Quotes About Pain

They sealed this promise by hooking pinkies, the way they used to, long ago, when promises didn't hurt as much.

Cover up grief and it grinds away at you from the inside out. It makes you run for dark corners and empty rooms heartsick and mute despising your own company.

We don't need to make a living off of other people's pain...the newspapers want violence, retribution, crime, sin.

We all burn for what is bad for us...burn him in return. Maybe then the bastard won't have such a hold over you.

but inside she was broken, made of bones and black ribbons, blood and darkness.

Life is a tragedy.

What was life anyway? Only a continuous vale of sadness and tears.

When your father doesn't love you, a stone forms inside of you, hard and sharp enough to pierce through bone.

From then on, I didn't cry when I was disappointed. I just stored up my hurts, as if they were a tower made of fallen stars, invisible to most people, but brightly burning inside of me.

She never told anyone what he did to her on a nightly basis because she was afraid of him, but also because she was worth nothing to herself.

Ignore love, she now understood, and a person might bleed forever, even if no one could tell.

Some people make their own grief.

Pain was something to get used to, to inure yourself against. I would rather hurt myself than be hurt by someone else, and so I took up this practice with a sense of purpose and without remorse.

That was history, in his opinion: that sorrow was unalterable and ever present. That tears could be preserved in the hardest granite.

It's still horrible to wish the worst on anyone. I'm sure she had her reasons. Maybe people hurt her feelings, the same way I was hurt. A single word can feel like a rock being thrown at you.

I would only understand her grief when my child caused me my own.

In the arc of an unremarkable life, a life whose triumphs are small and personal, whose trials are ordinary enough, as tempered in their pain as in their resolution of pain, the claim of exclusivity in love requires both a certain kind of courage and a good dose of delusion.

The fourth contraction seized her and suddenly she was perspiring. She heard herself cry out and then she heard the children's voices like sparks struck from her own. And then heard a man call "Hello," the single word across what seemed a great distance. Calmly, because the pain was once again subsiding (she recalled the rhythm of the hurricane), she turned her head toward the vestibule. It

The madness with which suffering was dispersed in the world defied logic.

T)he book had convinced her (there in the softly lit waiting room of the abortion clinic) that despite war and death and pain )despite the way the girl with a woman who might have been her mother seemed to gulp air every once in a while, a handkerchief to her mouth), life was lovely, rich with small gifts: a warm fire, a fine meal, love.

John Keane pressed his chest to the steering wheel as he put the key in the ignition, taking a deep breath as he did, hoping the change of movement would ease the growing pain. The

To forget and to repress would be a good solution if there were no more to it than that. But repressed pain blocks emotional life and leads to physical symptoms. And the worst thing is that although the feelings of the abused child have been silenced at the point of origin, that is, in the presence of those who caused the pain, they find their voice when the battered child has children of his own.

We discover that we are no longer compelled to follow the former pattern of disappointment, suppression of pain, and depression, since we now have another possibility of dealing with disappointment: namely, experiencing the pain. In this way we at last gain access to our earlier experiences—to the parts of ourselves and our fate that were previously hidden from us.

Is it possible, then, to free ourselves altogether from illusions? History demonstrates that they sneak in everywhere, that every life is full of them—perhaps because the truth often seems unbearable to us. And yet the truth is so essential that its loss exacts a heavy toll, in the form of grave illness. In order to become whole we must try, in a long process, to discover our own personal truth, a truth that may cause pain before giving us a new sphere of freedom. If