The Importance Of Charlotte Perkins Gilmans Writing Style In The Home Essay

Paul has never secured such a refined place for me. Well, he has never put me in a “home” before. A massive dwelling with contemporary bathrooms and fluorescent lighting, it’s a place vastly superior to typical descriptions of antiquated and dusty assisted living centers. This place is well-furnished and far grander than I expected. The place is impressive with its chiseled walnut doors and elaborate stone siding. But it’s a little too frivolous for my taste. How can such a sophisticated place be for sick old people? The extravagance is somehow disturbing.

But, perhaps the environment will help me as Paul wishes. Since Harry died, Paul worries excessively about my emotional state, something I never gave much thought. He claims I hear nonexistent voices in my head, but who isn’t distracted by noisy thoughts? Frankly, his suggestions of insanity are quite insulting. He’s very gifted at exaggerating-maybe he should get treated instead. I might as well try this out. Paul’s doing this for my benefit so I should be grateful. I think of Paul as I swallow the jumbles of glossy pills without protest. I don’t know if the pills make a difference.

I try to unwind on the plush mattress, swathed in goose down blankets for utmost comfort. But the loneliness is suffocating. The prickly nurses forbid me from exploring the facility because I am too fragile on my feet. Therefore, I only meet nagging staff who with prying questions on my emotions—they’re only slightly better than Paul. To pass the time, I flip through the frivolous self-help books the doctor prescribed, scoffing at the impractically idealistic prose. But you can only perform such menial tasks for so long before desiring something more substantial.

I get bored quickly. I never thought relaxation was so exhausting. To clarify my cluttered mind, my doctor insists that I describe my feelings and emotions in this journal. I’m not sensitive enough for this. You would think that a doctor would have a more sophisticated treatment than a angsty teenage diary. Writing won’t cure my alleged sickness. Great, the nurse is at the door. Time for the cocktail of pills. * * Paul never takes my protests seriously. I politely explained my Crippling boredom and gently suggested that he waste his money elsewhere. “Mom, you’re getting better!

Forget about the money and just let your son take care of you” he chuckled in a tone that welcomed no objections. I guess he takes my health seriously but not me. Now wanting to seem childish, I dropped the subject after I realized that Paul wouldn’t understand. After all, he thinks I’m insane. *** Last night, odd noises emerged from next door, jerking me from a dreamless sleep. My ears were apprehended by a mixture of shrill shrieks and throaty bellows, sounds I neither loved nor detested. Listening was oddly liberating and I felt wholly relaxed. When the sounds stopped without abrupted, I wanted more.

Thinking about it, there’s something familiar about the sounds, a sort of auditory deja vu. I’ve tried to investigate but the nurses prevent me from going next door. Whenever I ask about the sounds, the nurses immediately ask me how I feel and ignore my questions. But they know. I know because they made fleeting glances to the wall with trembling hands as they scribbled on medical pads. When I tried to imitate the sounds to revive their memory they wrote more furiously. There’s something there. * ** The noises got louder. Frantic knocks resonated in my throbbing head and beckoned me to the vibrating walls.

I pressed my ear against the cold walls. Shattering stadium jeers like the noises at the games Harry loved, bombarded my ears, a deafening but familiar dissonance. And behind the chatter, there was a single unrelenting scream that gradually crescendoed. Entranced, I listened in breathless exhilaration until the sounds faded. Yes, there’s something about this place. Something Paul doesn’t understand. The last time I told Paul about the noises he seemed more nervous about me. He insisted that the walls are soundproof, but he’s gullible to false advertising.

His wife suggested that the sounds were my imagination! Did Paul tell her I’m crazy or something? The sounds are real. I hear them and so do the nurses, even though they insist they don’t. N Paul and his wife must be trying to get rid of me. They must think I’m an old nagging woman! They just don’t want me around—that’s it! That’s why Paul brought me here, not because f sickness. Of course, how could someone as mentally sound as I belong here? Yes, they are trying to get rid of me. And they think I do not realize! They will hear the sounds soon. I will show them.

** I look forward to the noises now. They remind me of Harry, of times I used to dread remembering. I remember my bright youth when my hair still gleamed gold, my wedding days when I strutted down the aisle in a frilly ivory frock that made me trip, the day I gave birth and first held Paul. Days when I wasn’t withering from boredom but energized by life. In a reminiscent trance, I went to the walls again. I jerked the doorknob with ferocity, trying to tear the lock with brute force. It didn’t work. Then I clawed at the door with raw fingertips and banged the walls in hysterical desperation.

Whenever I banged and clawed the sounds got louder. Perhaps they heard my cries. *** Paul demanded reports on my condition while his wife looked at me with warm malice. But when I told her about the noises, her pearly grin faded, and her blushed skin paled. Even though | have a firm grasp on reality, I acted insane to terrorize them. I darted my eyes and flapped my arms with artful jerks that could only suggest insanity. Maybe, he’ll regret putting his sane mother away in this crazy institution.

* * * The nurses asked me if I have trouble sleeping, unaware that my ack of fatigue is an active decision. Last night, I joined in on the screams and throaty bellows, shrieking until my throat became raw. I shook the doorknob frustratedly, pounding the walls until my hands bruised. Perhaps this is how insanity feels if I were actually insane: slightly liberating. After a length of painful screams, the lights in the hallway flicked and I rushed to my bed pretending that I was always asleep. * * * It’s Paul! Such a loving and devoted son, leaving his sane mother to waste away in this awful institution. How great to see him. He better get me out. “Hello, Paul!

It’s great to see you,” I teased in the patronizing tone he often uses.. Paul says nothing and only motions for the nurses, waving his hand vigorously. I motion passionately for an embrace until the sounds start again. It’s perfect timing! Finally, Paul will hear the sounds. The familiar scratches and squeals shake my eardrums and I shiver with exhilaration. But, they look everywhere but the walls, with unchanged expressions. Why can’t they hear it? They aren’t listening close enough; they aren’t paying attention to me! I slap my thighs and jump on the mattress, throwing a tantrum to attract their notice.

Frustrated, I gesticulate violently and strain my voice to make them hear what I hear. But they look at me in horror! For this short story, I emulated Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s writing style in “The Yellow Wallpaper”. Since the story focuses on the main character’s struggles in the assisted living center, I titled the story “The Home”. Maintaining Gilman’s diary format, I used asterisks to divide entries and wrote in the first person with minimal dialogue. Along with short declarative phrases, I used drawn out sentences to mimic long winded diary prose. The dashes and exclamations help reflect changes in the narrator’s attitude.

This short story reflects the Realist movement by depicting a typical lady’s struggle with isolation in a nursing home. The story illustrates the loneliness many parents experience after their matured children distance themselves. Like “The Yellow Wallpaper”, I added psychological horror by making the narrator mentally unstable and oblivious to her insanity I also kept the reason for the narrator’s stay in the institution ambiguous for further mystery. Thus, through similar syntax and parallels in theme, I mirrored the style and psychological horror of “The Yellow Wallpaper”.