Revisiting Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper” After Childbirth

A Summary of “The Yellow Wallpaper”

Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short story “The Yellow Wallpaper” (1892) is considered a classic within the Gothic genre and it’s likely that you’ve encountered it at some point or another in your life. I know I’ve encountered it a few times: the first time was in high school when we read and analyzed it; the second time was in graduate school when I was a teaching assistant and taught it for first-year English; and the third time was just recently after giving birth to my daughter. Overall—because I taught it and was expected to familiarize myself with the details of it—I’ve probably read the story at least ten times.

But if you’re not familiar with “The Yellow Wallpaper,” let me give you a synopsis.

The story is narrated by an unnamed woman who is staying in a vacation home with her newborn baby and doctor husband, John. The narrator reveals that she has nervous and anxious tendencies—though John does not believe the narrator is sick at all—and has therefore been prescribed a “rest cure” that consists of rest (of course), light exercise, fresh air, and absolutely no overly stimulating activities such as writing. She disregards the last part of her prescription and continues to write, anyway. 

During their stay at the vacation home, John insists that he and his wife reside in one particular room which—according to the narrator—has a few peculiarities: a heavy bed that appears to be bolted to the floor, barred windows, and hideous yellow wallpaper with a strange pattern (or, rather, strange lack of pattern). Although it’s clear that the room may very well have been used as a holding cell for mentally unstable individuals in the past, the narrator insists that it was likely used as a nursery. 

The story revolves around the narrator’s increasingly unhealthy obsession with the disturbing yellow wallpaper—as well as the woman or women she claims to see lurking behind it—and ends with her ripping it down while John is away. When John returns, he faints at the sight of his wife creeping on the floor around the outskirts of the “nursery.”

A seemingly simple yet eerie tale.

Some Common Interpretations of “The Yellow Wallpaper”

As with all literature, “The Yellow Wallpaper” could have any number of interpretations depending upon the reader. 

One of the most common interpretations, however, is that the yellow wallpaper—with its horrid colour, odour, and lack of followable pattern—represents the patriarchal shackles that women are often forced to wear simply because they are women. In this interpretation read through a feminist lens, it is not only the narrator who is affected by the yellow wallpaper but women in a more general sense. This explains why the narrator sometimes sees other women lurking behind the wallpaper. The ending of the story—the narrator ripping down the yellow wallpaper—could then signify her rejection of, and freedom from, the patriarchal norms used to oppress her and the other women trapped behind the paper. Alternatively, one might read the ending as the narrator ultimately and unfortunately accepting the domestic role that she and other women are expected to occupy by literally becoming a part of the house as she slithers around the outskirts of the room with the yellow wallpaper.

Another common interpretation of the story—and one that could very much be connected to the above interpretation—is that the yellow wallpaper represents the narrator’s mental state. This interpretation might be bolstered by the fact that the room in which she is staying is suitable for a mentally unstable patient. Throughout the story, she becomes more and more obsessed with the yellow wallpaper—she is constantly looking at it, analyzing it, day and night—until she tears it down indicating her final descent into insanity or psychosis. It’s quite obvious that the narrator’s psychosis is worsened by her doctor husband since he constantly invalidates her feelings and treats her like a child. If you’re a fan of blood and gore—like myself—the more gruesome version of this interpretation is that the yellow wallpaper is not wallpaper at all: it is the narrator’s skin. This means that, by the end of the story, the narrator reaches a point of mental instability where she actually tears off her own skin, and perhaps this is the real reason why John faints at the sight of her.

Regardless of the way that you choose to read “The Yellow Wallpaper,” the feminist underpinnings are undeniable.

Postpartum Depression in “The Yellow Wallpaper”

After experiencing Postpartum Depression (PPD) for myself for the first month after giving birth to my daughter, the part of “The Yellow Wallpaper” that interests me most is the narrator’s illness and her mistreatment by her doctor husband. It could easily be argued that the narrator is suffering from PPD. In addition to the fact that the narrator has recently given birth, she also experiences many symptoms associated with PPD: anxiety, depression, and irritability; not being able to bond with the baby or take care of the baby’s basic needs (another woman takes care of the baby rather than the narrator); restlessness and insomnia; difficulty concentrating or focusing; crying episodes; and—if one chooses to interpret the yellow wallpaper as the narrator’s skin rather than wallpaper—self-harm.

In this day and age, the narrator’s illness would be recognized as PPD and treated as such. However, during the time that the story was written, PPD wasn’t necessarily a recognizable illness. This is confirmed in “The Yellow Wallpaper” by the fact that the narrator’s doctor husband doesn’t believe that she is suffering from any kind of illness. At times, it seems as though he acknowledges the narrator’s illness and goes along with the “rest cure” simply to appease her.

And the negligent doctor husband isn’t even the worst part about the narrator’s medical misdiagnosis and mistreatment in the story. The worst part is that “The Yellow Wallpaper” is often thought to be a semi-autobiographical piece of literature based upon Perkins Gilman’s personal experience of misdiagnosis and mistreatment after the birth of her own daughter. So, the medical negligence we see throughout the story is not fiction. It was something that was indeed a regular occurrence for women during the nineteenth century. 

After my experience with PPD, I can’t imagine what it would feel like to have those symptoms minimized and rejected by a medical professional like they were in Perkins Gilman’s case. In fact, it’s dangerous and can lead to further illness, which is exactly what she shows us in the story. Now, I’m not saying the medical industry is perfect at this point in time: far from it. They could definitely still do more to help individuals combat and cope with PPD in contemporary times—I was lucky that my midwife was so supportive when I was going through my bout with PPD and she provided me with resources to aid with that difficult time—but at least it’s recognized as a serious illness nowadays and there are treatments that can be offered.

I hope that there are no longer women suffering in silence alone during postpartum and being tortured by the menacing yellow wallpaper staring back at them from across the room. And if there are, myself and countless other women are always around to provide support.

Little Feminist Mama: My Elective C-Section

Attempting to Turn My Breech Baby

At 32 weeks pregnant with my first baby, I was informed that she was breech and that I should start taking measures to try and turn her. My midwife was not overly concerned, though, as there was “still plenty of time for her to turn.”

Even though there was still time, I whipped out every trick in the book to create more space for her to turn: forward-leaning inversions off the couch mixed with yoga postures like Downward-Facing Dog and Bridge; hanging an ironing board off the couch and lying head-down feet-up; sitting on a birth ball consistently instead of a chair or couch; swimming for the first time in years; visiting a chiropractor; using moxibustion and taping rice kernels to my pinky toes because there are supposedly pressure points in the pinky toes that help with turning breech babies. 

Four weeks passed and she still wouldn’t turn. 

At that point, I was given two options: either schedule a C-section in place of a vaginal birth or schedule an External Cephalic Version (ECV) where a doctor would attempt to turn her so I could deliver vaginally. After weighing out the positives and negatives of both procedures, I opted for the C-section for a few reasons. First, an ECV is not always successful. Second, a baby can still revert to their breech position even if the ECV is successful. Third, an ECV can sometimes trigger early labor leading to an emergency C-section. And fourth, I had a feeling that my baby was wedged so far up in my ribs that there was no way she would turn, anyway. 

I trusted my intuition and, although my midwife was totally supportive of my decision, there was one medical professional assigned to my C-section who was not.

Coping with the Social Stigma of Having a C-Section

At my pre-screening appointment, that particular medical professional questioned my decision right away and urged me to, instead, have the ECV. I don’t think it’s an easy decision for any woman to opt for a C-section. I say this because it took me a long time to come to that decision and be okay with it: I was terrified of having a spinal tap, going through major surgery, and starting the lengthy recovery. So, to have my decision questioned by one of the medical professionals who was to help deliver my baby via C-section was devastating. It made me feel selfish, guilty, and ashamed.

I felt even more guilty and ashamed when I told my friends and family about my decision. Yes, I had support from friends and family, but I also received pitying stares and comments such as “oh no” or “I’m so sorry” or “that’s too bad,” which made me feel like having a C-section was unnatural and less valid than a vaginal birth. I didn’t tell them that, of course. I just accepted those stares and comments despite how they made me feel. 

Recognizing that C-Sections are No Less Valid than Vaginal Births

I’m now four weeks postpartum, post C-section, and I wish I would have told my friends and family how they made me feel while I was pregnant. I wish I would have told them that there is no “right way” to give birth to a child and that I chose to have a C-section because I felt it was the safest way to bring my baby into the world. I wish I would have told them that a C-section can be equally as beautiful of a birth experience as a vaginal delivery. I wish I would have told them that, as with a vaginal delivery, a C-section can be anxiety-inducing, difficult, and painful: the main difference is that most of the difficulties occur during labor with a vaginal delivery whereas most of the difficulties occur during the recovery period with a C-section. I wish I would have told them that a C-section is no less valid than a vaginal delivery. 

At the end of the day, I got the spinal tap; I had layers and layers of skin, fat, and tissue cut open; I physically birthed my daughter from my body; I cried instantly when I saw her and held her in my arms for the first time; I received stitches and now have the smiley-shaped scar below my belly-button to prove it; and I began my long physical and emotional recovery afterward. 

My emotional recovery actually began when I finally realized that my birth experience was valid, beautiful, and exactly how it needed to be. 

And this isn’t just true of my own birth experience, either, but of all women’s birth experiences. 

Book Review: Jennette McCurdy’s I’m Glad My Mom Died

*BE WARNED: SPOILERS AHEAD*

A Little Summary

In 2022, Jennette McCurdy released her autobiography controversially titled I’m Glad My Mom Died. The title alone was enough for me to pick up the book, as I’m sure was the case for many of her readers.

If you’re not familiar with Jennette McCurdy, she is most well-known for her role on the Nickelodeon teen show iCarly (2007-2012) in which she played the role of Carly’s loveable yet troubled best friend, Sam Puckett. Following iCarly, McCurdy also had a spin-off show, Sam & Cat (2013-2014), in which she reprised the role of Sam Puckett and co-starred alongside Ariana Grande as Cat. As you might have gathered from this brief description of McCurdy’s primary acting credits, she was a child star and—as is the case for many child stars—suffered because of her early childhood stardom.

The suffering that McCurdy describes, though, is like nothing I’ve ever encountered before in an autobiography. She chronicles the horribly toxic, destructive, and abusive relationship she had with her mother while growing up and how that relationship eventually forced her to reframe her entire childhood and life: McCurdy had to accept that her mother’s behaviour toward her was not purely out of love—as her mother would have her believe—but stark abuse and manipulation. 

In the book, McCurdy details accounts of abuse from her mother such as forcing her to audition for television shows and films at an extremely young age; encouraging her to work long hours on set despite the conditions; introducing her to calorie restriction and anorexia at a young age so she could stay small in stature and continue to audition for younger roles; showering her and giving her invasive bodily exams until she was in her late teens; and controlling her familial relationships, friendships, work relationships, and sexual relationships.

To be quite honest, it’s difficult to try and capture the full scope of the book in a short summary since every chapter explores a different form of abuse or trauma: there is no simple plotline and no complete resolution. 

So, let’s just dive into the good stuff, some critique, and whether or not I recommend you read this book, shall we?   

All the Good Stuff

The first thing I want to mention is McCurdy’s authorial voice. Although she had some help from an editor—she thanks her editor in the “Acknowledgements”—her voice still comes through as real, raw, and even rowdy at times. I mean, she doesn’t hold back at all: she shares her innermost thoughts regarding her mother despite the fact that some of them might be construed as morbid, sordid, or insensitive; she includes whole emails and messages sent by her mother to showcase their dysfunctional relationship rather than simply providing summary; she gives explicit accounts of her intimate and sexual relationships, as well as how her mother strangely tried to control those relationships; and she unapologetically ends the book by stating that she’s never going to return to her mother’s grave. McCurdy is so honest about everything and it’s something worth appreciating. Additionally, her relentless authenticity dismantles the common belief that mother-daughter relationships are inherently healthy. The truth is, some of them aren’t, and she allows us to see that.

The second thing I want to mention is the fact that—perhaps inadvertently but perhaps not—McCurdy provides real-life examples of what sexual assault, abuse, harassment, and manipulation can look like. There is the example I noted earlier where McCurdy’s mother showered her and performed bodily exams upon her, which was clearly a violation of her bodily and sexual autonomy. McCurdy also shares an experience she had with “The Creator”—a man with whom she worked on iCarly—where he inappropriately massaged her. Finally—there are likely other examples in the book, but this is the last one I wish to discuss—McCurdy describes a sexual encounter she had with a much older boyfriend where he basically guilted her into giving him oral sex because she refused to have intercourse with him. This one was difficult for me to read but I’m so glad she included it because it is likely one of the most common forms of sexual abuse: guilting someone into sex. This form of sexual abuse can occur even in long-term relationships and marriages. I have definitely experienced this kind of abuse in past relationships without even realizing it was abuse, and I’m sure countless others can relate, too. It’s important to show that sexual abuse comes in various shapes and forms, and McCurdy does just that in her autobiography. 

I feel like I’ve been going on forever but there’s one more thing I’d like to mention before I get to some critique (and, spoiler alert, I don’t have a lot of critique for this book). It’s quite possible that someone might pick up this book and simply choose not to read it because McCurdy is a star and—let’s be real—a star writing about her problems can easily come off as being ungrateful or jaded. The thing that I like about McCurdy, though, is that she’s very aware of her social position and privilege. In fact, she openly recognizes her privilege many times throughout the book, which is a necessary part of writing a confession-style autobiography like hers.   

Some Critique

Like I said, I don’t really have a whole lot of critique for this book. It’s difficult to critique someone’s subjective experience, especially when they present it in such an empowering manner as McCurdy does.

I suppose one thing worth mentioning—though it’s not really a critique per se—is that this book could potentially be very triggering for individuals currently working through or recovering from an eating disorder; for individuals recovering from an alcohol addiction; for individuals who experienced abuse within their own home growing up; for individuals who have been sexually assaulted or abused; or for individuals who are struggling with dysfunctional family relationships. I don’t get triggered very easily by anything, so it was easy for me to appreciate the book. However, I realize that others might not be in the same boat as me when it comes to their triggers.

Another thing—but, again, not really a critique—is that McCurdy does not offer a complete resolution at the end of the book. Yes, she decides that she is never going to visit her mother’s grave again, but it’s clear that she has only begun healing her relationship with her deceased mother and herself. Some readers might find this open ending to be a bit dark or depressing. I actually enjoyed the open ending as it’s real, raw, and rowdy, just like McCurdy’s authorial voice. 

Should You Read I’m Glad My Mom Died?

If you are not easily triggered then, yes, I think Jennette McCurdy’s I’m Glad My Mom Died is definitely worth a read. To be blunt, it’s one of the best books I’ve read in some time. 

Additionally, if you’re hesitant and think the content might be too heavy for you, let me just say this: even though the book is, indeed, quite heavy and dark, McCurdy has a sense of humour about everything, and her sense of humour in no way detracts from the serious subject matter of the book. It actually complements it, if that makes sense.

And if it doesn’t make sense, well, then I guess you’ll have to read the book to find out just what I mean, now won’t you?