Quotes About Pain

It seems impossible to dispense with that little word hope, even though at times we are conscious of the pain of hopes too long deferred.

She wasted my heart, my time.

You ooze joy and she is an open wound, shrill and wan, unfucked and unloved.

There's no good place to break someone's heart.

It's amazing how good 50 and sunny feels after you've been bleeding in 12 with a wind chill of go fuck yourself.

The real horror of my life is not that I've killed some terrible people. The real horror is that the people I've loved didn't love me back.

Most people die old, full of pain and regret. Or young and full of drugs and self-indulgence—or sheer bad luck.

I loved her and she did not love me.

Lullabies for Suffering Tales of Addiction Horror

know I should apologize and tell her that she's right, that I do wish Jon would see me, that it's eating me alive. But the thing about things that break your heart, it's hard to validate them by saying them out loud.

A heart doesn't just break for no reason.

It was my decision to spare you the pain of life.

Acid shoots through my esophagus, all that leftover love with no place to go.

that men always let you down, that they bail on you because men do fucking suck. But so does Love, Mary Kay. So does love.

I am a wounded soldier of Love home from WWIII.

It's amazing how good fifty and sunny feels after you've been bleeding in twelve with a wind chill of go fuck yourself.

That's when I wanted to cut. I cut to quiet the cacophony. I cut to end this abstracted agony, to reel my selves back to one present and physical whole, whose blood was the proof of her tangibility.

Well how many troubles should equal a legitimate reason for self-mutilation? Ten? Twenty? One hundred? And how monumental must these troubles be? There's probably no critical mass beyond which cutting yourself would ever seem to most people like a reasonable choice. I cut because it did look that way to me. I cut because something had to give. I cut because the alternatives were worse.

I needed cutting now the way a diabetic needs insulin. It was a bulwark, steady and unyielding, I could throw up against the insidious, corrosive lapping of a whispering sea of uneasiness.

I wanted to cut for the cut itself, for the delicate severing of capillaries, the transgression of veins. I needed to cut the way your lungs scream for air when you swim the length of the pool underwater in one breath. It was a craving so organic it seemed to have arisen from my skin itself. Imagining the sticky-slick scarlet trails of my own blood soothed me. This

You're after something deeper than a respite from shyness, or a break from private fears and anger. So after a while you alter the equation, make it stronger and more complete. Pain+Drink=Self-Obliteration.

I don't think you can get really out of anorexia (or any addiction, for that matter) until you simply have no other choice, until the sense that your back's against the wall grows too strong and too irrefutable, until you are simply in too much pain - too desperate and deeply bored and unhappy - to go on.

Which is worse, she thinks, waiting for the sting, or the sting itself?

The way to get free of pain is to dive down into it. To acknowledge it.