Today marks the day that my favorite poet, Sylvia Plath, took her own life. I've had too many conversations with people about all the theories as to why she did and who was to blame etc. but honestly, no one knows except God and Sylvia. The little bit of her that we do get to read about is probably so minuscule compared to all that encompassed who Sylvia Plath was and how she lived her life. Sure, the journals were published, but there are some things even I wouldn't put in a journal. Maybe Sylvia felt the same?
I wanted to share this little narrative I wrote in September. I will often turn to Plath when I need courage to get up and write and I was really conjuring up some creative energy during the fall months. It's a good memory of mine. :)
My favorite teacher read a poem of mine once. He told me I reminded him of Sylvia Plath.
A mirror opened for me that day and the glass shards mangled me as I fell through it.
"Promise me though," he said as he made photocopies of her poetry that I could keep. "That you won't end up like her."
I didn't know what he meant until later.
Much later, I cursed him once for making me feel I was as she good as she was. I had put Plath on a platform I could hardly live up to. I found myself becoming "like her."
Never good enough and too afraid of my own potential to even try most of the time.
All of my old scars started to remind me of my old teacher. And that day.
Now, I see that Sylvia taught me the importance of surviving and how I should always write about it.
Don't worry, Mr. S.
I've found I much prefer to end up like me.
(Author's note: Maybe we're all not the best poets/artists/whatever in the world. But man, we should at least try to be. Even if it's just for us.)