Traumatic Recall Quotes

The body remembers, the bones remember, the joints remember, even the little finger remembers. Memory is lodged in pictures and feelings in the cells themselves. Like a sponge filled with water, anywhere the flesh is pressed, wrung, even touched lightly, a memory may flow out in a stream.

Painful memories didn't just ease back in-they shoved the door open hard, all of them and all at once

The past is dead and buried. But I know now that buried things have a way of rising to the surface when one least expects them to.

I've learned that memories can have a physical, almost living presence.

The radio comes back even louder than you remember it.

I have a very conveniently photographic memory of emotions - it's overwhelming, because things don't fade for me.

Memories do not always soften with time; some grow edges like knives.

I prefer selective memories. Some songs and some co-workers are all that I want to remember, as memories are not always so pleasant.

The moment we find the reason behind an emotion … the wall is breached, and the positive memories it has kept from us return too. That's why it pays to ask those painful questions. The answers can set you free.

Why do some memories bleed out of nowhere and others stay locked behind doors?

for how can you remember the feel of pleasure or pain or choking emotion? You can remember only that you had them.

I keep remembering — I keep remembering. My heart has no pity on me.

For me it's really tough because you have to go to that place where you really, really don't want to go to or revisit. After the first movie, when I was crying at the altar, whenever I would think about it, I would get chills for months after the first "Best Man" because I had to go to that place. And then, here we are with this one, and we are going to that place again. It's just extremely emotional to just have to keep revisiting it, but it can also be therapeutic.

Talk—half-talk, phrases that had no need to be finished, abstractions, Chinese bells played on with cotton-tipped sticks, mock orange blossoms painted on porcelain. The muffled, close, half-talk of soft-fleshed women. The men she had embraced, and the women, all washing against the resonance of my memory. Sound within sound, scene within scene, woman within woman—like acid revealing an invisible script. One woman within another eternally, in a far-reaching procession, shattering my mind into fragments, into quarter tones which no orchestral baton can ever make whole again.

What beastly incidents our memories insist on cherishing, the ugly, and the disgusting; the beautiful things we have to keep diaries to remember.

Our memories have voices, too. Often sad ones that clamor like raised arms in the dark.

There are some things one remembers even though they may never have happened.

Too much to take in, too much to purge. Why must every memory, once sweet, dead end in such ugliness?

The past was suddenly rushing in on me in a way I found hard to fight.

The devil! what beastly things our memories insist on cherishing!

Imagine trying to relive your worst break-up, your worst fight, the most painful death of a loved one, and just really relive it step by step, and bring it up and apply it to the scene you're in.

It's as if I'm Finnick, watching images of my life flash by. The mast of a boat, a silver parachute, Mags laughing, a pink sky, Beetee's trident, Annie in her wedding dress, waves breaking over rocks. Then its over.