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Upstairs In The Crazy House: The Life Of A Psychiatric Survivor

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Pat Capponi

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“He looked around the room: the light from outside was laying a big pattern across Goody’s bed and hitting this little rug he had, the kind you use to step out of the shower. The floor itself was made out of those big squares of thinnest-possible linoleum, many of them chipped and broken at the corners; all kinds of hair and shit got stuck down there and ground in over time. A paper clip, a trapezoid shard of an old broken light bulb, a flattened-out piece of gum from the Second World War. Pick made a vow never to go barefoot in this room.”

“i miss the days my friends knew every mundane detail about my life and i knew every ordinary detail about theirs adulthood has starved me of that consistency that us the walks around the block the long conversations when we were too lost in the moment to care what time it was when we won and celebrated when we failed and celebrated harder when we were just kids now we have our very important jobs that fill up our very busy schedules we compare calendars just to plan coffee dates that one of us eventually cancels cause adulthood is being too exhausted to leave our apartment most days i miss knowing i once belonged to a group of people bigger than myself that belonging made life easier to live - friendship nostalgia”

“I shuffle over to the tree, sliding beneath it and lying on my back so I can look up through the gnarled branches. It's a kaleidoscope of color and texture: the smooth light bulbs, the prickly pine needles. Ornaments of glass, and silk, and spiky metallic stars. A little wooden drummer Theo gave Ricky nearly twenty years ago. Laminated paper ornaments of our handprints from preschool, handmade ceramic blobs that were supposed to be pigs, or cows, or dogs. Nothing matches; there's no theme. But there is so much love in this tree, so much history.”