When she looked in the mirror, she felt little connection to her reflection. “All I ever want to do is lie in my bed, cuddle with my dog, and read books from writers whose minds I can relate to,” she wrote a psychiatrist. She identified intensely with Sylvia Plath, another brilliant, privileged, charismatic young woman who, in her journal, accuses herself of being just another “SELFISH EGOCENTRIC JEALOUS AND UNIMAGINATIVE FEMALE.” To avoid madness, Plath wonders if she should devote “the rest of my life to a cause—going naked to send clothes to the needy, escaping to a convent, into
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