He sat next to me, stroking my hair. "You have a migraine again, don’t you?"
"Yes. I always have a migraine." The tears stung my eyes but I was powerless to stop them.
"Oh, honey. Why didn’t you tell me?"
"I can’t stand being sick all the time. You must be tired of hearing about my headaches."
"Of course not. My poor girl. Shouldn’t you try the anti-depressants though?"
"Okay, I will." I acquiesced for the moment although I had no intention of doing any such thing.
Adam lay down next me and massaged my head and neck until I fell asleep. The next evening Adam came home with a gas heater for the bedroom. "I know it is a little drafty in here. This should help until we can have the windows replaced."
"Thank you, honey." My voice caught in my throat. I was overwhelmed by this simple gesture and I suddenly felt guilty for my tantrum. "Come to bed with me?" I invited.
The bathroom tiles were cool on my cheek as I lay on the floor waiting to vomit. My head was pounding. I didn’t have any injections in the house. I had used up my allotment two days ago according to my health plan and the pharmacy couldn’t fill another prescription until this morning. Finally, my mouth flooded with saliva as my gut churned up the glass of juice I had sipped earlier. I splashed cool water on my face and neck and stumbled back to the bedroom where I pulled on sweatpants and a sweater.
I paid for my prescription and a bag of taffy candy. "Feel better" the cashier looked concerned as I walked away slowly. Each time I put my foot down it reverberated in my head. I thought my brains would start oozing out my ears.
I sat in my car in the parking lot and jabbed the needle into my thigh right through my sweatpants. "Okay, you’re going to be okay" I chanted to myself as I drove home.
The bag of taffy was lunch as I sat at my desk trying to keep my attention on the book in front of me. I was researching shock therapy for my paper on Plath but I couldn’t stay focused. The injections were not working as well as they used to and my head was still pounding. Shock therapy was supposed to reset the nervous system and adjust the brain chemistry. I wondered if that would help me. I got a safety pin out of the sewing box my mother insisted on giving me because "What kind of a person doesn’t have a sewing kit in their home?" The kit tumbled off the shelf showering pins, thimbles and thread onto the closet floor. I straightened the pin and quickly walked to the bathroom before I lost my resolve. In a transcendental moment my mind disconnected from my body and I watched myself in horror as I put the pin into the electric outlet next to the sink. The warm, tingling in my hand made me forget the weight on my head for a moment. I wondered how to increase the voltage. I convinced myself that I felt better and returned to my desk. I spend the afternoon taking notes on index cards and shocking myself each time the throbbing in my head became unbearable.
Mademoiselle published Plath’s "Mad Girl’s Love Song", a poem that foretells all too well her coming breakdown and it subsequent treatment:
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
It grew dark and the cold seeped into the room. Despite the heater at my feet, I imagined that I could see the breath swirling out of my mouth when I yawned. I pulled on Adam’s Kurt Cobain inspired cardigan and crawled into bed under a heavy quilt. I lay in the dark drifting in and out of sleep until Adam came home. "You’re sick again, honey? Have you eaten? I’ll make you some soup."