Ripe Enough for Picking?

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Continue reading “Ripe Enough for Picking?”

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Dear Friends Who Don’t Respect My “Singleness” (And Much More)

Today I want to talk to you about a situation I’ve been experiencing for a while. So stressful (even if that’s not the right adjective for it) that I’ve been having a persistent pain on my chest.

I’m a very sensible person. Things that people shake off easily or don’t even notice affect me all the time. The choice of the words and the subtle meanings, the quick – real – expressions people show after changing to others, little things that, as I said, nobody notices, and if I talk to somebody about them, I quickly am told that there are meaningless. That I’m seeing things that don’t exist.

Continue reading “Dear Friends Who Don’t Respect My “Singleness” (And Much More)”