Sylvia Plath…escape into darkness…

Depressed…troubled…and choosing the wrong partner. Ill-fated love. The lesson, be careful with your heart, and choose your partner carefully.

One morning in 2003 I was feeling a little down so I thought I’d go to the local Cinema Noveau and watch the movie Sylvia. It was not good idea. I felt, briefly, suicidal as I walked out of the cinema. The tragic story of Sylvia Plath American poet, novelist, and short-story writer with a Mensa intellect of 160. She had tried to commit suicide many times before in her life and she finally succeeded on 11 February, 1963. “They found Plath dead with her head in the oven, having sealed the rooms between her and her sleeping children with tape, towels and cloths.”

After her death there was even more tragedy. Her husband Ted Hughes had been having an affair with a mutual friend, Assia Wevill and at the time of Sylvia’s death, she was pregnant with Hughes child. The child was aborted. She moved in with him after Sylvia’s death and two years later gave birth to their daughter Shura. In 1969 she killed herself and their daughter using the same method which Sylvia Plath had used to kill herself. A gas oven.

On March 16, 2009, Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes son hanged himself in his home following a history of depression. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sylvia_Plath

“Plath had described the quality of her despair as “owl’s talons clenching my heart.””

From bright hub education:

“Sylvia Plath was a torch of a poet: intense, dangerous, destructive and, before long, exhausted and extinguished. In 1958, she wrote in her journal: “It is as if my life were magically run by two electric currents: joyous positive and despairing negative—whichever is running at the moment dominates my life, floods it.”

Possibly unipolar depression.

From the Bell Jar which was published pseudonymously just before her death.

“I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible; someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up shuddering in horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.”

The posthumous publication of Ariel in 1965 precipitated Plath’s rise to fame.

Ariel – Sylvia Plath

“Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue   
Pour of tor and distances.

God’s lioness,   
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!—The furrow

Splits and passes, sister to   
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,

Nigger-eye   
Berries cast dark   
Hooks—

Black sweet blood mouthfuls,   
Shadows.
Something else

Hauls me through air—
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.

White
Godiva, I unpeel—
Dead hands, dead stringencies.

And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.   
The child’s cry

Melts in the wall.   
And I
Am the arrow,

The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive   
Into the red

Eye, the cauldron of morning.”

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