Quotes About Isolation

No one can hate me more than I hate myself.

I won't be able to think. I won't be able to work. Nothing will interfere with your work like suicide

HIPPOLYTUS: No one burns me, no one fucking touches me. So don't try.

drowning in a sea of logic this monstrous state of palsy

Nothing can extinguish my anger. And nothing can restore my faith. This is not a world in which I wish to live.

Burning in a hot tunnel of dismay, my humiliation complete as I shake without reason and stumble over words and have nothing to say about my 'illness' which anyway amounts only to knowing that there's no point in anything because I'm going to die.

Frica e cea care m? Å£ine departe de ÅŸinele de tren. Sper din suflet ca moartea s? fie sfârÅŸitul. M? simt de parc? aÅŸ avea optzeci de ani. M-am s?turat de via?? ÅŸi mintea mea vrea s? moar?.

I have reached the end of this dreary and repugnant tale of a sense interned in an alien carcass and lumpen by the malignant spirit of the moral majority...

If you died it would be like my bones had been removed. No one would know why, but I would collapse.

Have you made any plans? Take an overdose, slash my wrists then hang myself. All those things together? It couldn't possibly be misconstrued as a cry for help.

I'm tired of my life and my mind wants to die.

A small girl became increasingly paralysed by her parents' frequently violent rows. Sometimes she would spend hours standing completely still in the toilet, simply because that was where she happened to be when the fight began. Finally, in moments of calm, she would take bottles of milk from the fridge or doorstep and leave them in places where she may later become trapped. Her parents were unable to understand why they found bottles of sour milk in every room in the house.

No matter how she beseeched the stars for guidance, their light remained far awar and cold; they provided no answers and no comfort.

She'd been grateful to Rhea, for her honesty. Relieved by it, that someone as special and smart as Rhea'd had these same feelings. It's lonely, being a grown-up. It feels like walking through life in a mask.

in my small pocket of my own isolated country, I felt like I understood my world and myself, but now, I'm actually embracing not knowing and I'm questioning much of what I thought I did know. I kind of like being confused, wrestling with contradictions, and not having to wrap up issues in a minute before a commercial break.

I was angry at the ghost for months, would shout at it to stop trying to scare me. Now I understand it's just lonely.

Depression doesn't just steal the depressed person's capacity for joy. It throws its mantle over everything he has ever done and everything he could ever do. The depressed person dies not to save himself from the world but to save the world from himself. In this case the word depression makes clear sense; he is pressed down, forever.

There is another kind of suffering, though, a pure agony, free from thought.

No point in trying to explain myself to those who refuse to understand. I've already lost that game.

It's a self-obliteration that never stops and that no one notices.

I closed my own eyes for a moment and recovered, but incompletely. I can't forget how close insanity is, how easy it might be to drive off the shoulder of the road into a place where no one would ever find me.

I go to another room, hoping someone will notice me, but I stay silent out of loyalty or fear.

My own girlhood felt like something from 1650 even when it was happening. The little parties, kindnesses done by friends, the light as I walked home from school. Pine needles. I spent those days feeling half-there, not quite committed to that life.

Just leave me alone, I want to be alone," she said when Jack tried to open the car door. She hit the lock, and wound the window up. Since the roof was down, it was a fairly pointless exercise.