Sometimes the biggest disasters aren't noticed at all – no one's around to write horror stories.
The quiet conscience is the invention of the devil. No one of us may permit any preventable pain to be inflicted even though the responsibility for that pain is not ours. No one may shut his eyes and think that the pain which is therefore not visible, is non-existent.
When you cry out in pain from a broken wrist, no one questions it. You just go to the hospital and take the necessary steps. Mental illness is just as real, even if it can't be seen.
Everybody has this sack they're carrying. Some are heavier. Some are lighter. But no one doesn't have it. And if you think someone doesn't have it, they have a bigger one than you imagine.
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.
The body is not the only target of rape. Violence does not always take a visible form, and not all wounds gush blood.
No one may shut his eyes to think the pain, which is therefore not visible to him, is non-existent.
No one knows my Struggle, they only see the Trouble. Not knowing it's hard to carry on when, No one loves you.
You wouldn't know I was sick unless you knew I was sick.
I think that for some time now I have been living with an anxiety which has had no tangible cause. It has been like having a toothache, without the conscientious dentist having been able to find anything wrong with the tooth or with the person as a whole.
When they remain silent, they cry out.
She had never dreamed there could be so much pain in a life when there was nothing physically wrong. She hurt all the time.
[With depression] you get a real sense of shame, because your friends go, 'Oh come on, show me the lump, show me the x-rays,' and of course you've got nothing to show.
I have a great life, amazing family and friends, so it's easy for people to be like, 'What have you got to be sad about?' But it's not that; it's a chemical imbalance in your brain that sometimes needs to be treated.
One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way.
The novelist loses, every time. Politics is insidious, the modern conduct of war (from shoulder-launched rockets to drone strikes) is insidious. Someone presses a button in California and twenty people are incinerated at a wedding in Pakistan. The killer is spared the sight of the corpses.
It is all around us, hidden in plain sight. It is walking our streets, supplying shops and supermarkets, working in fields, factories or nail bars, trapped in brothels or cowering behind the curtains in an ordinary street: slavery.
I am like a broken puppet whose eyes have fallen inside.
One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul, and yet no one ever comes to sit by it.
It takes too much imagination to see the sorrows of people we take for happy. Their real battles take place, like those of the stars, in some realm of light imperceptible to the human eye. It is a feat of the mind to guess another's heart.
What the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve over.
We can't always see people's pain; they can always feel our love.
You have to hide what you are and it's really stressful and very bad for your self esteem. Because it's not obvious to people that you are ill, they treat you as if you're a pain in the ass, then you beat yourself up and you are already beating yourself up as a part of mental illness.
My manic depression was ravaging my life, but because nobody could see it, many people thought it was a figment of my imagination.
