Upstairs In The Crazy House: The Life Of A Psychiatric Survivor
Pat Capponi
Top 10 Best Quotes
“In the years following my first hospitalization and my first explorations into myself, I determined to become someone I could live with, if not, in the words of the therapist, someone I could love. My first efforts were based on my blanket acceptance that I wasn't a very good person, and that I should change those parts of myself that could be changed. I hadn't yet realized that I'd simply internalized all the verbal assaults that characterized the first eighteen years of my life.”
“I'm often asked why I got out when so many didn't. I've mentioned the high school teacher who stopped me in the hall for my assistance in a school performance. Before that man, whose name is Stan Asher, no one had ever looked at me or spoken to me as though I had value. For me, that's the key. Otherwise, I probably would have gone on believing that I was intrinsically bad, with nothing to offer. I believe that many in that house were never offered a positive image of themselves.”
“We sat in good silence, for me relieved silence, watching the thick rush-hour traffic and the jammed streetcars -- all leaving us behind, leaving me feeling cast off and useless, remembering when I too hate somewhere to go, something to do.”
“To some, madness can be seductive, a way of getting back, of getting even. The only problem is, you can get lost forever.”
“There was an inevitability about our kind of illness, a knowledge that lurking over the next hill was our private monster, which would grab us, shake us up and eventually deposit us in a hospital bed, doped to the gills with anti-psychotic medication, not remembering much of anything and not caring that we couldn't.”
“There used to be so many good times, when I was your age." She ran her finger slowly round and round her cup, as though it were a fine-stemmed wine glass rather than a chipped and stained dining-room survivor, as though she were trying to recapture an echo of times past.”
“The first person to really speak to me was Andy, which was lucky, since he was the least crazy. He stank, but I suspected I did too. I never took off my clothes, always ready for fight or flight, needing to feel a little armoured. Deodorant was a luxury I couldn't afford, and I wasn't about to attempt a bath in a room that didn't lock, and which was always in high demand. Not to mention that there was no plug for the tub, or hand soap, or towels, or curtain, or mat.”
“I joined with task forces and coalitions, replete with professionals and para-professionals, working in the system. Often, too often, I was the only ex-patient at the table. I was continually surprised by the degree of resistance to the notion that we -- those directly affected -- should have more of a say in how we are housed and treated. The provincial civil service also was reluctant to hear and change what needed to be changed; many times I heard how Rome wasn't built in a day, and that the wheels of government grind slowly. I found *I* was considered the problem, not the issues I was bringing to light. I went through periods of intense frustration, all to aware that patience is fine when you're reasonably fed, clothed and housed, when there is purpose and meaning to your life. Meanwhile, our people were forced to endure, to try to survive in intolerable circumstances through long years of committees and endless debate and red tape.”
“Eventually, he brought me a translation of the Islamic Holy Book, the Quran, and one night, as I read, I came across a sura that touched me so deeply, moved me so profoundly, it was as though God had whispered in my ear. My life didn't change, the circumstances that plagued me -- poverty, exile from the real world, continuous fears about what lay ahead -- didn't change. I wasn't instantly, miraculously cured of the blackness that was rooted in my soul, but I was comforted. I, who felt and believed that I was beyond even the capability of God to love and forgive, who feared daily retribution of the meanest, vilest kind, cried to the first time since I'd come to this house, not bitterly, not grudging the tears. 'By the morning hours, And by the night when it is stillest The Lord hath not forsaken thee nor doth He hate thee And verily the latter portion will be better for thee than the former And verily thy Lord will give unto thee so that thou will be content Did He not find thee an Orphan and protect thee? Did He not find thee wandering and direct thee? Did He not find thee destitute and enrich thee? Therefore the orphan oppress not, Therefore the beggar drive not away, Therefore the bounty of thy Lord be thy discourse. (Sura 93)' That verse freed me. I was not an outcast, not hated by a God who could love and forgive everyone but me. In time, I could see my being in this house as an act of man, not an act of God. I also began to believe that there might be another reason for my being directed here; I was not here to die, but perhaps to do something about the place and the people. I began to feel I'd been given back purpose.”
“Andy had taken my jeans and a pair of his that no longer fit over to the laundromat with some change earned from the owner. He washed and dried them while I waited under the covers in my bed. When he had finished, he presented the two pairs to me with a rare, honest smile. There were few things I would have appreciated more than this, and I did not hesitate to let him know how pleased and happy he'd made me. Those filthy jeans had become my private nightmare, and having only one pair left me in fear of a broken zipper or a tear where it counted. I felt like a child putting on freshly laundered pajamas, cared for, loved.”
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Book Keywords:
support, poverty, mental-illness, psychiatric-survivor, recovery, stigma, madness, nostalgia, gratitude, purpose, cptsd, memory, meaning, mental-health, outcast, welfare, worthiness
