Dear Diary, Well, that is how one starts a diary, isn’t it? I find it so odd that I need to talk to a book of blank pages, but talking to John just doesn’t seem to work. Sometimes I just want to go out and do something, or talk politics with the men, but when I try to express this to John, he laughs it off and tells me maybe we should have kids, because I seem so bored. Perhaps he is right. But I can’t do anything if I don’t tell him! I guess I’ll give it another go later. Hi again, I spoke with John again. He once again denied my sickness. He claims it simply a “temporary nervous depression – a slight hysterical tendency” (Gilman). I so strongly believe that if I could be given the chance to find something exciting to do, I would get much better much faster. But alas, it cannot be so. Richard has cleared a room upstairs, in which I now sit in. The wall paper here is so odd. It is late and I must sleep. Perhaps Richard can remove the paper tomorrow. The wallpaper is still here. It must be the worst paper I have ever seen. The cracks and lines in the paper make dizzy lines that go across the room in endless loops and circles. “There is a reucurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you” (Gilman). I must stop staring at it. Wait, what was that? Who’s in there? I’m convinced there’s someone in that wall paper. I’ve got to help her out of it. We are leaving soon. This is my last chance. The lady in the wallpaper needs to get out! The paper remains behind the wall “I’VE GOT OUT AT LAST… I’VE PULLED OFF MOST OF THE PAPER, SO YOU CAN’T PUT ME BACK!” (Gilman 21)
One who can live,
It seems as though,
While having been tortured
My whole life has been lived,
With all the sicknesses they’ve ever heard,
With a sick,
Must be the strongest or dumbest person on earth,
I’ve seen several doctors,
The doctors she sees,
All who give me what seem to be,
The medications they give to her,
The next latest and most effective treatments,
And the helpers I must pay to compensate,
That one may find at these times.
I have trouble to afford.
I’ve not worked,
I am a poor man,
For the longest of time,
And she is a poor man’s wife.
As though this sickliness of mine,
A sick wife without a capability,
Has but caused the vanishing of my profession.
One of her own at least.
What can a woman think of herself,
If a woman could have a life of her own,
When a flu, or cold, or any other sickness,
I would be more content at the moment.
Is not what may keep her,
For I would not have to pay for the miseries,
From a life of her own.
That befall on a sickly wife.
I live a shadowed life,
A woman would not choose,
I see now.
To live in a shadow
The shadow of my husbands shadow,
Is what I’ve been brought down to.
She could live in herself.
The shadow of the shadow of a poor man,
I cannot put myself in the shoes of my wife,
Who makes less than what he should have for himself,
For I could not live with her misery,
Let alone a wife,
Of being brought down to a standard,
And a helper girl.
Not set by oneself
A helper girl that has replaced me,
Zeena just seems to get worse every night,
For the work I would be able to do,
I am unable to think of her positively,
If not for my condition,
For I have more to do each week she is sick,
And the restrictions that come with it.
And unable to survive alone.