I just finished watching this biopic on HBO about poet Slyvia Plath. I’d heard a lot about her but never studied any of her work. Now I see what the fuss is about. Her work is amazing.

It’s remarkable how much we are alike. Frustrated moms who write. And her husband I think was a real bastard. Mine is not a bastard, but everyone who knows him knows that he can be a little difficult.

I feel sorry for her, but I don’t pity her because I think pity is negative.I just feel a lot of what this movie says she felt. Sometimes I just don’t know how much more I can take, though I don’t think I’m quite ready to stick my head in the oven. Yet. Women really have to make more progress, especially in rural areas. It’s very hard for people from the city who’ve had access to mass transit all their life and other amenities that come from city life to understand what it’s like to live in the rural south. But back to Sylvia Plath. I would like to read her novel, The Bell Jar.

After I watched the movie I went to Amazon.com and read some reviews and it definitely looks like a great read. It’s wonderful to read great writing from a woman who knows what it is truly like to piece each day along with faith that somehow, someway, *it* will get better.

I don’t think God speaks through me quite like she did, but I do feel at times that there are just too many things, ideas, inventions, thoughts, wants and wishes to occupy the same space as my real life. They are taking over. I find myself daydreaming at an alarming rate now, often forgetting when I have food in the oven or sometimes that I am even speaking with someone on the phone. I’ll just drift away, and be totally somewhere else while the person I’m talking to is babbling away.

I must come clean soon with all the stuff that’s happened this year. I don’t have enough antacids to quell the damn bitterness in my chest and writing it out is the only way. Perhaps I’ll write a small piece about it in my book. I don’t know…

I do feel the same compulsion Plath felt, with perhaps even less time to deal with the voices then she did. She had two children. I have three. Her husband was a cheat. Mine won’t leave me alone.

I don’t think I have had 24 hours completely by myself in over four years. I feel like I don’t even know myself anymore, and nobody else damn sure does as no one ever sees me anymore. Sometimes I feel like I’m slowly drifting away from everything that used to be *me*. Without that I don’t know if I’d want to live either.