reflection — Saturday, February 8th 2025
In the corner of my bedroom sits a box of all that I am. It’s not pretty, not vintage, not thematic, aesthetically; it is made of purple plastic, with horizontal slits so you can put those little white peg-back letters along the front. It proudly displays the title, “I AM EX”, an odd little epigraph which was my attempt at quoting Sylvia Plath, with a limited means of plastic letters. You see, there weren’t enough As or Ms to write out, “I am” three whole times, so instead I thought I’d write “I AM 3X”, since I knew what I meant by it, and isn’t that all that matters?, but of course there were no numbers. Hence, “I AM EX”.
I bought The Bell Jar off Amazon over a year ago, and let it steep on my nightstand for many, many months. I found myself too happy, as it were, to expose myself to such depression-inducing content, for most of my junior year. But by the time this fall came around, I had to choose a book for Lit and I was long past the emotional river-to-waterfall-to-very-steep-cliff moment, so I knew there was nothing to lose.
I enjoyed the book a lot, not crying for most of the time that I read it, even managing to limit my looks of horror in public as I read the Buddy scenes whence I entered the sisterhood of the traveling visceral disgust toward men. The night I finished reading it was a night, to be sure, one I may never forget as long as I live, a night whose secret existence is betrayed by the raised pink Shibboleth (2007) on my left inner forearm. Very normal.
But I am a teenage girl with depression, so yes, Esther Greenwood took up a long-term residence in my heart, and yes, you’ll find me getting inked in honor of Sylvia Plath some point in the not-too-distant future. Until then, though, I keep her with me through the purple plastic box in the corner of my room. It doesn’t have much to offer; it holds little more than a blanket, a book of poems gifted by my mom, and two Bath & Body Works lotions I’ve had for God knows how long. But that little box, broken string of fairy lights and all, is what keeps me alive.
When I feel that horrible feeling, deep in my stomach, when it rises up into my face and it seeps through my veins until it’s infected each fingertip, I know that is my sadness. When I can’t stand the sight of the highway or the effort to turn the steering wheel, I know that is my sadness. When I physically cannot get up out of my bed or stop listening to Phoebe Bridgers’ “Moon Song”, I know that is my sadness.
I usually don’t know what to do with my sadness. It likes to pull me under and thrash me around in the waves, until my vision is spinning, I’m gasping for breath, and I slam my head on the rocks. Dark.
But the thing about darkness, the thing about being in a state where anything could make you cry in the blink of an eye, is that anything could make you cry in a good way, too. I once saw a squirrel running through my church parking lot in the rain (March 9th, 2024), and burst into tears because “he was doing a good job”. So the point of this box is, basically, to take advantage of this state of heightened vulnerability and make it into something that can cheer me up. All it takes is a blanket, or a little book, or a scented candle, or a broken string of fairy lights. As much as it takes to stop being sad, it doesn’t take a lot to feel happy. Just a little bit of happy.
And when you feel an overwhelming lot of sadness, just a little bit of happiness is enough.
The Dilemma Of It All 