Anne, I don't want to live. . . . Now listen, life is lovely, but I Can't Live It. I can't even explain. I know how silly it sounds. . . But if you knew how it Felt. To be alive, yes, alive, but not be able to live it. A that's the rub. I am like a stone that lives. . . Locked outside all that's real. . . . Anne, do you know of such things, can you hear???? I wish, or think I wish, that I were dying of something for then I could be brave, but to be not dying, and yet. . . And yet to [be] behind a wall, watching everyone fit in where I can't, to talk behind a gray foggy wall, to live but to not reach or to reach wrong. . . To do it all wrong. . . Believe me, (can you?) . . . What's wrong. I want to belong. I'm like a Jew who ends up in the wrong country. Furthermore, I'm not a part. Furthermore, I'm not a member. Furthermore, I'm frozen.

Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters