I Do Not Know How People Survive

A newly released draft poem by Ted Hughes has been making the electronic rounds. The poem is Hughes' attempt to write out his feelings about the death of Sylvia Plath.

I keep thinking about Frieda Hughes, their daughter, what kind of life she must have, and what kind of mettle she has in dealing with everything.



The paintbrush has been a release for her, and she has published poetry and children's books.

How does one deal with a parent killing themselves while you're three years old and in the next room? Then, dad's next partner kills herself and your half sister in the same way your mother died. After that, your father, Ted Hughes, is demonized for destroying your mother's journals. A few years later he's made Poet Laureate of England.

I'm no fan of Hughes, and lack familiarity with most of his work. There's a ton of family drama here. Plenty of room for dislike. On his deathbed, Hughes finally speaks out on his first wife's death by publishing Birthday Letters. A mediocre movie about the Hughes/Plath marriage is released.

What is it like to have your family's history and words to be deconstructed and scrutinized by scholars, strangers and archivers with vitriol?

Then, to top it all off her younger brother killed himself a couple of years ago due to his depression. Frieda's third marriage also fell apart earlier this year.

What does she do to cope? Honestly.