excerpt from Sylvia Plath's journal

There comes a time when all your outlets are blocked, as with wax. You sit in your room, feeling the prickling ache in your body which constricts your throat, tightens dangerously in the tear pockets behind your eyes. One word. One gesture, and all that is pent up in you- festered resentments, gangrenous jealousies, superfluous desires unfulfilled- and that will burst out of you in angry impotent tears, in embarassed sobbing and blubbering to no on in particuler. No arms will enfold you, no voice will say "There, there. Sleep and forget." No, in your new and horrible independence you feel the dangerous premonitory ache... An outlet you need and they are sealed. You live night and day in the dark cramped prison you have made for yourself. And so on this day, you feel you will burst, break, if you cannot let the great reservoir seething in you loose...