At times like this I feel like I can just die, dear. Or maybe I will die soon, and perhaps there's nothing sad about it because death is better than this torment and to die will be a relief, putting an end to all these sufferings. At times like this, in deep, horrible pain I feel closer to death than ever, and closer to you. I don't even know if I actually want to stay alive- I love life, I do, but I don't like myself as much. My existence on earth means nothing, my life has nothing, and after my disappearance this broken, this self-destructive girl, will be forever forgotten, will be ash and dust.
These days I'm particularly fascinated when reading about the Bronte family.
Look at this:
"Patrick and Maria Brontë had six offspring.
Maria, the first of the Brontë children, was born in Clough House, High Town on 23 April 1814, and died at the age of eleven in Haworth on 6 May 1825. She suffered hunger, cold, and privation at Cowan Bridge School, as well as the tyranny of the older pupils and the mantras of the teachers on being damned to eternity and the flames of Hell (fire and brimstone). She returned with an advanced case of tuberculosis. Charlotte, especially, describes her as very lively, very sensitive, and particularly advanced in her reading and in her leisure.
Elizabeth (1815–1825), the second child, joined her sister Maria at Cowan Bridge where she suffered the same fate. Elizabeth was less vivacious than her brother and her sisters, and apparently less advanced for her age. She died on 15 June 1825 within two weeks of returning home to her father.
Charlotte, born in Thornton near Bradford, West Riding of Yorkshire on 21 April 1816, was a poet and novelist and is the author of Jane Eyre, her best known work, and three other novels. She died on 31 March 1855 just before reaching the age of 39.
Patrick Branwell was born in Thornton on 26 June 1817. Known as Branwell, he was a painter, writer and casual worker. He became addicted to alcohol and laudanum and died at Haworth on 24 September 1848 at the age of 31.
Emily Jane, born in Thornton, 30 July 1818, was a poet and novelist. She died in Haworth on 19 December 1848 at the age of 30. Wuthering Heights was her only novel.
Anne, born in Thornton on 17 January 1820, was a poet and novelist who died at the age of 29. She wrote a largely autobiographical novel entitled Agnes Grey. Her second novel, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (1848) was far more ambitious. She died on 28 May 1849 in Scarborough, North Riding of Yorkshire."
See, fascinating, ain't it? Though I can't really say why.
I read "Jane Eyre" many years ago and love it. After watching the 1992 film "Wuthering heights" a few days earlier I intend to read the novel, after finishing "Madame Bovary".
I don't know why it fascinates me so. Just the fact that among the 3 remaining sisters, all 3 became novelists and poets- and important, influential writers, 2 of whom had novels that have always appeared in the lists of greatest books of all time. And all 3 of them died rather young.
Sometimes I feel like something's broken inside me. Not mentally- mentally there has been a hole inside me for a long time, eating me up slowly. But physically, I mean. My head, for instance, of course, in such a family headaches are no surprise, but sometimes they get so bad, so unbearable, that I feel like there's something in my head, getting bigger and bigger, scratching, kicking, hurting my brain and all other parts in the cranium.
And you know what, dear, this climate is killing me gradually. I can feel it. Once in a while I try to console myself, try to convince, that once I've gone through 4 years in hell, 1 year in another hell, and 3 years in what is just like the end of the world, anything is tolerable, but I don't know, perhaps an end is better for me, I suppose. That feeling returns, maybe I can't cling to life any more. This climate is killing me. Any anguish is worsened. This country is killing me, dear.
Isn't this enough? When will it end? When?