Teresa Giudice Quotes

Losing a parent over eight years is a very dark journey. I spent the first four years feeling bad and angry and sorry for myself.

I've had - after my mom passed away - like a lot of resentment, a lot of things that just happened after I lost my mom.

No one saw me cry over my dad's death for almost nine years. I hid what I felt, bottling up my emotions so tightly that almost nothing leaked out.

When you lose your mother at 20 and then your father soon after, melancholia is part of your life.

I was terribly wounded by my wife's death.

Grief is exhausting.

After my mother's death, I had such difficulty relating to people.

I think writers process their own experiences through the characters and situations they write. So for Batman, I used my own experience of losing a loved one. Grief is a strange place; it's like an altered state. You might sleep too much, so you can see the dead in your dreams.

My father's death, my move, and my frightening and difficult delivery created a tremendous amount of stress, pain, and sadness for me. I was practically devastated beyond recovery.

Grief is so human, and it hits everyone at one point or another, at least, in their lives. If you love, you will grieve, and that's just given.

To be perfectly frank, there is an odd place after losing a child, where you think somehow your life is worth less.

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.

They say seven stages of grief. I think it's more like 77.

I was so angry at God for taking my father from me that I marched up to my mother before the funeral and told her I was going to quit nursing school. I just wanted to stop living.

It is difficult to ever think about your loved one having suffered.

Serious loss brings you into one of the world's silent fraternities.

Grief, for me, is a moment-to-moment experience.

A loss of a great friend is traumatic and emotionally tough.

Talking about the loss of my parents... that was really, really difficult to go through.

One moment I can be happy and laughing, but then it comes over me. It's my mom.

She's not here," I tell him. Buttercup hisses again. "She's not here. You can hiss all you like. You won't find Prim." At her name, he perks up. Raises his flattened ears. Begins to meow hopefully. "Get out!" He dodges the pillow I throw at him. "Go away! There's nothing left for you here!" I start to shake, furious with him. "She's not coming back! She's never ever coming back here again!" I grab another pillow and get to my feet to improve my aim. Out of nowhere, the tears begin to pour down my cheeks. "She's dead, you stupid cat. She's dead.

In December 1988, my mother died of lung cancer. I died too. I couldn't function.

When grief is deepest, words are fewest.

One of the things that happens to people in grief is they secretly think they're crazy, because they realize they are thinking things that don't make sense.

Grief jumps out at you when you're least expecting it.