

Did I listen to that little thought though? That burp of rationality? The little voice that kept quietly putting its hand up at the back of the classroom, whispering truths like, this is a bit full-on isn't it? and He doesn't even know you and Do you even like him? Or do you just like how much he likes you?

Sex with you...oh god. I'm in my bed clutching my arms, and I almost can't think about it. I have never felt more connected to a human being than I did doing that with you.

Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! I smack the side of my own head, I let out a grunt of pained exasperation.

I promise you, promise you, that this pain isn't permanent.

Things felt weirdly dangerous, out of nowhere, like I'd woken up in a field of mines.

What did I do? What's going on? Is it my fault? Where did that come from? I don't understand. Does he not love me anymore?

Now you sing, my canary.

We trust boys. We trust them when they say they love us.

They weren't really tears of sadness, more tears of confusion. I didn't know you could cry of confusion, before that night. Since I met you, I've learned of the giant cornucopia of different tears it's possible to make someone cry: tears of sadness, tears of emotional exhaustion, tears of shame for being yourself, tears of frustration because you know it can feel better than this, tears of hopelessness, tears because you're worried by how much you're crying... The list goes on.

I searched his face for signs that he was going to go off me again. My tummy tightened, like someone had turned a screw on it, as I waited for his judgement.

It was only then I realised I'd started crying and shaking uncontrollably. Not now. No. I don't want to think about it.

I love him, my head told me. I love him, my heart told me. I love him, my soul told me. I love him, my everything told me. What the holy fuck was I doing with him? Why did I let him treat me the way he did? Oh god, what had I done?

And, just before I make contact with your shoulder, there's a voice. Run. Run, it whispers. Now! Go! Flee! It is not safe to stay here.

It feels like the whole world is asleep. Apart from me and my broken heart.

You never know at the time, do you? You can never know it a moment is going to make your life better or rip it apart.

Did I listen to that little thought though? That burp of rationality? The little voice that kept quietly putting its hand up at the back of the classroom, whispering truths like, '

I have a sudden need to take a shower. A really long shower, scraping my skin clean until it is red raw.

Maybe in time, I'll be able to think about how my decision in this next moment made what happen next, happen next. Maybe if I'd been colder - more like you - and just shrugged, then I could've stopped it. I wouldn't have ended up sobbing uncontrollably on a shower floor. I would've been able to sit down the next few days without wincing. I wouldn't have bled in my knickers for days, having to wear a sanitary pad, but not in its usual position. But I'm not cold, I'm not like you.

It's such a simple torture - the silent treatment. As basic as tripping someone over or pulling their chair out before they sit down. And yet it's so very effective. When someone has the willpower to pretend you're not there, it nullifies you.

There was you There was me It was inevitable This start of we.

Los buenos momentos no compensan los malos, por lo menos no en el amor

Era adicta a él, adicta a cómo me hacía sentir cuando me quería, incluso si no lo hacía todo el tiempo

we leave behind echoes of our lives everywhere we go, trapping them into the fabric of the world around us.

you don't need dramatic settings to experience dramatic emotions.

if you can't really remember it. does that make it less real?

I wonder if the salt from our tears is still in the concrete, crystallized beneath my feet? if there are traces of it remaining underneath my shoes?

LEAVE ME FOR HER! OH I WAS SO FREAKING CRAZY, WASN'T I? FOR ACCURATELY GUESSING WHAT THE HELL WAS GOIUNG ON THE WHOLE DAMN TIME? CRAZY, CRAZY AMELIE, WITH HER TOTALLY NORMAL GRIP ON REALITY!!!

LEAVE ME FOR HER! OH I WAS SO FREAKING CRAZY, WASN'T I? FOR ACCURATELY GUESSING WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON THE WHOLE DAMN TIME? CRAZY, CRAZY AMELIE, WITH HER TOTALLY NORMAL GRIP ON REALITY!!!

I was relaxed and happy and attractive because you were treating me well, I was chilled out because I trusted you to do and say the things you said you were going to do. I was happy because I felt like you loved me for exactly who I was and didn't need to hide any parts of myself in order to win affection. I was attractive because I felt attractive, because I wasn't being ignored or undermined or put down or made to feel that, whatever I did, it was never enough. If only YOU would go back the way YOU were, then I could easily go back the way I was. I swear it's not all on me. I swear, I swear.

Simone Simmons Simone Simmons works as an energy healer, helping her patients through empowering them rather than creating a dependency on the healer. She specializes in absent healing, mainly with sufferers of cancer and AIDS. She met Diana four years before her death when the Princess came to her for healing, and they became close friends. In 2005, Simone wrote a book titled Diana: The Last Word. I realized Diana had been born with an extraordinary ability, which had only been waiting to be released. By 1996, when she was fully in control of her life for the first time, she was able to give a great deal of consolation and encouragement to so many people. She received scant attention for this at the time. Everyone seemed to concentrate on the negative aspects. Instead of seeing how genuinely caring she was, they accused her of doing it for the publicity. That was utterly untrue. I often joined her when she returned from a day’s work, and she would be so exhausted, she found relief in crying. She was anxious about what she had seen and experienced and was determined to find something she could do to help. Her late-night visits to hospitals were supposed to be private. She knew how frustrating it is to be alone in a hospital; the staff and patients were always very surprised and pleased to see her. She used to make light of it and say, “I just came round to see if anyone else couldn’t sleep!” Although Diana saw the benefits of the formal visits she also made, and she did get excited when money poured in for her charities, she much preferred these unofficial occasions. They allowed her to talk to people and find out more about their illness and how they were feeling about themselves, in a down-to-earth way without a horde of people noting her every word. She wasn’t trying to fill a void or to make herself feel better. To her, it was not a therapy to help other people: It was a commitment born of selflessness. Diana was forever on the lookout for new projects that might benefit from her involvement. Her attention was caught by child abuse and forced prostitution in Asia. We had both seen a television program showing how little children were being kidnapped and then forced to sell themselves for sex. Diana told me she wanted to do everything she could to eradicate this wicked exploitation taking place in India, Pakistan, and most prevalently in Thailand. As it turned out, it was one of her final wishes. She didn’t have any idea of exactly how she was going to do it, and hadn’t got as far as formulating a plan, but she would have found a way. When Diana put her mind to something, nothing was allowed to stand in her way. As she said, “Because I’ve been given the gift to shine a light into the dark corners of this world, and get the media to follow me there, I have to use it,” and use it she did--to draw attention to a problem and in a very practical way to apply her incredible healing gifts to the victims. In her fight against land mines, she did exactly that. If anyone ever doubted her heartfelt concern for the welfare of others, this cause must surely have dispelled it. It needed someone of her fame and celebrity to bring the matter to the world’s attention, and her work required an immense amount of personal bravery. She faced physical peril and endured public ridicule, but Diana would have seen the campaign to get land mines banned as her greatest legacy. Helping others was her calling in life--right to the very end.

Casual ownership of me. Another humdinger of a red flag. A flag so red a bull would freaking eat it.

Where, even after the best night of my life, you still managed to make me cry.

It didn't sound crazy in my head at the time, though now...I almost can't bear to relive it.

I'm starting to think that some boys make girls cry, and then act like they're crazy for crying. I'm starting to think girls that cry don't cry for no reason. They're crying because their guts, or their instinct, or their psychic sense, or whatever the hell you want to call it, but the thing that's evolved to keep them safe is screaming.

I've got it wrong, I've got it wrong, I've got it wrong, I've ruined it, I've ruined it, I've ruined it

No wonder he left you. You are so stupid and weird and embarrassing. No wonder you are on your own now. You will always be on your own because you're so needy and desperate and odd.

If you can't really remember it Does that make it less real?

We all carry scars and scorch marks around with us. We cuddle up each night with ghosts of damaging memories - we let them swirl around our heads, never able to settle or heal because we can't make sense of this terrible thing that happened to us, and why we're finding it so impossible to get over. You can't force pain to leave until it's ready to.