Sylvia Plath

I took a deep breath and made myself small. I knew I had a choice. I could be a victim of my circumstances, or I could be a conqueror.

The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of peace. It was the silence of a vacuum.

I couldn't be a man. I couldn't be a woman. I couldn't be anything.

I felt like I was trapped in a bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.

I was supposed to be a happy, well-adjusted American girl. And I was, for a while. But then I cracked.

I began to think about the nature of my own misery, and how I could get out of it.

I felt my old world, my old self, beginning to rot away from me.

I felt like I was drowning, and nobody saw me.

I felt myself melting into the shadows, a formless gray blur.

I felt like I was a ghost, haunting my own life.

I felt like I was a burden to everyone, even myself.

I felt like I was a prisoner, trapped in my own skin.

I felt like I was a stranger in my own life.

I felt like I was a fraud, and everyone would eventually find out.

I felt like I was a disappointment, and I always would be.

I may be a fool, but I'm not a stupid fool.

How we need a a good long talk. I'm afraid I shall have to go to a psychoanalyst.

I am a victim of my own moods. I am a slave to them.

I must be a masochist to enjoy this torture.

I am a girl of the times. I am a modern girl.