Quotes About Pain

How could he look exactly the same as he always did? How could he so nonchalantly shatter all the things I'd believed and bear no outward sign of it? I didn't understand. It seemed to me that if someone hurt you, there should be some kind of boomerang effect. They should get hit with it, too, so it wasn't just you. So they didn't get off scot-free while you marinated in the pain.

he'd rather get shot than navigate all these...feelings.

Sometimes," he said after a second that lasted a million years, "things get broken. And they can't be fixed.

Some people live their entire life and never once feel how I felt every time he looked at me. So yes, this hurts. And yes, I feel as if I might die. But I won't. And somehow, I find a way to let it all go...just let it go. No regrets. No grief. It will always hurt a little, down deep in that secret place, but it's become a pain I can handle. Besides, if it didn't always hurt, just a little, it wouldn't mean as much.

Dangerous to me, that sexuality, because I'd been burned by that flame once before and would be forever scorched.

When you love someone, seeing them in pain can be harder than being in pain yourself.

I didn't emerge from the cocoon of my past to become an uninhibited, emotionally healthy butterfly. Nothing is ever that easy. Sometimes grief is a comfort we grant ourselves because it's less terrifying than trying for joy. Nobody wants to admit it. We'd all declare we want to be happy, if we could. So why, then, is pain the one thing we most often hold on to? Why are slights and griefs the memories on which we choose to dwell? Is it because joy doesn't last but grief does?

People are complicated, and they hurt each other. Effie Linton had known this for a long time, just as she knew that sometimes those wounds were inflicted deliberately, over and over, and not with fists or weapons. Sometimes, they did it with love.

Heath said, cold as ice, cold as a void, so cold it burned her worse than any fire. "Don't you know? Not wanting to and not being able to are not the same things.

Sometimes grief is a comfort we grant ourselves because it's less terrifying than trying for joy. Nobody wants to admit it. We'd all declare we want to be happy, if we could. So why, then, is pain the one thing we most often hold on to? Why are slights and griefs the memories on which we choose to dwell? Is it because joy doesn't last but grief does?

Silence is the cruelest means of rejection, even if it only masks confusion or regret. The

pain clinging to me—like a good friend,

I'm not in love. It's a crush which is why it hurts. Crushes crush. Otherwise they'd be called awesomes. "I have an awesome on him.

You can only really really hurt the ones that you really really love.

Scream silently in your prayer; remember the pain of others.

It is unbelievable the amount of hate the human body can sustain before it begins to break.

Sometimes living with memory, with the thought of what friends, those who shared your soul and dreams, will do to you is worse than taking a bullet or having someone stab your flesh. There is a way of bleeding from one's soul.

When the range and depth of the suffering of others and what we do to one another no longer bothers us, nor moves us to remedy the situation and stop the pain, then we have lost a part of our own humanity, our own soul.

Are you badly hurt?" "Hideously," said the king, without sounding injured at all. "I am disemboweled. My insides may in an instant become my outsides as I stand here before you.

For my mother's entire life, her mother was less a mother than splintered bits of shrapnel she carried around in her body, sharp, rusty debris that threatened to puncture an organ if she turned a certain way.

After all, a terrible anxiety attends chronic illness. Over time, it becomes difficult to untangle the suffering from symptoms like pain from the suffering inflicted by the anxiety over the possibility of more pain, and worse outcomes, in the future. This does not mean that the illness is in the mind; rather, the mind—that machine for making meaning—makes endless meanings of its new state, which may themselves influence the experience.

How to describe intermittent severe pain on the same scale as constant middle-range pain, which I found more debilitating?

It is unbearable—and yet I bear it.

Onlookers often respond to the experience of chronically ill people by focusing on the supposed positives, presumably because it makes the pain of witness bearable.