Plath in the bath.

I think I might have devastated my mind by reading Ariel by Sylvia Plath in the bath last night. I'm feeling rather deflated. I spent a long time (in my miss spent youth) reading Plath and really feeling connected to her writing (after all, it's every depressed girl's mantra). I think you can connect so easily with it as it flows like thoughts... the sort of thoughts you might have when you're really low, confused and fuddled with medication. There's also a slight under-tone of humour in some of it. That feeling of it's not funny but I'm laughing because it's all I can seem to do. Resignation that things wont change. It I don't laugh I'll cry.

It's been quite some time since I read poetry (I'm quite a big reader but lately I've been plowing through tacky crime thrillers like no other literature exists) and I was really engrossed in it. So much so that I got out the bath and read about her life on the internet. I'd pretty much read it all before but it'd been a long time.
There's such a fascination with suicide, especially where young women are concerned, but I think it's interesting to look at the reactions to depression back then and the treatments prescribed. Electro-convulsive therapy, Insulin shots, crazy stuff. Seems like a very physical response to mental illness.
I wouldn't say that today's treatments are that much better..... tablets from a doctor you most likely will never see again, one appointment at the hospital to see a psychiatrist who tells you to wear an elastic band on your wrist and snap it if you feel panicky, sort your own councelling out.
It seems we've moved on from knee-jerk panic treatment to raising awareness of such a disorder yet responding lazily.
I'd love to think of a way to approach treatment for depression, having suffered for years you'd think I might know how, but I'm stumped.