Comment Quotes

"An effective way to say as who is morally RIGHT is that if a person does speak or write the corrective things consistently, then the networking people often tend to ignore him or do not like his thoughts ever."
~Anuj Somany
“When a sensible quote is adored a lot by many or most people on a person’s INDIVIDUAL social media account, then wondering why it feels usually as if he has either cracked a joke under the guise of a thought or others are just trying to poke fun on him through a deluge of LIKE & COMMENT vote and often both; especially more when the same post has also his own photo on it.”
~Anuj Somany
 

stupid question, how do you add pictures to your quotes?

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How many times did I find myself on his bathroom floor cowering beneath him, feeling the hot spit land on me as he screamed? Stop crying like a baby. You're crazy. No one else would put up with you. How many times did I shudder on that floor counting my breaths, bringing myself back from the brink of suffocation during a panic attack that was triggered by one of these maniacal and regular assults? But he never hit me. 
How many hours did I remain on that bathroom floor after he had gone to bed, my eyes red with burst blood vessels? How many times did I hear the sound of his snores and realize he had fallen asleep, no more than a meter away, to the sound of me hyperventilating while still in the throes of that panic attack? How many times did I whisper aloud, "How did I get here? How did I become this girl?" How many times did I tell myself to get up, call a cab and walk out the front door? How many times did I get up and look in that mirror and fail to recognize myself? How much hate could I have for the broken girl staring back at me? But he never hit me.
How many times did I crawl into that bed, rather than into a cab, and wake up with his arms around me, telling me that I brought it out in him? He wasn't like this. I made him like this. I needed to change the way I approached him about these things. Be less accusatory. If I just softened my approach, it would allow him to react differently. How many times did I adjust my approach before I realized the only way to avoid the abuse was not to bring it up at all? But he never hit me.
How many emails and text messages did I find? How many parties did we attend knowing that one of the women was there? I learned quickly not to address it so that "I" wouldn't ruin a perfectly nice evening. When his family member asked me if a lipstick she had found under the couch was mine, I threw it away and said nothing more of it. Neither did she. Another humiliation taken in silence. But he never hit me. 
How many times did he tell me he was going to sleep, out for dinner with a client, couldn't hear his phone, but actually taking out another woman? How many times did he ignore my calls and call the next morning telling me nothing had happened? It was sadistic. I could see how much he enjoyed being that powerful. How many defamatory lies did he concoct and propagate to my colleagues and friends when I walked away from him? How many times did he smear my reputation? How many times did I go back, believing every promise that he was a new man, believing every half-hearted apology? But he never hit me.
How many times did a friend pick me up because he had kicked me out of bed in the middle of the night for questioning him about one of the women? How many times did I go back before those friends had had enough. How many times did I defend him and justify his behavior when I told a friend about what he had done? When did I stop telling altogether to avoid the shame of the insanity of the circumstances I was somehow in -- The shame of being a strong independent woman who couldn't take care of herself enough to leave a situation that was so toxic? When did I stop expecting more? But he never hit me.
How could I explain to someone that believed it was partly my fault, even though I was embarrassed to hear those beaten woman's words spoken from my lips. No one really understood. No one knew him like I did. It was my job to protect him from the truth of what he did to me. I couldn't let them think he was a monster. I wouldn't tell anyone. I was entirely alone. But he never hit me.
My solitude meant that I could no longer see the reflection in other people's eyes indicating what was normal. I could only see the reflection in his eyes and began to believe what he told me about myself. I began to believe his irrational explanations despite my own heart and eyes. I let him define reality. I became isolated. It became easier to cut off my support networks completely than to have to lie about everything. Than to face the humiliation of my reality. A part of me knew that once they knew the extent of what was happening, they would force me to get out for good. I knew I would always need to even in the worst of times. But he never hit me.
I set a benchmark. The red line I wouldn't cross. The minute he hit me, I would leave. But the truth is, I know I wouldn't have left then either. I would have rationalized that in hitting me, he would realize how out of hand things were. Everything would change now. I wouldn't have left. By hurting me, he showed me he loved me. He cared enough to go that crazy. He cared so much that he was overwhelmed by anger and jealousy or sadness and simply couldn't control himself.
When it was over, I wasn't permitted to mourn him. No one could understand how love, hate, fear and comfort could coexist simultaneously. They could not understand that in addiction to my abuser, I also lost my confidant, the person to make dinner with, the person to watch movies on a rainy sunday, the person to laugh with, the person who knew me. I lost my companion. How can you explain to someone that the abuse was only a part of who he was? How do you explain that to yourself?

There are still days when I remember tender moments and wonder if it really was that bad. I still struggle with reconciling how he could love me to the point of tears and yet hurt me as if I was an enemy. Like a child, I'm learning to redefine the borders of normal behavior and to realign my expectations. I remind myself that acts of violence can never be acts of love.

 


 


 


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Giving out my number to all who comment






Do me a favor and go favorite this cover:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uOjjLhK9D80&feature=youtu.be



I tried everything but you need to copy and paste






 


PLEASE READ!!!



So, I have OCD, and one of my compulsions is to scratch my head to the point where its become scabbed all over and often bloody. 

However, recently I scratched a couple of scabs off of either side of my head, and it didn't bleed like usual. Instead they have been lightly oozing a clear, sticky liquid for three days now nonstop. This has never happened before, not even for a short amount of time. I thought it was weird when it first started happening but now, three days later, I'm starting to feel a bit concerned. 

I've done my best to keep my hands away from them for the most part, even wearing a hat to discourage unconscious scratching. I've picked at it a couple times but not much. I have a few other scabs in other areas of my head that I scratched off but they behaved like normal; a little blood and then nothing, no clear liquid. Its just these two wounds on the exact parallel sides of my head. 

My hair in the areas of the oozing wounds has become damp and matted with the stuff, its disgusting. 

Does anyone know what's going on here and what I should do? 

Please be kind, I don't feel like hearing comments of disgust directed at my bad habit. I can't really help it, as much as I try to.
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I wish you feel the same pain I do. You caused it, you should fix it.
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