Quotes About Recovery

A hospital is no place to be sick.

Too much medicine was what ailed Dick Colton. Not that he had been taking it. On the contrary he had been administering it to others.

The fact that your patient gets well does not prove that your diagnosis was correct.

But I could not stay with him myself, for having got a great cold by my playing the fool in the water yesterday I was in great pain, and so went home by coach to bed, and went not to the office at all, and by keeping myself warm, I broke wind and so came to some ease. Rose and eat some supper, and so to bed again.

Egész nap orvosságot szedtem, és Isten ne vegye b?nömül, holmi francia regények olvasásával mulattam magam.

What were you in a mental hospital for?" "Depression. But it was a long time ago.

Time heals wounds, my dear; it cannot rub out scars.

The patient is the one with the disease

took her in my arms and let her cry, and I was crying too. After she'd quieted some, I asked for her husband's number, and after I did the workup for rape, I called him. He'd been worried stiff, and was glad she was not dead. He couldn't know, yet, that part of her had died.

What makes psychopathy so different, so surreal, so much like a relational b@$*tch-slap that it nearly knocks her head off? --The sensation of being emotionally 'jumped' from behind. --The inability to wrap her head around the emotional-physical-spiritual-sexual gang-bang that just happened when she thought she was with the most wonderful person. No one can figure out how a dangerous psychopath curled up to them like a purring cat. Half of recovery is just trying to figure out 'what was THAT?

The path to perceiving his disorder in all its destruction is littered with the remains of her mind and soul.

Trauma silences a person. It shatters your identity, and along with it, much of what you thought you knew.

Burnout is like your spare tyre going flat. Remember, to take care of you.

The recovery of biodiversity after major extinctions takes several million years. In the interval, the world is inhabited by a list of species more or less equivalent to ragweed and roaches.

She wasn't healing, that was the wrong word. She was coming to terms with loss.

The wound is the place where the light enters.

I didn't tell her I'd been there. I didn't tell her I was still there. I didn't tell her: I hate myself that much every day. I didn't tell her: the only thing that saved me is gone and never coming back. I didn't tell her: I will be there again, and I will be there so often I will come to believe it's my natural habitat.

Being the survivor stinks.

Let the memories die, sir, yer'll soon pick up the pieces.

Gray had not gotten better.

And suddenly, she realized: someday - not soon, but someday - things might be okay again.

And just like that every horrible thought receded into the background. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't damaged goods after all. Maybe she was okay - someone worth caring for. Someone worth loving, even.

If you've been hurt and you've grieved and you've been through the mill, it takes a long time to get over it.

Forgetting isn't enough. You can paddle away from the memories and think they are gone. But they will keep floating back, again and again and agian. They circle you, like sharks. Until, unless, something, someone? Can do more than just cover the wound.