Internal Suffering Quotes

Nothing can work damage to me except myself; the harm that I sustain I carry about with me and never am a real sufferer except by my own fault.

Anger is a poison. It eats us inside. We think when we hate someone we hurt them, but hatred is a curved blade, and the harm we do to others we also do to ourselves.

Benedict may not be as hurt as he really is.

There is no person so severely punished, as those who subject themselves to the whip of their own remorse.

There are all sorts of ways of murdering a person or at least his soul, and that's something no police in the world can spot.

You are literally filled with the fruit of your own devices, with rats and mice and such small deer, paramecia, and entomostraceæ, and kicking things with horrid names, which you see in microscopes at the Polytechnic, and rush home and call for brandy-without the water-stone, and gravel, and dyspepsia, and fragments of your own muscular tissue tinged with your own bile.

Those griefs burn most which gall in secret.

You wouldn't know I was sick unless you knew I was sick.

They mustn't know my despair, I can't let them see the wounds which they have caused, I couldn't bear their sympathy and their kind-hearted jokes, it would only make me want to scream all the more. If I talk, everyone thinks I'm showing off; when I'm silent they think I'm ridiculous; rude if I answer, sly if I get a good idea, lazy if I'm tired, selfish if I eat a mouthful more than I should, stupid, cowardly, crafty, etc. etc.

Everyone says "I wish I was in your shoes...", the hundreds of people that wish they were in my shoes don't know the tenth of it. If they were in my shoes they would cry like a baby.

It is a lonely existence to be a child with a disability which no-one can see or understand, you exasperate your teachers, you disappoint your parents, and worst of all you know that you are not just stupid.

I open a paperclip and scratch it across the inside of my left wrist. Pitiful. If a suicide attempt is a cry for help, then what is this. A whimper, a peep? I draw little window cracks of blood, etching line after line until it stops hurting.

Hatred is the spiritual malignancy of our species, and like any other form of cancer, does its most terrible work not outwardly, but from within us.

The worst of our evils we blindly inflict upon ourselves; our officers cannot remove them, even if they would.

Nothing can work me damage except myself. The harm that I sustain I carry about with me, and never am a real sufferer but by my own fault.

Some tears have to be cried no matter what the hour- until they are, they simply rave and burn inside.

Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.

Whom conscience, ne'er asleep, Wounds with incessant strokes, not loud, but deep.

When you run into someone who is disagreeable to others, you may be sure he is uncomfortable with himself; the amount of pain we inflict upon others is directly proportional to the amount we feel within us.

People might seem to have a perfectly fine life but inside, we don't even know if they've suffered.

I wept not, so to stone within I grew.

So, what, you got cigarette burns, too?" Gitanes said. Chip showed his palm, "It's nothing." "Self-inflicted. You pathetic American." "Different kind of prison" Chip said.

Our greatest evils flow from ourselves.