Quotes About Pain

What if you hurt because it feels so good? Like you have a tingling, like someone left a switch on in your body. And nothing can turn the switch off except hurting? What does that mean?

When you finally stop an itch and realize it's because you've ripped a hole in your skin

I stopped loving you." "Why?" "You stopped loving me. We're a sick, fucking toxic Möbius strip, Amy. We weren't ourselves when we fell in love, and when we became ourselves—surprise!—we were poison.

Me duele reconocerlo.) De modo que el cobertizo, bien

stomach didn't hurt the way it did with my wife—the constant dread of returning to my own home, where I wasn't welcome.

He doesn't talk to me, he behaves as if the act of talking physically pains him and

IT WAS MISERABLE, wet-bone March and I was lying in bed thinking about killing myself, a hobby of mine.

I have known so many sick women all my life. Women with chronic pain, with ever-gestating diseases. Women with conditions. Men, sure, they have bone snaps, they have backaches, they have a surgery or two, yank out a tonsil, insert a shiny plastic hip. Women get consumed.

Sometimes I think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom. I have known so many sick women all my life. Women with chronic pain, with ever-gestating diseases. Women with conditions.

Uma criança criada com veneno considera dor um consolo.

He took away chunks of me with blasé swipes: my independence, my pride, my esteem. I gave, and he took and took. He Giving Treed me out of existence. That whore, he picked that little whore over me. He killed my soul, which should be a crime. Actually, it is a crime. According to me, at least.

I felt no particular allegiance to the town. This was the place my sister died, the place I started cutting myself. A town so suffocating and small, you tripped over people you hated every day. People who knew things about you. It's the kind of place that leaves a mark.

Yet most of the time that I'm awake, I want to cut. Not small words either. Equivocate. Inarticulate. Duplicitous. At my hospital back in Illinois they would not approve of this craving.

He was verbally poking a bruise.

It was miserable, wet-bone March and I was lying in bed thinking about killing myself, a hobby of mine. Indulgent afternoon daydreaming: A shotgun, my mouth, a bang and my head jerking once, twice, blood on the wall. Splatter, splatter.

I've suffered betrayal with all five senses.

Para empezar: nunca debería haber nacido.

teeth coming down on the tip of my

He killed my soul, which should be a crime.

She was humming something melancholy and familiar. I strained to make it out—a folk song? a lullabye?—and then realized it was the theme to M*A*S*H. Suicide is painless. I went downstairs.

Eight years standing in lines, they say. Six years peeing. Put like that, life was grim.

Je suis un peu trop, et il n'est pas tout à fait assez. Je suis un buisson d'épines, hérissée par l'excès d'attention de mes parents, et il est transpercé d'un million de petits coups de poignards paternels. Mes épines logent parfaitement dans ses cicatrices.

You're in exquisite pain, you're not sleeping.' the mention of insomnia was always risky but usually paid off. People in pain don't general sleep well, insomniacs are exquisitely great full for people to recognize their weariness.

S vremena na vreme treba ?ešati srce sebi s malo bola, da sva gamad sa njega spadne.