I used to validate myself by looking in the mirror and remembering that I’m supposed to be important. I’m a singular, floating body that will float through school without any problems and will then float into law school and finally float into importance. I have an important name. I have a flat brown stomach and pretty little hands. It used to be obvious to me that I was important. They stuck letters and numbers to me that were the right kind of high and the right kind of low and I was exemplary. The bad stuff happened when I figured out that I’m not useful. The idea of me is promising enough but my physical self stays still and does nothing. It took me a while to fully grasp that but when it hit hard was when I called Simon:

“So I know you’re a dumbass who doesn’t read but have you read ‘The Bell Jar’ for school?” I said. By dumbass I meant average. Simon’s grade point average was always significantly lower than mine and it empowered me.
He made one of his nervous little noises, a shallow exhale with a low pitch. “No, I haven’t read it.”
“Because I’m Esther Greenwood. I’m losing it.” I think about mentioning “Mrs. Dalloway” and how in the original, unpublished version of the novel Mrs. Dalloway killed herself in the end. All these sad, antique waifs of female characters. It scares me. I’ve never been them before. Usually I’m Lady Macbeth. I have long red hair, for god’s sake. I’ve never been something even close to pallid, pathetic Mrs. Dalloway.
“Shea, you okay?”
“You know what, never mind. You wouldn’t understand.” There’s a bottle of pills in my hand. On the desk is some vodka, a lot of vodka. I’m wearing a white sun dress and I have bare feet. My hair is loose and wet and ugly from being scared. My body feels light, like it’s nothing. I would die so quickly. I’m so insubstantial. I’m the most useless honor student there ever was. Numbers are nothing physically so I am nothing physical. I have paper instead of skin. The spinning is starting inside my head and it’s bright red and purple.
“Shea, you want me to come over? I can come over.”
Simon can always come over. All his friends were my friend first. He’s dark and quiet and I’m glad I can’t see him right now because sometimes his face makes me cry. I’m unstable like that. Normally I’d laugh at someone like Simon but he’s so gentle. I lie to him.
“Don’t come over, I’m fine. Do homework, Simon, you need to graduate. “
“Shea why did you call me?”
“I already told you. You’re so stupid. I can’t believe you haven’t read ‘The Bell Jar’.” Secretly I’m glad he hasn’t read it. I’m so clever. He knows nothing about Sylvia Plath, her oven. He doesn’t know about the scene where Esther lets her razor fall into her thigh, deep, like a guillotine. He knows nothing about these things and that used to make me superior but not any more. Sylvia Plath isn’t an action, a talent. She’s a dead poet I worship. That’s all I am, a follower of insane women I should hate.
“Shea did I do something wrong?” says Simon. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” I lie again. “You did everything right. Thank you, stupid. You’re so f---ing stupid Simon.”
“But are you drunk, Shea?” He hates it when I’m drunk. He’s seen the one really bad time, the time at the Gatsby party where he cradled me for the first time. I look at the pills, the significant orange bottle. This whole thing is so stupid. We’re seventeen and useless.
“If I am drunk, what are you going to do about it?”
“I love you, Shea.”
“No you don’t, we aren’t supposed to say that remember? God, you’re so stupid Simon.”
“You’re sure you’re okay.”
“I’m Esther Greenwood, Simon. Goodbye.”
I hung up and imagined death being cold, like a giant brain freeze or overwhelming fever chills. I wanted to call again but Simon cares way too much. He can’t see this white dress and these bare feet. I unscrew the lid of the bottle, quickly gag down all the pills. Then I wait to feel significant. I imagine that famous picture of Sylvia Plath in a cardigan, looking unsure with her hair half across her face. I’m too rigid to be that, too angular. I’m too loud to be tragic.