The Madwoman in the Attic

Hi my friend,

When I was a child,
I remember watching Jane Eyre…
and being fascinated by
Bertha Mason,
Mr. Rochester’s first wife.

Back then I didn’t
understand her character.
I probably didn’t even know
who she was.

I even felt as if 
I shouldn’t be looking at her…
but she drew me in.

This mad woman
living in the attic.

This woman,
hidden from the public…
only to walk the floors of
her own home at night.

But then I met Grief,
and suddenly… 
she made sense to me.

Suddenly being mad
didn’t feel like a curse,
but a liberation from every cage,
and every neat border,
I had quietly observed
and agreed upon.

And so, I wondered.

What if I stopped to care?
What if I…
just went mad?

Not to harm anyone,
or anything around me.
Including myself.

But as a way of being honest
to what I was feeling inside…
to the rage and sorrow,
tearing me apart,
even if no one could see it
from the outside.

What if I didn’t have to smile?
Or be nice and polite,
to every person in sight?

What if I didn’t have to say
“have a good day”,
when there had been
nothing good in mine?

What if I cried publicly…
confusing the passersby?

Would it truly 
be so bad…
if I really did go mad?

Surely it couldn’t be worse
than living in the anguish
of missing someone
never coming home.

Some losses
spill beyond good manners.
They cannot stay hidden
in the attic.

And honesty,
even when it looks like madness,
isn’t it kinder to ourselves
than living politely
in silence?


With love,
Elina