In 1892, an author took on the attitudes toward women's mental and physical health which diminished their power. The disease, nervous depression and slight hysterical tendency, A common malady in Victorian times.
The story with an unnamed heroine afflicted with this illness, was shipped to the country for fresh air, exercise and some peace. But the mansion her doctor husband rented for the summer, did little more than make her feel shut in, pushed aside. The more she protested the less heard she felt.
The longer she remained in the state of disconnection from herself, the more anxiety she felt and soon she began to see them; the other women.
I didn't at the time, understand why I felt sadness, frustration at the words in the story. Why did the husband's dismissive attitude toward his wife and her needs churn in my stomach. I felt as though he was speaking to me. Feeling as I did, I rooted passionately for this woman as she struggled to release those other women who crept around the nursery. I cheered for their freedom.
When you are an introvert, a shy girl with low self-esteem, you don't generally speak up, or speak out even though there is so much to say. I let the float around my brain, never harvesting them and only rarely, when they did come, they were merely a whisper, so softly I struggled to break free of the fear that bound me.
I find Women's History Month fascinating. I've studied the stories of brave women who fought for their rights and the rights of the women who came after them. I don't want to let my predecessors down. I want to find and utilize my voice, tap into my power. But until I wrote my first book, I never found my strength. Always feeling trapped in the yellow wallpaper, hoping for one woman to strip it from the walls and release me too.
It wasn't until remembered my dream. In awakening my passion, I discovered my voice, my courage, my power. I had it in me all along, the ability to say something worthwhile, to shake it up and make someone listen to what I had to say.
I never would have thought I'd walk up to perfectly nice stranger and ask them to appear in a social media campaign. But I did it. Phone calls once stressed me out, because as an introvert, I rely on facial expressions, on visual cues to ease me through uncomfortable situations. Now, I do, because there are things that need to be done.
At 18 I felt Charlotte Perkins Gilman's words. Transported to that room, the musty smell tickled my nose. The dingy wallpaper coated my fingertips. My own disconnection inhibited my speech.
Charlotte Perkins Gilman was a feminist who wanted to live life on her terms. To write and be heard.
It didn't end well for her, but if it was any consolation her story affected me nearly 100 years after it was written. As a writer that's all we can hope for.
For more about The Yellow Wallpaper, and other works by Charlotte Perkins Gilman: