Years away now. Years my life without you near. Years in solitude and just like that you came back into my life. No signs, no hunch. No sting in your gut trying to tell you this is the day. This is the day you’re going to again meet the love of your life. You got rid of him and now the universe is giving you a second chance.
What have I done? I set you free. I have set you free.
… the overwhelming majority disliked [“childless” and “childfree”], with one being seen as stigmatising and the other gleeful and nasty in its implication that parents somehow need “liberating”.
… that’s one reason why – when absolutely necessarily – “doesn’t have children” is the kindest, most neutral descriptor we can hope for. Though we can also hope to be moving away from one’s parenting status needing to be defined at all, especially for women, who still face this question far more frequently than men. Language matters, and as ever it often says more about us and our assumptions than we realise.
growing up i’d been depressed, hopeless, unaware i was raised abusively thus often mistaken abuse for love. it wasn’t always physical, although it many a time involved violence. i wiped it off, brush it off, renarrate, deconstruct, reconstruct but never the feeling of shame and an abundance of guilt for being simply me. i had questions answered with humiliation. my intelligence was responded with punishment if not embarrassment. it took years for me to realise, i was different. i was ahead of my time. i was in a wrong place, with wrong people. i haven’t found my people.
only by physical distance the pain and burden of being blamed was less intense, but i since long ago have always been aware it will never disappear. i am forever a wounded animal, born to bear resentments of who they were and what they could not achieve on their own, making it easy for people to walk all over me and have no concepts of setting boundaries.
“All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.”—-Mitch Albom
To me it’s the early mornings that lingered, longer than they should, when I groped and grabbed and nothing. It’s an empty bed, you weren’t there and I let you. I let you be alone, in another room, in the bathroom, the living room, sometimes in the basement, lying near the laundry pile, vomiting. It’s more practical there, you said. You grabbed a sheet, puked, and crawled to the washing machine and threw the wet sheet in. I would never know, for in the afternoon they would be minty fresh laundry. I’d just pick it up and went on with my day.
You never asked me how I felt. Lying there in the dark, I too, alone and torn. Desperate, frustrated, for you to share your pain. But it’s yours, not mine, you said. It’s not for me to take. I wished I had been more understanding than I already were. In my mind I would be more than a lover, I would be something closer, deeper, more meaningful than a companion. But it’s yours, and not mine to take. So I lay there sinking within a surge of my own pain.
Sometimes in the afternoon, when I slowly open the lid of your dryer, I forgot to breathe, for it was not yellow stain on the sheet, but dried up brownish blood. I tried not to wonder. Because it’s yours, and not mine to take.
Let me tell you about time: it doesn’t heal, it goes on. It changes you into different people and when you are in a different place, you see different things -and if you’re lucky enough, you see things differently (you might write about it too).
And that is it. There’s nothing about healing has anything to do with how time stretches between you and your wounds. They will always be there to remind you where you’re coming from.
My book went live few hours ago and everytime it always come down to this feeling of helplessness in letting go. And that is the only healing I could ever get from writing it.
Life always, always, gets you caught off guard and I am spent.
If words were breath and phrases life… I am rarely moved by other peoples’ poetry. It takes a truly unique writer to penetrate below my natural cynicism. I tell you all: this is the one book of poetry, the first in a long time, to feel authentic, brave and sincere. I LOVE THIS BOOK!
(Martha Humphreys, Amazon.com)
Within these pieces, you will find so much raw emotion and talent. The ink on these pages will soak into your skin and claw into your skull. You will never forget reading such a powerful book. Maia is destined for greatness.
How do you describe a book as an experience? Letters to Sylvia is not just flattery words knitted together in a string of poems. It is a journey you want and need to embark. It is a sigh at the end not wanting to get off that plane of emotions. This is not just a book. It’s an experience. Read, woman!
This book was just like one of those Sunday afternoons when you just don’t want to do nothing but sit down and take a walk down the memory lane. This book reeks of nostalgia and heartbreak. My personal favourites were Period ( this one left me gutted and awestruck), Adieu ( made me sigh) and Feminine Mystique ( this one BROKE MY HEART). And I loved the fact that the poet somehow wrote it as an ode/ dedication to Sylvia, my all time favourite. The only thing that I would like to change would be the fact that it was just 85 pages long. I absolutely loved the tone and the flow so I guess I would’ve loved it a tad bit more if it included a few more poems!