Quotes About Healing

I thought living dead girls couldn't feel pain, thought I was emptied out but I'm not, I'm not.

Anger can try to break your heart, but sorrow is what will. What can. What does.

I see what grief does, how it strips you bare, shows you all the things you don't want to know. That loss doesn't end, that there isn't a moment where you are done, when you can neatly put it away and move on.

And yet here I am. Broken and bleeding on the inside, heartsick, I am here.

I always thought of grief as a blow that took everything out of you. And it is like that. But it stays, past that first hard hit. It stays and blows its breath into you. It's always there, reminding you of what you've lost. What's gone.

Ray has never come out and said it, but I know from years of listening to him dream that his mother did to him what he does to me. Held him down, rubbed him raw, broke him open. In them, he cries and begs her not to touch him, that he doesn't want to go inside her, that he is a good boy, he really is. I let Ray have his nightmares, watch him thrash and listen to his voice squeak with fear. I lie there and watch him and wish he was trapped back there, with her and had never broken free.

I don't understand why my shell keeps living. Breathing. Why won't it listen to me, to the little part I have that isn't Ray, to that tiny once upon a time girl who just wants to close her eyes and never wake up again? 623 Daisy Lane. Helen and Glenn. That's why. Once upon a time, I belonged to them and they shouldn't suffer for that.

Summarized) Forgiveness is a choice that presents itself to us in the form of three critical questions: 1) Can I give up the hope of a better past? 2) What is the day, the hour, the now - when I fulfill the promise to myself to let it go? 3) How will I integrate what's happened into who I choose to become in the future?

ANYONE WHO HAS EVER GRIEVED knows that grieving carries with it a tremendous wear and tear to the body itself, never mind the soul. Loss is an assault; a certain exhaustion, as strong as the pull of the moon on the tides, needs to be allowed for eventually.

They had grown up on shame; it was the nutrient of their soil.

Loss is an assault; a certain exhaustion, as strong as the pull of the moon on the tides, needs to be allowed for eventually.

lives get knit together like bones, and fractures might not heal.

but it was the doctor's body, the sudden way he moved the folders on his desk, the way he moved back from Harmon, that Harmon would always remember. As though he had known what Harmon didn't know, that lives get knit together like bones, and fractures might not heal.

Olive glanced at him quickly. He was crying. She looked away, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him reach into his pocket, heard him blow his nose, a real honk. "My wife died in December," he said. Olive watched the river. "Then, you're in hell," she said. "Then, I'm in hell.

tulip stem inside me snapped. This is what I felt. It has stayed snapped, it never grew back.

As though he had known what Harmon didn't know, that lives get knit together like bones, and fractures might not heal.

It has been said that the second year of widowhood is worse than the first—the idea being, I think, that the shock has worn off and now one has to simply live with the loss, and I had been finding that to be

Pete's death. It felt to me as though my entire childhood had died. You might think—I would have thought—that I wanted every part of my childhood gone. But I did

am in mourning for my life." It took me a moment. We were

There was the sense of a war having occurred. One that was not yet over.

grief is a solitary matter.

deprivations never leave us.

This is because my husband had died a year earlier; also I am often despondent at the end of a book tour, and this had been made worse because I no longer had David to call from the road. That was the hardest part of the tour for me: not having David to speak to each day.

Grief is a most peculiar thing; we're so helpless in the face of it. It's like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.