So, I recently fell into a fairly significant period of despair.  Short lived by my standards, maybe only about 2 weeks, but it was bad.  I don’t often think of suicide anymore and my thoughts, at the least, were slipping back there.  I’d been in fairly consistent turmoil about my relationship for months and waking up and spinning out in the middle of the night was maybe legitimately making me nuts.  My self doubt confided in me that I don’t know what’s best, my anxiety created all sorts of terrible situations, and my depression told me there was no way out. I found some distance in a weekend imbued with self care; yoga classes, full moon ritual, massage and a beautiful room overlooking the ocean and the distant city of Victoria.  I came home with a little hope and sparkle and a few days later my sweet Franco died.

I didn’t fall so far down when he died, but it came when I got angry and thus, shameful, a few days later.  I was at work one day emotionally preparing to depart for winter cold Calgary and feeling nothing but hate and anger.  The general relationship ambiguity, the death of my baby, on top of the slough of other anxieties I’d sat in through the winter months (what I want to do for work, where I should live, if I should continue teaching yoga,) all weighing on me.  I guess between the overwhelm and the grief, I just slipped out of my grasp on self compassion.

So, I arrive in Calgary and due to weather related flight delays i’ve finished the majority of the novel I brought along.  While my man heads to school, I peruse a nearby thrift shop to find my next victim. Knowing nothing of Sylvia Plath, aside from her name which I assume means she’s great, I spot the Bell Jar.  I take it off the shelf, bring it to the counter to pay for it, and maybe not even a day later I started to read it. I immediately liked her writing and went to my trusty google page to see what she’s all about and to see how many amazing books she’s written for me to start the hunt for.

For those of you, like me, that know the name but not the tale, I’ll tell you just a bit.  Turns out she was predominantly a poet. The Bell Jar is the only book she wrote and it was published under an alias.  It also turns out, to my surprise, that she died in 1963. I further explored and found that she had died by suicide at the young age of 30, only 2 years my junior, and that The Bell Jar was a semi autobiographical account of her first suicide attempt and subsequent treatment.

I found it interesting that I stumbled upon her work, specifically this one, at this time.  I devoured the book in what remained of my holiday. I found many eerie sentences scattered throughout the pages that reminded me of myself.  I even noticed almost verbatim quotes that I’d said only days before while venting about my current state to friends. If reading an autobiographical account of someone’s days before suicide and relating intimately doesn’t spook you, I don’t know what will.

My morbid curiousity wants to find and read everything she ever wrote, and I likely will.  She’s a great writer and if nothing else, I know that reading great writers contributes to great writing.  But more than that, I relate and feel less alone. While The Bell Jar does end with her being approved to leave the facility and face the world, we now know that Sylvia Plath did not make it long outside those doors.  Despite Plath’s tragic ending, the honest and vulnerable account of this part of her experience is touching, relatable (for one who suffers depression,) and profound. As if the story wasn’t enough, she walks us through it using sentences like, “By nine in the morning the fake, country-wet freshness that somehow seeped in overnight evaporated like the tail end of a sweet dream.” And, “I laid my face to the smooth face of the marble and howled my loss into the cold salt rain.”  

I was in a class in University in which the professor asked the class to meditate for 5 minutes on a time when we felt truly happy.  To consider the elements of the sensory experience, the people who surrounded you, and then to spend time with a partner, then a small group and then the whole class, picking out themes.  In every scenario, in every one of the 40 or so minds, the main theme was connection. Connection to self, spirit, nature, others, but always connection. My hope in sharing my own experience is that others will respond like I did to The Bell Jar.  There’s an openness around mental health that has evolved over the last while that I want to continue to propel. There is strength in vulnerability and I will continue to share in hopes that it touches hearts, opens minds, and ultimately breeds the connection our society longs for.  

If you’re interested in further exploring the works of Sylvia Plath, click here!