I believe there's a killer in all of us. I know there's one inside me. When you know the killer in you and you know also that you do not want to kill, you have to set yourself upon a course of learning. Not to kill that killer then, but to control it.
Mother had committed me for life. This is where I felt betrayed the most.
A revolution is not the overturning of a cart, a reshuffling in the cards of state. It is a process, a swelling, a new growth in the race. If it is real, not simply a trauma, it is another ring in the tree of history, layer upon layer of invisible tissue composing the evidence of a circle.
What is the natural reaction when told you have a hopeless mental illness? That diagnosis does you in; that, and the humiliation of being there. I mean, the indignity you're subjected to. My God.
Mystical state, madness, how it frightens people. How utterly crazy they become, remote, rude, peculiar, cruel, taunting, farouche as wild beasts who have smelled danger, the unthinkable.
Psychiatry causes so much death
This is how psychiatry has functioned-as a kind of property arm of the government, who can put you away if your husband doesn't like you.
I don't believe in monogamy, possessing people, the rightness or inevitability of jealousy.
They weren't crazy. They were tired of being locked up. Even I could see that.
In those days, when you got boxed, that was it. A lot of old people were there because somebody wanted the farm. It was about property. People are treated like property.
We are naïve and moralistic women. We are human beings. Who find politics a blight upon the human condition. And do not know how one copes with it except through politics.
Men and women were declared equal one morning and everybody could divorce each other by postcard
Everybody believes in psychiatry it's supposed to be for our own good. Let psychiatry prove that anybody has an illness, and I'd concede, but there is no physical proof.
I was supposed to be women's lib, and now I'd exceeded it and gone over into international politics.
I saw hell. The hospital had divided and conquered pretty successfully.
Ah, but depression - that is what we all hate. We the afflicted. Whereas the relatives and shrinks, the tribal ring, they rather welcome it: you are quiet and you suffer.
What is the future of the woman's movement How in the hell do I know I don't run it.
You won't do any more housework Then you go to the bin.
Hell, I don't want to grow old at all. I never want to die.
You may well ask how I expect to assert my privacy by resorting to the outrageous publicity of being one's actual self on paper. There's a possibility of it working if one chooses the terms, to wit: outshouting image-gimmick America through a quietly desperate search for self.
It would appear that love is dead. Or very likely in a bad way.
one of the blessings of adulthood is that one is no longer addressed as a thing.
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