Life is a publicity stunt. A shill. You've been had.
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.
Given the conditions under which you're a young person in this society, many things would be at least as important to you as your sexuality.
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.
My sister said, You're making it hard for all us housewives in Nebraska.
Mother had committed me for life. This is where I felt betrayed the most.
I was supposed to be women's lib, and now I'd exceeded it and gone over into international politics.
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.
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.
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.
I saw hell. The hospital had divided and conquered pretty successfully.
What is the future of the woman's movement How in the hell do I know I don't run it.
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.
Hell, I don't want to grow old at all. I never want to die.
You won't do any more housework Then you go to the bin.
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.
Men and women were declared equal one morning and everybody could divorce each other by postcard
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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