Girl Interrupted Monologues

Based on writer Susanna Kaysen's account of her 18-month stay at a mental hospital in the late 1960s.

You know, there's too many buttons in the world. There's too many buttons and they're just - There's way too many just begging to be pressed, they're just begging to be pressed, you know? They're just - they're just begging to be pressed, and it makes me wonder, it really makes me fucking wonder, why doesn't anyone ever press mine? Why am I so neglected? Why doesn't anyone reach in and rip out the truth and tell me that I'm a fucking whore, or that my parents wish I were dead?

Razors pain you, rivers are damp / Acid stains you, drugs cause cramps / Gun aren't lawful, nooses give / Gas smells awful, you might as well live.

I'm playing the villain, baby, just like you want. I try to give you everything you want.

You wanted your file, I found you your file. You wanted out, I got you out. You needed money, I found you some. I'm fucking consistent - I told you the truth - I didn't write it down in a fucking book! I told you to your face. And I told Daisy to her face - what everybody knew and wouldn't say, and she killed herself. And I played the fucking villain, just like you wanted.

Because it makes you the good guy, sweet pea. You come back all sweetness and light, and sad and contrite, and everybody congratulating you on your bravery. And meanwhile, I'm blowing the guys at the bus station for the money that was in her fucking robe!

They didn't release you 'cause you're better, Daisy, they just gave up. You call this a life, hmm? Taking Daddy's money, buying your dollies and your knick-knacks. And eating his fucking chicken, fattening up like a prize fucking heifer? You changed the scenery, but not the fucking situation - and the warden makes house calls. And everybody knows. Everybody knows. That he fucks you. What they don't know… is that you like it. Hmm? You like it.

Hey man, it's cool, it's okay. It's fine, it's fucking fine! A man is a dick is a man is a dick is a chicken… is a dad… a Valium, a speculum, whatever, whatever.

All you have is mustard and your chickens! I am going to be the Cinderella at Walt Disney's new theme park, Susanna's gonna be Snow White. You can come if you want. You can be the Cocker Spaniel that eats spaghetti.

You think you're free? I'm free! You don't know what freedom is! I'm free! I can breathe! And you... you're gonna choke on your average fucking mediocre life!

What needs to happen? No one's ever gonna' kiss her, man. You know, they're building a new Disneyland in Florida. If I could have any job in the world, I'd be a professional Cinderella. You could be Snow White. And Polly could be Minnie Mouse. Everyone would hug her and kiss her and love her and no one would ever know what was in that big ol' head of hers, you know?

Yeah, well that's what ther-rape-me's all about. That's why fuckin' Freud's picture's on every shrink's wall. He created a fuckin' industry. You lie down, you confess your secrets and you're saved. Ca-ching! The more you confess, the more they think about settin' you free.

Help me understand, Dais 'cause, I thought you didn't do Valium. Tell me how this safety net is working for you. Tell me that you don't take that blade and drag it across your skin and pray for the courage to press down. Tell me how your *daddy* helps you cope with that. Illuminate me.

Bald guy with a little pecker and a fat wife. You're ther-rapist, sweet pea. Unless, ah… unless they're givin' you shocks. Or, God forbid lettin' you out. Then you get to see the great wonderful Dr. Dyke.

Alright, listen. Tongue your meds tonight. After o'clock checks, Gretta always goes out for a smoke. Check the mirrors and if they're clear, you go to Hector's closet. It's near the art room and it will be open.

We have to go. We have money... Susanna, don't be stupid. Alright, fine. Be stupid.

Have you ever confused a dream with life? Or stolen something when you have the cash? Have you ever been blue? Or thought your train moving while sitting still? Maybe I was just crazy. Maybe it was the 60s. Or maybe I was just a girl… interrupted.

Because you're dead already, Lisa! No one cares if you die, Lisa, because you're dead already. Your heart is cold. That's why you keep coming back here. You're not free. You need this place, you need it to feel alive. It's pathetic.

I've wasted a year of my life. Maybe everybody out there is a liar. And maybe the whole world is "stupid" and "ignorant". But I'd rather be in it. I'd rather be fucking in it, then down here with you.

I don't know. That I was sorry. That I will never know what it was like to be her. But I know what it's like to want to die. How it hurts to smile. How you try to fit in but you can't. You hurt yourself on the outside to try to kill the thing on the inside.

How the hell am I supposed to recover when I don't even understand my disease?

When you don't want to feel, death can seem like a dream. But seeing death, really seeing it, makes dreaming about it fucking ridiculous. Maybe, there's a moment growing up when something peels back... Maybe, maybe, we look for secrets because we can't believe our minds...

All I know is that I began to feel things again. Whatever I was, I knew there was only one way back to the world and that was to use the place to talk. So I saw the great and wonderful Dr. Wick three times a week and I let her hear every thought in my head.

Then what's wrong with me, huh? What the fuck is going on inside my head? Tell me, Dr. Val, what's your diag-nonsense?

Is that your... *professional* opinion, huh? Is that what you've learned in your advanced studies at night school for Negro welfare mothers? I mean, Melvin doesn't have a clue, Wick is a *psycho* and you... you *pretend* to be a doctor. You sign the charts and dole out meds. But "you ain't no doctor, Miss Valerie. You ain't nothing but a black nursemaid".

Declared healthy and sent back into the world. My final diagnosis: a recovered borderline. What that means, I still don't know. Was I ever crazy? Maybe. Or maybe life is.

Crazy isn't being broken, or swallowing a dark secret. It's you, or me, amplified. If you ever told a lie, and enjoyed it. If you ever wished you could be a child, forever. They were not perfect, but they were my friends. And by the 70s, most of them were out, living lives. Some I've seen. Some never again. But there isn't a day my heart doesn't find them.