reflections in the bell jar

cw/ suicide

i was a teenager when i stumbled upon ms. plath’s poetry. i fell in love. i wrote and rewrote and cited and recited her writing, etching them permanently onto my brain. i think i made you up inside my head. that was one of my favorites. until i found the fig tree. her words illuminated feelings i was afraid of - which is why they were in the dark, lest they be realized and become real and felt inside of me. 

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

‘i’ve wanted to die before but i don’t want to die now’ - a reflection i had in therapy recently. it’s also the simplest way to sum up my growth from my teenage years. feeling so much then feeling nothing then wanting the rollercoaster ride to end because it seemed life would never let me exit. destined to a life with my hands and feet inside the vehicle, going places i didn’t know if i wanted to go on a track laid by others - society ™️, parents, my fearfully anxious subconscious.

i later discovered the poem about figs that i loved - and recently permanently etched onto my skin as a reminder - was actually an excerpt from ms. plath’s only novel, the bell jar. it was on my to read list for years. i bought a tattered, paperback version from thriftbooks and she moved with me, unseen (by my eyes), from dorm rooms to graduate apartments to east coast dwellings to my father’s house the summer i imploded my life’s track. 

i am of the philosophy that books come to you when you need them. so i refuse to feel bad when i haven’t read a book i’ve owned for years because making myself read when i don’t want to might mean i’ll read and not be able to appreciate the words shared with me. the bell jar was a book i had to give time to. i read her until she became too much and too real and i put her back on my shelf until i felt i was ready. after five months of therapy i was ready. 

although i run with a pack of queer friends with odd names and offbeat professions - with varied mental stability just like yours truly - it is still difficult to unequivocally relate and relay the feelings and thoughts i have. especially about suicide. most people recoil in fear at that word. their eyes go dopey and lips pouty and their eyebrows fashion themselves in a way they believe would be comforting to you. they nod sympathetically and rarely interject with their thoughts lest they be the one to push you off the edge. as a formerly suicidal - and still occasionally apathetic towards my own existence - person, talking about it helps. but who can i run to? 

reading ms. plath’s words comforted me. made me feel less alone with my thoughts and feelings and i wanted to jump through the pages to the 1960's and give her my best - no dopey eyes or pouty lips or hollow statements meant to comfort that neither her or i would believe. i wanted to sit with her, in silence, in commiseration, in my deep appreciation for her words. she did as i had done. she imploded the tracks of her life and dared to question why and refused the path offered to her and was sent an asylum. that’s why i stopped reading the first time. she thought what i think and felt what i feel and was zapped so hard she wanted to kill herself. she was willing to pretend again. i believe we both find the latter scarier. 

i don’t think i ever wanted to be married. or be a mother. or rely on another for love. maybe due to my dysfunctional upbringing or maybe that was always in my cards. nature or nurture, tomato tomato. either way, it took time to accept the truth about myself. mostly because when i spoke my truth the world pushed back. insisted i would change my mind, would meet the right man who would set me straight, would wake up one day with the miserable ache from loneliness i grew up watching the single, umarried adults around me attempt to pacify with a variety of vices.

one of the few things i knew of ms. plath’s life before reading her semi-autobiographical novel was that she killed herself. she had a husband and two young children and one night she stuck her head in the oven and was free of the stifling air of the bell jar. i don’t think i was ever the type of person to wonder why a person killed themself. living in this world was reason enough for me. but the more i read her adolescent thoughts, i wondered how she could be happy being a married mother. she thought like me and i dreaded that reality most days. her ending made sense to me.