Quotes About Pain

It's my own little joke, even though the punchline is sadness. I think a joke like that is a present you make to yourself, so every time you say it, even if it hurts, you get a very cohesive feeling out of it, because the past you and the present you are talking to each other, and it's nice to have friends.

The only price in the world that matters is the one that hurts to pay.

He rested his hand on mine, once or twice. He kissed my brow, one time, in the late evening when the stars were full as moons, and I had brought him both a jug of wine and a treatise on transfiguration he had been asking for all over town, and I felt it on my head like a pain. But love is like that, it is hard and awful and, usually, it is not contagious.

humans are hideous, pain-guzzling, pollution-spouting space monsters

Everything in this place was livid and lurid and living, and when he loved her and hurt her all at once she lived, too, higher and harder than she had thought she could. Yes, she thought, magic is like that, when it comes.

Within sadness lives a happiness deeper than any pain.

All through the day, whenever the sadness comes, I pinch my arm to make the sadness go there. That takes it out of my heart. When I go to bed that night, I see a bruise on my arm.

And I was – still am – in a state of permanent terror that the pancreatitis may return. I still have nightmares about hospital and it is two years since my last admission. Those nights in A&E haunt me, and will probably do so forever, with their brutality and pain. No wonder I took a bit more, then a bit more, until it all spiralled out of control. No wonder I tried to run from those damaging memories into the arms of mother opiate. Charlie

I feel a sense of betrayal by my body, most strongly when the attacks come, as they do, every week or so for the next few months. Each time, I am shocked that part of me wants to hurt me so badly. It feels personal. It is personal. And I feel let down by the very skin that contains me. My Judas. My disloyal body. Can

Emotional scars often run the deepest.

Acknowledging pain, disappointment and suffering is part of the healing process.

We long for that promised day, when there will be no more death or sorrow, no more crying or pain, when things as we know them are passed away. We are ready, Lord, to be instruments of Your peace, soldiers for Your kingdom.

Patiently educating a clueless white person about race is draining. It takes all your powers of persuasion. Because it's more than a chat about race. It's ontological. It's like explaining to a person why you exist, or why you feel pain, or why your reality is distinct from their reality. Except it's even trickier than that. Because the person has all of Western history, politics, literature, and mass culture on their side, proving that you don't exist.

In many Asian American novels, writers set trauma in a distant mother country or within an insular Asian family to ensure that their pain is not a reproof against American imperial geopolitics or domestic racism; the outlying forces that cause their pain—Asian Patriarchal Fathers, White People Back Then—are remote enough to allow everyone, including the reader, off the hook.

Of course, "white tears" does not refer to all pain but to the particular emotional fragility a white person experiences when they find racial stress so intolerable they become hypersensitive and defensive, focusing the stress back to their own bruised ego.

The ethnic literary project has always been a humanist project in which nonwhite writers must prove they are human beings who feel pain.

In psychoanalysis, the pain that trolls your nerves detaches from your body once you talk about it. Naming that pain takes the sting out of the incident, makes it mortal, manageable, even extinguishable.

white tears" does not refer to all pain but to the particular emotional fragility a white person experiences when they find racial stress so intolerable they become hypersensitive and defensive, focusing the stress back to their own bruised ego.

I don't think, therefore I am—I hurt, therefore I am. Therefore, my books are graded on a pain scale. If it's 2, maybe it's not worth telling my story. If it's 10, maybe my book will be a bestseller.

am an unreliable narrator, hypervigilant to the point of being paranoid, imposing all my own insecurities onto him. I can't even recall if I actually felt that pain or imagined it, since I have rewritten this memory so many times I have mauled it down to nothing, erasing him down until he was a smudge of resentment while I was a smudge of entitlement until we both smudged into me.

No matter our income, my family could not cough up the thorn embedded in our chests.

My mind's sunk so low, Claudia, because of you, wrecked itself on your account so bad already, that I couldn't like you if you were the best of women,--or stop loving you, no matter what you do.

I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask. I know not, but I feel it happening and I am tortured.

Odi et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris? Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior. I hate and I love. Why do I, you ask? I do not know, but I feel it happening and it hurts.