Alone in her sick room in the late 19th century, a woman writes:
‘I’m sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition.’
What is going on? Still, she thinks:
‘I am glad my case is not serious! But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing. John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no reason to suffer, and that satisfies him. It is getting to be a great effort for me to think straight. Just this nervous weakness I suppose.’
The narrator of this story is being treated by her husband, John, who is a doctor. Victorian medicine had some rather peculiar ideas about women’s mental health. Take, for instance, the notion that intellectual stimulation could damage a woman’s reproductive organs. Or that the ideal treatment for a depressed new mother was to lock her in a room, forbid her from writing or reading, and essentially treat her like a helpless child. Sounds horrifying, doesn’t it?
Yet in the late 19th century, this was cutting-edge medicine. And one real-life woman’s harrowing experience with this “treatment” led her to pen what is now considered one of the most important feminist texts in literature, a chilling story that uses Gothic horror to expose the patriarchal control of women’s minds and bodies.
What happens when medicine becomes a tool for silencing women? What happens when a creative mind is forbidden from creating? And how did a short story about peeling wallpaper become a revolutionary text that continues to resonate with readers more than a century later? Let’s talk about ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’, by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.
Part 1: The Woman Behind the Wallpaper
Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860-1935) was an American writer. But she wasn’t simply creating fiction when she wrote “The Yellow Wallpaper” in 1890. She was documenting, with creative liberties, a medical ordeal that, according to her, nearly destroyed her mind.
In the mid-1880s, after giving birth to her daughter, Gilman experienced what we would now recognise as severe postpartum depression. In her own words, she suffered from a ‘severe and continuous nervous breakdown tending to melancholia – and beyond’ (Gilman, “Why I Wrote The Yellow Wallpaper,” 1913). Desperate for help, she sought out America’s leading specialist in nervous diseases, Dr Silas Weir Mitchell.
Mitchell’s prescription? The full ‘rest cure’ – a regimen he had developed himself and exported across the Atlantic to eager British physicians. Gilman was, as she later wrote, ‘put to bed, and kept there’, with attendants to feed, bathe, and massage her. Physical nourishment was emphasised while intellectual stimulation was absolutely forbidden.
After a month of this ‘treatment’, Mitchell discharged her with strict instructions:
‘Live as domestic a life as possible. Have your child with you all the time… Lie down an hour after each meal. Have but two hours’ intellectual life a day. And never touch pen, brush, or pencil as long as you live’
Never touch pen, brush, or pencil as long as you live! Can you imagine telling Beethoven never to touch a piano again? Or instructing Einstein to avoid mathematics? I mean, really, what medical genius thought that forbidding a writer from writing would improve her mental health? It’s like prescribing starvation as a cure for malnutrition.
Gilman dutifully followed these instructions for three months and later reported that she
‘came so near the borderline of utter mental ruin that I could see over’
Only when she abandoned Mitchell’s regimen and returned to writing did her condition improve. In her own words, she went back to
‘work, the normal life of every human being; work, in which is joy and growth and service’
The story that emerged from this experience was Gilman’s attempt to save others from a similar fate. She even sent a copy to Dr Mitchell himself, hoping he would recognise his misguided approach. While Mitchell never acknowledged receiving the story, Gilman later heard that he had altered his treatment methods – suggesting her literary haunting may have successfully reformed the doctor who had nearly driven her mad.
Part 2: The ‘Rest Cure’
To understand ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’, we need to understand the medical thinking that informed the ‘rest cure’ – a treatment that seems almost comically misguided to modern readers but represented cutting-edge neurological science in the 1880s.
In the Victorian era, women’s mental health conditions were frequently lumped under diagnoses like ‘nervous disorders’ or ‘hysteria’, a catch-all term derived from the Greek word for uterus, because women’s psychological problems were thought to originate in their reproductive organs. I’m not making this up, I promise! And I promise to make a separate text on the fascinating and rage-inducing history of hysteria soon. In any case, medical theory held that women were inherently more fragile and prone to emotional instability than men.
Physicians on both sides of the Atlantic believed that intellectual strain or independence could destabilise a woman’s mind and reproductive health. American neurologist George Beard (1839-1883) popularised the term ‘neurasthenia’ (nervous exhaustion), which was frequently attributed to women’s ‘excessive’ mental activity. Heaven forbid a woman should think too much – her poor, delicate brain simply couldn’t handle it!
Enter Dr Silas Weir Mitchell with his revolutionary treatment: the ‘rest cure’. Its principles were strict: complete bed rest for 6-8 weeks, isolation from family, zero intellectual stimulation, and a high-fat diet to “fatten up” the patient. This regimen was often supplemented with massage or electrotherapy to prevent muscle atrophy.
Mitchell’s rationale was that nervous ailments stemmed from depleted ‘nerve force’, and by enforcing absolute rest and nutrition, the body and mind could be replenished. Seems reasonable enough, except for one glaring detail – he applied fundamentally different treatments based on gender. While women were prescribed inactivity and confinement, most men with similar nervous symptoms were encouraged to pursue vigorous outdoor activity in what was sometimes called the ‘West cure’ – essentially, go adventuring to rebuild your nerves. Among the patients Dr Mitchell sent on this treatment of cosplaying a cowboy were the poet Walt Whitman and even the future U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt.
So men got fresh air and adventure; women got locked rooms and force-feeding. I wonder which sounds more appealing? I think we can all agree this double standard seems a tad unfair.
Mitchell’s methods spread to Victorian England in the 1880s, championed by prominent physicians like Dr William S. Playfair (1836-1903). British rest cures followed Mitchell’s template closely: protracted bed rest, isolation, force-feeding, and electrical stimulation of muscles. As in America, the typical patient was an upper- or middle-class woman diagnosed with hysteria or neurasthenia.
Not all patients had negative experiences with the rest cure. American writer Rebecca Harding Davis (1831-1910) wrote that she ‘owed her life’ to Dr Mitchell after a successful course of treatment. Another patient who was a writer, Amelia Gere Mason (1831–1923), found Mitchell’s authoritarian regimen effective and maintained a 32-year correspondence with him out of gratitude. But they seem to have been the exception. For many women, particularly those of an intellectual or creative bent, the cure proved worse than the disease. Social reformer Jane Addams (1860-1935) underwent a rest cure in her younger years and found the treatment stifling; she ‘craved action and a sense of moral purpose’ and particularly missed her books.
In England, Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) suffered a severe depressive episode in 1915 and was prescribed a rest cure by doctors influenced by Mitchell’s ideas. Woolf was initially forbidden from writing; later, as a concession, she was allowed to work on a novel for a couple of hours a day. She wrote to a friend that the enforced passivity nearly drove her insane.
Perhaps most tragic was the case of Winifred Howells (1863-1889), the daughter of American author William Dean Howells. She underwent treatment with Mitchell for presumed hysteria. Mitchell found the young woman obstinate and subjected her to force-feeding and isolation. Tragically, Winifred’s health deteriorated, and she died under his care. An autopsy revealed an organic disease that had been overlooked. Her father lamented that ‘perhaps the poor child’s pain was all along as great as she fancied’, acknowledging that her complaints had been real, not imaginary.
These cases highlight the fundamental problem with the rest cure: it dismissed women’s self-reported symptoms and treated their intellectual and creative needs as pathological rather than essential. Fortunately, by the early 20th century, the rest cure’s popularity waned as Freudian psychoanalysis and more nuanced psychiatric therapies emerged.
Part 3: ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’: Madness as Metaphor
Published in The New England Magazine in January 1892, ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ is deceptively simple in its premise: an unnamed woman, diagnosed with a ‘temporary nervous depression – a slight hysterical tendency’, is confined to an upstairs nursery by her physician husband, John, as treatment following the birth of their baby. The narrator thinks:
‘If a physician of high standing, and one’s own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression—a slight hysterical tendency—what is one to do?… So I take phosphates or phosphites – whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to “work” until I am well again. Personally, I disagree with their ideas…’
Forbidden from working or writing and isolated in the room, the narrator becomes obsessed with the room’s peeling yellow wallpaper.
At first, this is how she describes it:
‘I never saw a worse paper in my life. One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.’
The paper is an unsettling sight:
‘It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions.’
‘It is the strangest yellow, that wallpaper! It makes me think of all the yellow things I ever saw – not beautiful ones like buttercups, but old foul, bad yellow things.’
‘The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.’
Over the course of the summer, she descends into what we would today understand as psychosis, imagining a woman trapped behind the wallpaper’s pattern and eventually identifying with her. She thinks:
‘I really have discovered something at last. Through watching so much at night, when it changes so, I have finally found out. The front pattern does move – and no wonder! The woman behind shakes it! Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes only one, and she crawls around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over. Then in the very bright spots she keeps still, and in the very shady spots she just takes hold of the bars and shakes them hard. And she is all the time trying to climb through. But nobody could climb through that pattern – it strangles so…’
The story’s climax comes when the narrator, in a frenzied state, tears down the wallpaper to ‘free’ the imaginary woman within, and crawls over her husband’s fainted body.
On the surface, it’s a Gothic tale of psychological horror, but Gilman uses it to critique the patriarchal norms of her era. The narrator’s husband, John, embodies the paternalistic medical establishment – he patronises her, calls her a ‘little girl’, laughs at her fears, and silences her voice, all under the guise of ‘helping’ her. She thinks:
‘It is so hard to talk with John about my case, because he is so wise, and because he loves me so.’
‘He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction. I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all care from me, and so I feel basely ungrateful not to value it more.’
John’s bedside manner is a masterclass in what we might call ‘therapeutic condescension.’ The way he dismisses her concerns reminds me of those people who respond to complex emotions with ‘Have you tried not thinking about it?’ or ‘Just think positive thoughts!’ Some things, it seems, haven’t changed much in 130 years.
It’s worth noting that the narrator’s ideas for her own recovery – like engaging in activity or socialising – are repeatedly dismissed by her husband/doctor as irrational. I find this particularly revealing: the patient intuitively knows what would help her, but the male authority figure overrules her self-knowledge. It’s a perfect encapsulation of how women’s voices were silenced in both marriage and medicine.
The barred windows and locked room physically manifest the domestic prison many women experienced. The creeping figure behind the wallpaper represents the narrator’s trapped self, struggling to escape patriarchal confines. When she finally tears down the wallpaper and “frees” the woman within, she’s symbolically rejecting the constraints placed upon her, though arguably at the cost of her sanity. ‘I’ve got out at last’, she says to herself, in spite of her husband. ‘And I’ve pulled off most of the paper, so you can’t put me back!’
The symbolism here isn’t exactly subtle, is it? Gilman’s narrative style was innovative for its time. In some ways, the intense, subjective voice and interiority anticipated the stream-of-consciousness techniques of later modernist writers. The creeping pace of the narrative and the rich symbolism create an atmosphere of claustrophobic dread.
One aspect that always strikes me when reading this text is how the narrator’s writing – the very journal we’re reading – is itself an act of rebellion. She writes ‘in spite of them’ and must hide her journal when she hears someone coming. The text we hold in our hands is the evidence of her resistance to medical authority, even as that authority crushes her mind.
Part 4: From Horror Story to Feminist Classic
When ‘The Yellow Wallpaper was first published in 1892, reactions were mixed at best. Many readers saw it simply as a frightening horror tale, a lurid depiction of insanity, and failed to grasp its social critique. A Boston physician publicly denounced the story, insisting ‘such a story ought not to be written’ because ‘it was enough to drive anyone mad to read it.’ This doctor felt the content was too disturbing, which is rather ironic given that Gilman’s purpose was precisely to disturb readers into questioning the treatment of women.
On the other hand, some in the medical community appreciated Gilman’s realistic portrayal of a mental breakdown. One physician wrote to Gilman that it was ‘the best description of incipient insanity’ he had ever seen and inquired whether she had experienced it personally. Despite these comments, the story did not spark a public debate on women’s mental health when it first appeared. It was read as a chilling curio and then largely forgotten in literary circles for many decades.
Isn’t it fascinating how literature works? Gilman writes what’s essentially a medical horror story based on her own trauma, and doctors read it thinking, ‘Hmm, excellent description of madness, jolly good!’ missing entirely that the treatment itself was the villain. The story’s real cultural impact came much later. By the mid-20th century, attitudes had shifted. In the 1930s and 1940s, the story appeared in a few anthologies, but it wasn’t until the 1970s – amid the rise of second-wave feminism – that ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ gained wide recognition as a feminist classic.
The Feminist Press reprinted the story in 1973 with an afterword by scholar Elaine Hedges, explicitly framing it as an essential work of women’s literature. From that point on, interpretation of the story became far more nuanced and politicised. Readers and critics began to see Gilman’s intent: the story was not just Gothic fiction but a searing critique of how society and medicine infantilised and disempowered women.
Since then, ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ has become a staple in literature and gender studies curricula. Its once-‘disturbing’ elements are now understood as highlighting issues of patriarchy and mental health that remain relevant to this day.
Part 5: Contemporary Echoes
The themes of ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ continue to resonate with contemporary writers and readers. Recent works like V. Castro’s ‘The Haunting of Alejandra’ (2023) and Tara Gould’s ‘The Haunting of Strawberry Water’ (2020) reinterpret Gilman’s themes for a 21st-century audience, blending horror and social critique.
Castro’s novel puts a Mexican-American cultural twist on the template. Alejandra, a mother of three, feels consumed by depression and lost identity after years as an unhappy housewife. She is haunted by La Llorona, the ghostly ‘Weeping Woman’ of Mexican folklore who is said to prey on mothers. This specter whispers dark, intrusive thoughts to Alejandra – essentially echoing her own depressive and suicidal ideation. Much like Gilman’s narrator, Alejandra is initially bound by her domestic role and an unsympathetic husband, and her mental anguish takes the form of a haunting figure only she can see. However, Castro’s story diverges by offering a path to empowerment: Alejandra seeks help from a curandera (a traditional healer) who is also a therapist specialising in generational trauma.
As for Gould’s ‘The Haunting of Strawberry Water’, it is explicitly influenced by ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ and has been described as ‘a modern retelling’ of Gilman’s tale. Gould centres her story on a ‘new mother, traumatised by an arduous labour’, who is in the throes of postnatal depression. The narrator (nameless, like Gilman’s) has her own haunting: she’s staying at a remote 1920s bungalow called Strawberry Water, where she becomes fixated on a faded Polaroid photograph of a woman she believes is her mother. Just as in ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’, the protagonist experiences a growing paranoia and despair while alone with her newborn. The story employs classic Gothic elements to externalise the narrator’s inner turmoil, just as Gilman used the creeping wallpaper woman as a mirror to her narrator’s mind.
Gould was inspired by her own experience of postnatal depression and the recognition that even today, ‘all too often women are not given enough support during… the immense shock of childbirth’, leading to a silence around their true feelings. This directly channels Gilman’s critique into a modern setting—despite a century of medical progress, new mothers still sometimes find their voices ignored and their distress overlooked.
Both these contemporary works carry forward the legacy of ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ by blending haunting imagery with social commentary on women’s mental health. Castro introduces cultural folklore and the concept of inherited trauma, while Gould reimagines the classic postpartum horror in a present-day setting where the ‘rest cure’ has been replaced by societal silence. All three of these works are ghostly, haunted in their own ways, and the atmosphere is nightmarish. As Gilman’s protagonist writes, ‘This was not life, this was a nightmare.’ Each work underscores the core lesson first artfully voiced by Gilman in 1892: that denying women autonomy, understanding, and validation in the face of mental illness is a recipe for catastrophe – a truth that, like a ghost, refuses to stay buried.
Conclusion
When Charlotte Perkins Gilman wrote ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ in 1890, she likely had no idea that her semi-autobiographical tale would become a landmark of American feminist literature. She was simply trying, as she put it, ‘to save people from being driven crazy’, specifically people subjected to the misguided ‘rest cure’. Yet her story transcended its immediate purpose, becoming a powerful indictment of how medicine and society controlled women’s minds and bodies in the name of care. The yellow wallpaper with its ‘sprawling flamboyant pattern’ that ‘slaps you in the face’ has become one of literature’s most potent symbols of patriarchal oppression.
Gilman’s story reminds us that sometimes the most powerful social criticism comes not in the form of political treatises or direct arguments, but through narrative and metaphor. By inviting readers into the deteriorating mind of her narrator, she makes us feel the horror of having one’s voice, creativity, and autonomy systematically stripped away.
Today, while the ‘rest cure’ has been consigned to the dustbin of medical history, many of the attitudes that enabled it persist. Women’s pain and mental health concerns are still frequently dismissed or minimised in medical settings. Mothers experiencing postpartum depression still face expectations to be blissfully happy with their new role. And creative expression is still sometimes viewed as a luxury rather than a necessity for mental wellbeing. This leads us to a question worth contemplating: what ‘yellow wallpapers’ exist in our own society? What patterns of control and dismissal might future generations look back on with horror, wondering how we could have been so blind?
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References:
V. Castro, The Haunting of Alejandra (2023).
Elinor Cleghorn, Unwell Women (2021).
Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Yellow Wallpaper (1892).
_____, ‘Why I wrote The Yellow Wallpaper’, 1913.
Tara Gould, The Haunting of Strawberry Water (2020).
Asti Hustvedt, Medical Muses: Hysteria in Nineteenth-Century Paris (London, 2011).
Hilary Marland, Dangerous Motherhood: Insanity and Childbirth in Victorian Britain (2004).
Anne Stiles, ‘Go rest, young man’, Monitor on Psychology 43(1), 2012.
