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Whom can I talk to? Get advice from? No one. A psychiatrist is the
God of our age. But they cost money. And I won't take advice, even
if I want it. I'll kill myself. I am beyond help. No one here has
time to probe, to aid me in understanding myself ... so many others
are worse off than I. How can I selfishly demand help, solace,
guidance? No, it is my own mess, and even if now I have lost my sense
of perspective, thereby my creative sense of humor, I will not let
myself get sick, go mad, or retreat like a child into blubbering on
someone else's shoulder. Masks are the order of the day--and the
least I can do is cultivate the illusion that I am gay, serene, not
hollow and afraid. Someday, god knows when, I will stop this absurd,
self-pitying, idle, futile despair. I will begin to think again, and
to act according to the way I think ...
-- Sylvia Plath. Journal, November 3, 1952.
Agenda, 7 May 2000, p. 4
Tags: money god perspective guidance illusion masks despair psychiatrist solace senseofhumor sylviaplath creativesense