It's interesting to read a book like this today since it was written in the 1960's, set in the 1950's and discussing subjects just as taboo today as they were then: mental illness, depression and suicide.
I'd like to think we've made some strides. At least electro-shock therapy and lobotomies aren't as common anymore. At least women have more control over their own bodies and decisions......or do we?
Probably the best thing about this book is the slow and almost normal decline the character makes into her mental unraveling. It makes a lot more sense when you hear loved ones say after a family member commits suicide that they "seemed normal" or were "somewhat happy". To me, Esther didn't really seem unhappy at all. A better description might be depressed or confused. These quotes from the book sum it up best for me:
"I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so wrong and wearisome that I didn't say anything. I only burrowed down further in the bed."
".....because wherever I sat - on the deck of ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok - I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air."
The saddest part of reading this book is knowing already that the author, Sylvia Plath, did in fact succeed at suicide. She died one month after this book was published making it the ultimate of suicide notes. In the book, Esther seems to make it. If life, Sylvia did not.
We've all talked and talked of suicide in the last few years, and I don't have any better answers than anyone. All I can say is, if you are suffering from depression or a feeling of things just not being quite right, please reach out and talk to someone. If you think you see a friend or family member grappling or struggling in way you can't quite explain, reach out to them. This idea of not talking and being too private is no way to go. That's the only thing I know for sure.