The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath, and I
“Suicide does not kill people, depression does.”
The world appears free. People move with their
daily chores. Someone is laughing in a street corner, someone else is chatting
with a girl nearby. A couple is seated at the table, enjoying drinks, and
talking about something; the girl laughs, and by the look of it one can imagine
he just said something funny to her. Some people just whiz by on their bicycles,
chatting. And a couple passes, hand in hand, talking to each other in low
voices that is just not audible.
The lawn changes, transformed by the blades of
grass that shine with the sun and swing with the wind. The leaves of the trees
change colour as the seasons pass by. People change the expression written on
their faces with the emotions that beat within their hearts. There is love,
there is hatred, there is understanding and there is ego; there is hope and
there is care, there is also dream and there is frustration. There is bitterness
but there is also the satisfaction of victory. But, but…
Bitterness is not a medicine, loneliness is not
a cure of internal suffering. A good company is neither replaceable nor can be
found with searching: it needs to happen. The hands of time and the rhythm of
the ticking must match in harmony for the correct alignment to take place. And
when that does not happen one loses the right path, one loses hope, one loses
the purpose of life.
I am caged within the confines of space-time,
and my wanting or not wanting, wishing or not wishing, trying and struggling
produce no meaningful meaning. Emptiness remains emptiness, bitterness remains
bitterness, and loneliness behaves adamant.
But what appears on the surface and what feels
within are two completely different things. The inside and the outside seem to
merge together as if in a continuum whereas the invisible wall that separates
the two is always present there, as an invisible barrier for the continuum to
continue both within and without. And that is the bell jar.
And while Sylvia Plath confessed that she
attempted suicide more than once, more than even two or three or four or five
times, I have tasted that desperation
only twice. And if I choose to pick up a third time, it will be over, I know
for sure.
It is just an easy comparison: a fly trapped
inside an inverted glass perhaps might feel the same way as a human trapped
within the confines of circumstances beyond recognition, beyond comprehension,
and beyond the power of one’s influence. Despite the unending struggles one has
made, and one is still making, many things remain that simply do not change:
some wounds never heal, some broken pieces can never be glued back together. And
while Plath imagined her life confined within the transparent walls of a bell
jar, I find mine as fluid and dynamic as the fish in fast running water. She
could not escape out into freedom, I am finding it impossible to swim against
the currents of bitterness. That is perhaps humanity in-between us that makes
us the same: similar experiences shared across the stretch of space and time
within the influence of similar circumstances. And just like a caged bird, I want
to be free just as Sylvia Plath wanted to be, just as water always wants to be…
and then escape. It does not matter where, but what counts is if…
[The image of the first edition of "The Bell Jar" by Sylvia Plath has been taken from wikipedia, is fair use under United States copyright laws... https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bell_Jar and the direct link is https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Belljarfirstedition.jpg .]
