The Bell Jar.

Yesterday a customer asked me to recommend a book for them. This occurs a lot more at the bookstore than it ever did at the library. Sometimes I just pull a title off of the 'popular favorites' table and call it a day. Other times I make a sincere effort to get a vibe off of the customer and then lead them to a book I think they might like.

Teens seem to gravitate towards me the most during this recommendation process. They are usually at that age where they don't want to read teen fiction and are looking for a great novel to start with. This is a pretty hard task, except for yesterday. If i was 16 years old I think I totally ran into my best friend yesterday. She was super cool and edgy with a funny European dad. Sometimes she looked embarrassed by him other times she was totally amused. She came in wearing this wicked awesome army jacket with patches sewn onto the sleeve. When i saw her and started talking to her, I instantly wished I could be 16 years old again and hang out with her.

It was her dad who asked me first for a recommendation, and after shooting out a few titles we all decided that The Bell Jar (one she hadn't read) was the one she wanted to read. Sylvia Plath is just awesome and I now know why I was so drawn to it when I was 16. Of course I didn't have an explanation for it then, I just assumed I liked it because I could relate to Esther's angst at 16. I mean who doesn't have a little bit of that at that age.

Hell I have a little bit of that now.

I still suffer daily from my disillusionment with the New York dream. Other than a stable (yet uninspiring) job, the excitement of being in the 'city', and falling back into the routine of being a real new yorker ( purchasing my first real pair of savvy shoes and buying a butter roll from a corner store) there is something incomplete in my life.

During my break yesterday, I nearly cried for no reason at all. I had just gotten off the phone with my mom where we had a lengthy conversation about well...me. I confessed to her that I miss feeling important, I missed feeling like i was someone other than that new girl at work. The truth is at school i was constantly reminded of my importance but more importantly my potential. I was defined by academics and writing. At the end of the day I was okay with my anxiety and bouts of sadness because I felt safe knowing that my professors and peers knew I was a good writer and that I had talent. Some kind of talent.

I kept asking her on the phone if it was weird that I needed someone to believe in me. That guidance makes me feel safe and important. She did the mom thing of course and said that i first need to know my own worth before I can expect it from others. Yadda Yadda Yadda. I'm still contemplating that answer in my head.

She is worried that i am depressed here (which could or could not be true) and she thinks that once i land this internship all of my worries will fade away. But for some reason I know my current 'weirdness' is not solely confound to internship worries. There is just the place that I cannot even locate, a feeling that I can't even describe of complete and utter disconnection from who i am, who i was, and who i want to be.

I haven't written anything in a while. I carry around a bright red notebook that everyone at work wants to pry into. I was trying to work on a story in it (during my break yesterday) when I noticed a co-worker behind me looking at what i was writing. I felt embarrassed and invaded, and he turned in the opposite direction as if I hadn't seen him.

What he may or may not know was that i was not working on my story but instead was writing down some thoughts of the day:

I'd like to feel important again, whatever that means. I don't think I'm depressed I am just dealing with the reality of my own illusions. Value first and foremost should come from the center of your being. It must be practiced, cherished, and all encompassing. But for those who think it does not have external value, they are liars. Our internal worth, our spirit and even our essence is often externalized by other people. Our importance is reflected off the people we come into contact with daily, like a mirror revealing an image of ourselves. Have I mentioned that I have not been able to stare at myself in the mirror for weeks. I am afraid of what I will see. I am afraid of who I will find staring back at me.

I feel emotionally depleted at work, I feel useless during the day, I want to write but I am holding my words inside for fear of who will trample on them, and despite the constant affirmation of general importance to family I feel invisible in a place where people are every where.

Geez. I didn't mean for this to be such a depressing post.

I recommended the Bell Jar to the awesome 16 year old after my weird 'teary spell' in an aisle. My co-workers (who still keep a close eye on me) asked my why I choose that of all books for her to read. One of the girls I work with said she just couldn't get into it, and after a few pages she put it down and never looked back.

I have never known depression like Plath. I don't even suspect that I've suffered from it fully. Anxiety has made me prone to depressive like symptoms but for the most part I am just a highly sensitive human being who feels incredible lows and highs.

So when my co-worker asked me why that was my favorite book of all time I wanted to say so badly that " I know how it feels. I just know how she felt". But that would have required to much explanation.

Today i had a day off, and spent it sleeping and reading. I also spent a couple of hours strutting in my new shoes because they cost me a pretty penny. The new book I am reading was actually recommended to me by a customer. It's called Elmer Gantry by Sinclair Lewis and after spending 15 minutes discussing books in the aisle with some old guy named Richard we both decided to by the book. I usually don't buy books that customers recommended (because every one has a book they think you will love), but Richard was cool and he sold me on the book (though I should have been selling him on it).

Time to strut and read. A very hard thing to do in heels.