Quotes About Anguish

The thorn of death falls from heaven, and its myriad forms leave us no room to move.

She thinks she will explode with all the seemingly endless positions of grief.

Technically, the weight of pain is the weight of shadow.

Coping with any death is traumatic; suicide compounds the anguish because we are forced to deal with two traumatic events at the same time. According to the American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the level of stress resulting from the suicide of a loved one is ranked as catastrophic–equivalent to that of a concentration camp experience.

Life is will-to-live, will is a lack, lack is pain, all life is pain.

No sé cuántas horas estuve sin dormir, con los ojos abiertos y resecos recogiendo todos los dolores que pululaban, vivos como gusanos, en las entrañas de la casa.

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

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.

My rapier wit hides my inner pain.

but quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.

Was ever grief like mine?

There is no comfort in the truth , pain is all you find.

All my memories are poisoned

Choosing … it has always hurt. And always will.

The man had a hand down between her legs, and he must have been hurting her there, because the woman started to moan, low in her throat.

But her eyes were the most terrible thing. Her eyes saw him, and they hated.

It is said that her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the face of the moon, but her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel.

This was a pain that did not touch the body, a pain that did not race along the nerve paths, a pain that filled the mind so completely and so shatteringly that not even the smallest part of you was free to think or plan or meditate. The pain was you, and you were the pain. There was nothing to dissociate from, no cool sanctum of thought where you might retreat. (from The Glass Flower)

Ned closed his eyes and opened them; it made no difference. He slept and woke and slept again. He did not know which was more painful, the waking or the sleeping.

Years later, the trauma of those experiences continued to haunt me. Most Japanese Americans from my parents' generation didn't like to talk about the internment with their children. As with many traumatic experiences, they were anguished by their memories and haunted by shame for something that wasn't their fault. Shame is a cruel thing. It should rest on the perpetrators but they don't carry it the way the victims do.

As with many traumatic experiences, they were anguished by their memories and haunted by shame for something that wasn't their fault. Shame is a cruel thing. It should rest on the perpetrators but they don't carry it the way victims do.

The anguish of the neurotic individual is the same as that of the saint. The neurotic, the saint are engaged in the same battle. Their blood flows from similar wounds. But the first one gasps and the other one gives.

But a sort of rupture-in anguish-leaves us at the limit of tears: in such a case we lose ourselves, we forget ourselves and communicate with an elusive beyond.

He stopped suddenly, put his hand to his throat for a few minutes with his features fixed in a kind of stupid, hopeless searching look. Then his face brightened a little in spite of the anguish which he had doubtlessly forgotten.