I just finished reading Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar and I don’t think I’ve ever taken this long to get through a 192-page book. I bought it at the start of November and it took me almost a month, which is so unusual for me because I’ve read much longer books in far less time. But this one… this one was different. It was heavy in a way that slowed me down. Every chapter felt like I was carrying someone else’s darkness with me. Reading Esther’s mind unravel from the inside was suffocating and painfully real. It was depressing, it was uncomfortable, and it was honest in a way that made me pause again and again. It shows you what a severe depressive spiral actually feels like from the first-hand perspective… the numbness, the distortions, the quiet helplessness people usually fail to put into words.