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Virgina Woolf
Currently,
I’m
working
on
a
grant
application
for
funding
for
my
writing.
For
this
grant,
I’ve
decided
that
I
must
read
Virginia
Woolf’s
classic
work,
A
Room
of
One’s
Own.
The
book
is
much
like
other
classics—written
in
fine,
early
20th
–century
language
and
involving
heady
and
complex
ideas
that
makes
for
boring
reading
for
a
person
in
the
present
21st
century.
In
her
book,
Woolf
talks
about
women
writers,
their
poverty,
their
lack
of
publication,
the
sexism
that
they
faced
at
this
time.
What
strikes
me
as
astounding
is
that
things
have
changed
so
drastically
and
also
have
not
changed
at
all.
Women
have
the
right
to
vote;
women
occupy
some
of
the
highest
office’s
on
the
globe;
women
have
become
influential
in
all
aspects
of
life;
publishing
houses
possess
many
titles
by
women;
And
yet,
women
still
face
sexism,
still
face
the
glass
ceiling,
still
receive
a
lesser
wage
than
men
for
the
same
work;
great
women
writers
still
go
unpublished.
Even
more
disturbing
for
me
personally
is
that
I
am
a
woman
writer
who
is
mostly
penniless,
dependent
upon
another
for
my
income
and
financial
well-being.
I
am
virtually
unpublished,
and
work
is
hard
to
come
by.
One
might
assume
that
my
own
situation
has
something
to
do
with
my
talent
or
my
drive
or
my
work
ethic;
yet,
it
has
little
to
do
with
these
matters
and
more
to
do
with
my
mental
health.
Turns
out,
Virginia
Woolf
was
Bipolar
as
well.
One
of
the
greatest
English
writers
of
the
20th
century,
she
struggled
with
manic
depression.
In
her
case,
it
was
a
fatal
condition.
One
day,
she
filled
her
pockets
with
rocks
to
weight
her
down
and
walked
into
the
deep
and
rushing
waters
of
a
river
near
her
country
home.
She
was
in
her
forties
at
the
time
and
obviously
had
had
enough
of
the
illness
and
its
terrible
cures,
which
forced
her
to
be
immobile
in
bed,
covered
in
darkness.
Talk
about
a
bad
idea
for
curing
depression.
As
for
myself,
I
have
all
the
benefits
of
modern
technology
and
medicine.
And
if
I
drown,
it
won’t
be
in
a
river.
Rather,
I’m
just
as
likely
to
suffocate
beneath
self-loathing
and
the
terrible
cures
of
medications.
I’m
not
suicidal,
only
alert
to
how
mental
illness
continues
to
have
no
cure.
Instead,
we
continue
to
resort
to
hocus
pocus—pharmaceuticals,
talk
therapy,
hypnotherapy,
acupuncture,
meditations,
exercise,
a
healthy
diet,
herbs,
alcohol,
recreational
drugs,
and
such.
On
some
level
we
might
as
well
be
17th-century
town
idiots,
wearing
a
placard
that
announces
our
insanity,
babbling
nonsense
at
passer-bys.
Instead,
we
sit
in
our
darkened
rooms,
tapping
away
at
keyboards,
hoping
to
connect
through
wires
and
electronic
signals
with
anyone
who
might
listen.
Here’s
to
Virginia
Woolf,
a
casualty
of
our
disease.
Here’s
to
change
and
recognizing
that
maybe
we
are
not
so
different
from
her.
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