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The More People Pointed At Me In Scorn The More Stubborn I Got And When They Began Calling Me The Bad Girl Of West Seattle High, I Tried To Live Up To It.

-Frances Farmer

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The More People Pointed

Frances Farmer

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The More People Pointed At Me In Scorn The More Stubborn I Got And When They Began Calling Me The Bad Girl Of West Seattle High, I Tried To Live Up To It.

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Never Console Yourself Into Believing That The Terror Has Passed, For It Looms As Large And Evil Today As It Did In The Despicable Era Of Bedlam. But I Must Relate The Horrors As I Recall Them, In The Hope That Some Force For Mankind Might Be Moved To Relieve Forever The Unfortunate Creatures Who Are Still Imprisoned In The Back Wards Of Decaying Institutions.

Have You Ever Had A Broken Heart?

There Comes A Point When A Dream Becomes Reality And Reality Becomes A Dream.

The More People Pointed At Me In Scorn The More Stubborn I Got And When They Began Calling Me The Bad Girl Of West Seattle High, I Tried To Live Up To It.

If A Person Is Treated Like A Patient, They Are Apt To Act Like One.

I Miss The Comfort In Being Sad.

To Have A Good Friend Is The Purest Of All God's Gifts, For It Is A Love That Has No Exchange Of Payment. It Is Not Inherited, As With A Family. It Is Not Compelling, As With A Child. And It Has No Means Of Physical Pleasure, As With A Mate. It Is, Therefore, An Indescribable Bond That Brings With It A Far Deeper Devotion Than All The Others.

I Have Learned That To Have A Good Friend Is The Purest Of All God's Gifts, For It Is A Love That Has No Exchange Of Payment.

I Couldn't Get That Same Feeling During The Day, With My Hands In Dirty Dish Water And The Hard Sun Showing Up The Dirtiness On The Roof Tops. And After A Time, Even At Night, The Feeling Of God Didn't Last.

I Wondered A Little Why God Was Such A Useless Thing. It Seemed A Waste Of Time To Have Him. After That He Became Less And Less, Until He Was... Nothingness.

I Minded My Own Business, And, Unfortunately, So Did Everyone Else.

I Used To Lie Between Cool, Clean Sheets At Night After I'd Had A Bath, After I Had Washed My Hair And Scrubbed My Knuckles And Finger-nails And Teeth. Then I Could Lie Quite Still In The Dark With My Face To The Window With The Trees In It, And Talk To God.

I Went To Sunday School And Liked The Stories About Christ And The Christmas Star. They Were Beautiful. They Made You Warm And Happy To Think About. But I Didn't Believe Them.

If You Get Old Fashioned Enough, You'll Always Be In Style.

For Eight Years I Was An Inmate In A State Asylum For The Insane. During Those Years I Passed Through Such Unbearable Terror That I Deteriorated Into A Wild, Frightened Creature Intent Only On Survival. And I Survived. I Was Raped By Orderlies, Gnawed On By Rats And Poisoned By Tainted Food. I Was Chained In Padded Cells, Strapped Into Strait-jackets And Half-drowned In Ice Baths. And I Survived. The Asylum Itself Was A Steel Trap, And I Was Not Released From Its Jaws Alive And Victorious. I Crawled Out Mutilated, Whimpering And Terribly Alone. But I Did Survive.

That Satisfied Me Until I Began To Figure That If God Loved All His Children Equally, Why Did He Bother About My Red Hat And Let Other People Lose Their Fathers And Mothers For Always?

I Just Knew That God Wasn't There. He Was A Man On A Throne In Heaven, So He Was Easy To Forget.

But I Was Sure Of One Thing. If God Were A Father, With Children, That Cleanliness I Had Been Feeling Wasn't God.

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