Fig Trees and the Roots Below Them

     I am undeniably fond of books centering around female rage and the concept of hysteria. A largely explored concept in media today with literature such as My Year of Rest and Relaxation (2018) and arguably A Certain Hunger (2020). However, in 1892 the concept was just was only a drop in what we would now see as a rainstorm, which we would see with The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

                The story follows the main character as she's trapped in a lofty room with an uncaring husband and a sickly shade of yellow wallpaper that slowly consumes her mind. The short story is captivating in it's descriptions of the woman's wondering mind as she is overtaken by the wallpaper, convincing herself that her problems all stem from it. The brilliance of the story presents itself as the distance the husband has, driving the wife to have a deeper decline, he's insistent on what's best for her but never asks her what she needs. She is isolated and trapped by her perception of things around her, surrounded with dancing wallpaper that encroaches on every thought. The story, that leaves you with a taste in your mouth that you wish could linger for hours, ends like most declines do, with a jump and break and dead woman. This story would be the inspiration for my favorite book, I know it's utterly predictable for someone as pretentious as myself, but I am in love with The Bell Jar.

    The Bell Jar, with it's depictions of life as merely a fig tree stretching with it's possibilities and our unstable main character and her caviar obsession, is brilliant. The book entranced me with it's feminine outer shell that Sylvia Plath so carefully put together and it trapped me, like the jaws of a fly trap, with the mental decline of our heroine. The night I finished reading it, I couldn't stop crying. The worst part of it and what I now know as the reason for my breakdown, was the fact that the main character reflected me perfectly, though cracked in some places, it was my reflection. 

        I've always hated the people that compare themselves to Holden Caufield or Patrick Bateman, however, the hypocrisy reeks from my mouth like garlic when I mention that. I compare myself to Briar Rose and Laura Palmer and sometimes Beatrix Kiddo, but when I say I compare myself to Esther Greenwood, I feel ashamed as to think so poorly of myself. I remember the times at night where I felt so hopeless, drowning in my own mind, I wanted to make that the reality, the drowning part I mean. Progress is not linear, It goes all sorts of directions before it becomes noticeable, but even then, the progress was non existent. For myself and my strange mind with it's wild fantasies that teeter on the edge of delusion, I had found myself on the precipice of some sort of freedom, or I could turn back and drown in my own sorrow, but I took what I saw from a book about despair. I guess somehow I found a way to make progress linear.

I made it through days in which getting up was the hardest part of the day and the only thing I could do without feeling some sort of agony was lay down. My depression had shown itself as a volatile mood and delusions with visons and noises that came from the psyche that was broken into millions of pieces. It's difficult to pin point when it started getting worse, but I can tell when it started getting better (and I'm sure those who have tortured themselves with this blog have too). The story of my depression is long winded and to exhaust it would just would be far too boring, even for my liking. But I will say, that during the process of trying to stay afloat whiles waves crashed down, The Bell Jar was a cruel reminder of where I could end up. In a way, I think it drove me to an insanity that somehow motivated me to fix my perceptions of life. I didn't want to be Esther anymore, I started fearing the process of dying and how painful it might be. 

        I really can't tell if the book ruined my life or not. I really don't think it did even if in some ways it made me feel worse. Though if the book did, I still do recommend it, it's beautifully written and a fun read. But no one should follow in my footsteps and read it when your close to delivering the mail to deaths mailbox. Though I talk callously about my raging and at what seemed like at the time, uncurable depression, it's a time that has long since passed me, and left me to continue living. I'm happy now, I made it to the peak of my mountain and the only thing in front if me is meadows. Life isn't as cruel as it used to seem and The Bell Jar is one stepping stone of the progress I had, in some way, made.