--Plath "Lady Lazarus" (click to read)
I think that Plath had her finger right on the waning pulse of depression. Depression is a cycle, mostly. It may not feel like one, but it is.
I'm going to do an experiment, since I have just been roused out of my ignorant days of happiness and hope by the punch in the jaw of the fist of reality. I've just had another handful of teeth knocked out by depression again.
Here's a quite tame expression of clinical depression for your observation.
On the surface, we have the steady throbbing emptiness of total despair that wastes away at the soul.
The threadbare linen, the white shroud that haphazardly clings to the being.
Then we have the being, the hard shell and the center that is in all actuality a whirlwind.
It does not take much to start depression back up again because it never really goes away.
A tooth pulled, a finger sliced, a black eye-- always affirmed with those everlasting aches.
The heart, bruised and tarnished with years of stains and regret and sweat-- false hope and false dreams-- finally learns to beat for no reason other than to write.
I write because I can. Everything can and will be taken away from me with time. Bluntly put, time destroys everything and somehow my touch causes empires to crumble-- not because of my power, but because of the shrug in my shoulder and the void in my eyes-- because I fail and am a failure.
I guess maybe the last thing I have is the alphabet. That is funny to say, but it is true. A word, some words, a lie, some lies-- it's all the same-- it all comes out the same way and reaches the same end-- with a gigantic accumulation of absolute nothing.
The hopes of youth, the hopes of passion, the hopes of victory-- the hope of something-- all disappear
--From my hands.
--Just give it time.
This is a tame example. It's been edited and watered down so no one gets too scared or disturbed.
Most people with Bipolar Disorder commit suicide during their manias because they know what is coming next-- the fall...and the crushed spirit and broken bones: Incapacitation.
If you understand metaphors, then you can see what I'm driving at here.
The desire to be pulled to the grave, as I related before when I quoted from "Tithonus".
Nothing is lower than this moment.
But it lasts forever.
I know why Plath put that tape on the door frame and put her head in the oven.