I am drowning in negativism, self-hate, doubt, madness - and even I am not strong enough to deny the routine, the rote, to simplify. No, I go plodding on, afraid that the blank hell in back of my eyes will break through, spewing forth like a dark pestilence; afraid that the disease which eats away the pith of my body with merciless personality will break forth in obvious sores and warts, screaming "Traitor, sinner, imposter.

The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath