Quotes About Pain

day I had them in my life was a gift. I would never have wished them away, just so I wouldn't have had to go through the pain of losing them. That

I've prayed countless prayers to God saying, "Please take this desire away." But He hasn't! I even asked, "Just take the desire away until you're ready to give it to me. Hold it in a box. Duct tape it closed for later because I don't want to desire anything that you don't have for me right now! It hurts too much.

There's nothing more frustrating than being in pain over the loss of a candidate and finding yourself surrounded by people ten years younger who are already married.

Death doesn't take away the impact they made on our lives or their importance to God. To be gone from here is to be present in glory. It doesn't feel like it now, but I assure you each day will get a little easier. Each week will add more distance from the pain.

There are so many things to be tortured about, sweet pea. So many torturous things in this life. Don't let the man who doesn't love you be one of them.

I had problems a therapist couldn't solve; grief that no man in a room could ameliorate.

I was twenty-two, the same age she was when she'd been pregnant with me. She was going to leave my life at the same moment that I came into hers, I thought. For some reason that sentence came fully formed into my head just then, temporarily blotting out the Fuck them prayer. I almost howled in agony. I almost choked to death on what I knew before I knew. I was going to live the rest of my life without my mother.

There are so many things to be tortured about. So many torturous things in this life. Don't let someone who doesn't love you be one of them.

I didn't wake from these dreams crying. I woke shrieking. Paul grabbed me and held me until I was quiet. He wetted a washcloth with cool water and put it over my face. But those wet washcloths couldn't wash the dreams of my mother away. Nothing did. Nothing would. Nothing could ever bring my mother back or make it okay that she was gone. Nothing would put me beside her the moment she died. It broke me up. It cut me off. It tumbled me end over end.

It's wrong that this is required of you. It's wrong that your son died. It will always be wrong.

You've made it so long without your sweet boy and now you can't take it anymore. But you can. You must.

And you're wounded in the same place. That's what fathers do if they don't heal their wounds. They wound their children in the same place.

Just as I'd seemed to be doing okay after my mom died. Grief doesn't have a face.

In the mornings, my pain was magnified by about a thousand. In the morning there weren't only those sad facts about my life. Now there was also the additional fact that I was a pile of shit.

My connection with him and his gloriously unfractured life only seemed to increase my pain. It wasn't his fault. Being with him felt unbearable, but being with anyone else did too. The only person I could bear to be with was the most unbearable person of all: my mother.

Grief doesn't have a face.

Every part of my body hurt. Except my heart. I saw no one, but, strange as it was, I missed no one. I longed for nothing but food and waterr and to be able to pt my backpack down

Would it ring? It would not ring. Should you call? You should not call. But you always called. You couldn't help but call because your heart was crushed and you thought maybe if you talked it out ONE MORE TIME the person who crushed your heart would change his/her mind and uncrush it.

I wasn't even thinking, What have I gotten myself into? I was thinking only of moving myself forward. My mind was a crystal vase that contained only that one desire. My body was its opposite: a bag of broken glass. Every time I moved, it hurt. I counted my steps to take my mind off the pain, silently ticking the numbers off in my head to one hundred before starting over again. The blocks of numbers made the walk slightly more bearable, as if I only had to go to the end of each one.

once my mother started dying, something inside of me was dead to Paul, no matter what he did or said. ..What did he know about losing anything? His parents were still alive and happily married to each other. My connection with him and his gloriously unfractured life only seemed to increase my pain. It wasn't his fault. Being with him felt unbearable, but being with anyone else did too. The only person I could bear to be with was the most unbearable person of all: my mother.

Nothing did. Nothing would. Nothing could ever bring my mother back or make it okay that she was gone. Nothing would put me beside her the moment she died. It broke me up. It cut me off. It tumbled me end over end.

It was good. It was like something inordinately beautiful and out of this world. Like I'd found an actual planet that I didn't know had been there all along. Planet Heroin. The place where there was no pain.

For whatever it is that is less than mercy; for what we don't even have a word for. Those were the worst days, I believed at the time, and yet the moment she died I'd have given anything to have them back. One small, horrible, glorious day after the other.

When my mother asked him for more morphine, she asked for it in a way that I have never heard anyone ask for anything. A mad dog. He did not look at her when she asked him this, but at his wristwatch. He held the same expression on his face regardless of the answer. Sometimes he gave it to her without a word, and sometimes he told her no in a voice as soft as his penis in his pants.