Ella Wheeler Wilcox Quotes

I'm half alive but I feel mostly dead.

I've been immersed in it too long. My spirit is wobbly and my mind is confused. The hurt has become too great.

There is "a mental fatigue which is a spurious kind of remorse, and has all the anguish of the nobler feeling. It is an utter weariness and prostration of spirit, a sickness of heart and mind, a bitter longing to lie down and die.

I have shed pewter tears! It is too melancholy! Rather let me go to the wars and lose arms and legs! It would at least be a change. I cannot bear it longer! Now, I know what it is to have a visit from one's old thoughts, with what they may bring with them! I have had a visit from mine, and you may be sure it is no pleasant thing in the end; I was at last about to jump down from the drawers.

I never imagined what it would be like to spend a 12-hour day crying and covered in blood.

That is how prison is tearing me up inside. It hurts every day. Every day takes me further from my life.

Many people experience Gethsemane moments.

The part of me which wanders through my mind and never sees or feels actual objects, but which lives in and moves through my passions and my emotions, experiences this world as a horrible nightmare.

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

My bones are tired from all the tragedy in me.

I remember one day sitting at the pool and suddenly the tears were streaming down my cheeks. Why was I so unhappy? I had success. I had security. But it wasn't enough. I was exploding inside.

It's curious how we act in moments of personal despair.

I feel hurt and pain times a million, all the time.

When I'm in pain and grief and despair, my throat is clenched and my heart hurts.

I am truly miserable - more so than I like to acknowledge to myself. Pride refuses to aid me. It has brought me into the scrape, and will not help me out of it.

When I am sad and wearyWhen I think all hope has goneWhen I walk along High HolbornI think of you with nothing on

the hopelessness that comes from knowing too little and feeling too much (so brittle, so dry he is in danger of the reverse: feeling nothing and knowing everything)

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

Unhappiness was my god.

Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering—this is an all-weather beatitude for gloom in general and fairly salutary day-time advice for everyone. But at three o’clock in the morning, a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn’t work—and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day.

I feel too much. It's like being drummed to death from within. You know?

Raw hatred took its time making an outpost of its rage and prepared for me a savage crown with rusty, bloodstained spikes. It wasn't pride that made me keep my heart at a distance from such terror, nor did I waste on revenge or the pursuit of power the forces that came from my selfish griefs or my accumulated joys. It was something else-my helplessness.

Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn, ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

I lie on the floor, washed by nothing and hanging on. I cry at night. I am afraid of hearing voices, or a voice. I have come to the edge, of the land. I could get pushed over.