Quotes About Mental

And yet it is this very obliquity of thought and memory which makes mental disease such a fascinating study. Perhaps I may gain more knowledge out of the folly of this madman than I shall from the teaching of the most wise.

feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which must end in its undoing

Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already.

I had heard that madmen have unnatural strength; and as I knew I was a madman—at times anyhow—I resolved to use my power.

Sana di mente in un mondo di pazzi.

Crazy isn't being broken, or swallowing a dark secret. It's just you or me, amplified.

Insanity comes in two basic varieties: slow and fast.

These thoughts have no meaning. They are idiot mantras that exist in a prearranged cycle; I'm no good, I'm the Angel of Death, I'm stupid, I can't do anything. Thinking the first thought triggers the whole circuit.

There is thought, and then there is thinking about thoughts, and they don't feel the same.

On top of the bookcase were several Mexican papier-mâché figures of people with knives stuck through their heads and blood running down their faces...I found these comforting...They looked happy enough that way, and they were a nice metaphor for mental disturbance.

mental illness seems to be a communication problem between interpreters one and two

There is a thought, and then there is thinking about thoughts, and they don't feel the same.

The only way to stay sane is to go a little crazy

There are three levels of healing: physical, mental, and spiritual. Man is a citizen of these three levels. One who has spiritual power can heal others on all levels, but if he tries to make healing his profession, his mind and will-force will again start running toward worldly grooves. A dissipated and worldly mind is not fit enough to heal anyone.

I smile, now, thinking: we all like to think we are important enough to need psychiatrists

The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get at.

My skin is broken out from subconscious anxiety and tension, self-induced. Nothing is more difficult than lashing a vagrant mind suddenly into long self-imposed stints of concentration.

I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.

I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head

If I had to strain my brain with any more of that stuff I would go mad.

Mental nausea of daily squash flabby cauliflower and grease dripping slick and sheepish onto the placid plate of mind.

I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so involved and wearisome that I didn't say anything.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get at.