Sylvia Plath

"Dying is an art,like everything else, I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real."

Sylvia Plath never lived to see how exceptional the world found her to be. In her thirties, she killed herself. At the time she was a single mother of two. A struggling writer who was just trying to get by. The overwhelming pressure sunk her into a deep depression. She wrote a semi-autobiography of herself named The Bell Jar.

I think any mother, writer, woman, and even every man should read her work. Her life was real enough to feel as it was not a fairy tale. The surreal experiences and depth of her poetry still today captivates readers.

Now as I approach thirty and am the mother of two I think of her more. Praying I don't fall into such a depression. Hoping my children don't learn who I am by the messed of poetry I've written. Suicide is a cowards move some say. But it's true to think of it time to time is only natural when the world weighs heavy on you. "What if....."

My love for my daughters keeps me around. Curious to see how they'll grow up and the underlying knowledge that they need me. I just don't know in what capacity.......

I grew up without an active mother in my life. My father was also a lost cause. I can't blame them for any faults I may have because I do believe at some point you make the decision on what path to take. Their paths were made only for them. Still, not having that enviormental knowledge implanted in a young girl through seeing nuturing parents does hinder my own ability as a mother. How do I know what exactly to do? I make many mistakes in hopes that there is time to fix them. Taking time for granted is a fault of mine. The path to hell is paved in good intensions. Knowing this I still find my way back on that path.

We should all learn from our past and even in the pasts of others. Only then can we not repeat mistakes.