I first read Sylvia Plath's journals five years ago and I remember feeling lucky to have her raw words which so articulately expressed her mental anguish and doubts that they seemed too well thought out to have possibly come from a journal. I felt less alone with my similar thoughts, and my heart ached for her suffering and the fact that she did not have someone else's words to comfort her during her struggle with depression. I think of that whenever I cringe at the thought of a person's diary being published after her death. I know it must have been hard for her family, especially her two kids, to have their mother's private thoughts published, but then I selfishly think about how some people's journals really can help others.
I was going through some old artwork from when I was in grad school and came across a page of quotes I had written down. This one jumped just as far off the page today as it did for me five years ago, even though I'm in a very different place.
Ah yes, I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me. ...No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter "Did you have a nice vacation?" "Oh, yes, and you?" I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down. p. 30*image from here