Ann sexton was born in Newton,Massachusetts,in She attended Garland Junior College for 1 year. She married at the age of nineteen. Sexton enrolled in a modeling course at the Hart Agency and lived in San Francisco and Baltimore.

She had two daughters there names were Linda and Joyce Sexton. She had two daughters there names were Linda and Joyce Sexton. Unfortunately she got divorced in the early 1970’s. Unfortunately she got divorced in the early 1970’s.

Ann sexton was diagnosed with postpartam depression in 1954 and she had her first mental breakdown. Ann sexton was diagnosed with postpartam depression in 1954 and she had her first mental breakdown. She was admitted to Westwood Lodge. She was admitted to Westwood Lodge. Following the birth of her second daughter Sexton suffered another breakdown and was hospitalized again. Following the birth of her second daughter Sexton suffered another breakdown and was hospitalized again.

 That same year, on her birthday, she attemped suicide.  She was encouraged by her doctor to pursue an interest in writing poetry.

In 1957 she enrolled in a poetry workshop at the Boston Center for Adult Education. In 1957 she enrolled in a poetry workshop at the Boston Center for Adult Education. Her life’s goal was the writing of poetry this gave Sexton something to work towards. Her life’s goal was the writing of poetry this gave Sexton something to work towards. She developed and enabled her to endure life for as long as she did. She developed and enabled her to endure life for as long as she did.

In 1974 at the age of 46, despite a successful writing career she lost the battle with mental illness and committed suicide. In 1974 at the age of 46, despite a successful writing career she lost the battle with mental illness and committed suicide.

To Bedlam and Part Way Back (1960) All My ones (1962) Live or Die(1966)- (Winner of the American Place Theatre 1969) The Death Notebooks(1974)

The Truth the Dead Know Gone, I say and walk from church, refusing the stiff procession to the grave, letting the dead ride alone in the hearse. It is June. I am tired of being brave. We drive to the Cape. I cultivate myself where the sun gutters from the sky, where the sea swings in like an iron gate and we touch. In another country people die. My darling, the wind falls in like stones from the white hearted water and when we touch we enter touch entirely. No one's alone. Men kill for this, or for as much. And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone