Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

The mind grows sicker than the body in contemplation of it's suffering.

Depression is about as close as you get to somewhere between dead and alive, and it's the worst.

I am well in body although considerable rumpled up in spirit.

Well, you know, there's depression and depression. What I mean by depression in my own case is that depression isn't just the blues. It's not just like I have a hangover in the weekend ... the girl didn't show up or something like that. It isn't that. It's not really depression, it's a kind of mental violence which stops you from functioning properly from one moment to the next. You lose something somewhere and suddenly you're gripped by a kind of angst of the heart and of the spirit.

My brain is sending poison to my heart.

Most self-laceration is more noisy than painful.

Mental anguish always results from the avoidance of legitimate suffering.

He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick in that place.

Often it is just lack of imagination that keeps a man from suffering very much.

The pain of the mind is worse than the pain of the body.

I feel very troubled in the head and heart.

God, was I going to have another day of painful thoughts jumping me every time I relaxed? The obvious solution—to just not relax—was kind of sucking.

Pain is the question mark turned like a fishhook in the human heart.

One does not expect to be comfortable in prison. As a matter of fact, one's mental suffering is so much greater than any common physical distress that the latter is almost forgotten.

My soul is dark with stormy riot: directly traced over to diet.

People have so much pain inside them that they're not even aware of.

The root of the problem I have is anxiety, and it's all derived from something - I'm just going to say it, some kind of sadness. It manifests in so many different ways and it affects people differently.

True it is that each of us has only one life - but how many of us 'die a thousand deaths' in fear and nervousness!

How is it possible to exist with so much pain?

Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.

I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind. Did he rape my head, too?

Genuine mental health would involve a balanced interplay of both modes of experience, a way of life in which one's identification with the ego is playful and tentative rather than absolute and mandatory, while the concern with material possessions is pragmatic rather than obsessive.

Despair doth strike as deep a furrow in the brain as mischief or remorse.

How sick i am! that thought Always comes to me with horror. Is it this strange for everybody? But such fugitive feelings have always been my metier.

Thinking about suicide is a potent consolation: it helps us to get through many a bad night.