It is a strange kind of grief that arises when an abusive mother dies. I call it naked grief— Raw, uncensored.  It is not a simple grief. It is not only sadness. It is a difficult mixture to explain — sadness, anger, sorrow… and also sorrow for the mother you never had. When a mother who manipulated the dynamics of an entire family dies, what one feels often does not resemble the traditional grief people expect to see. Sometimes sadness is not even the main emotion. What is mourned, many times, is not the woman who truly existed, but the loving and caring mother you deserved to have — and never did. Death also closes forever any possibility of change. It closes the door to an apology that never came. To a reconciliation that never happened. To the hope — however small — that one day the truth might be acknowledged. And when that door closes for good, pain and anger can return with unexpected force. There are also contradictory emotions. There can be relief — relief in knowing that ...

I am going to get something off my chest here. I have been having a very hard time since I returned from Brazil. I didn't want to admit this to anyone, so I just smile and pretend everything is okay. Yes, because no one wants "negative" energy—we just have to glow, poop stars, and vomit sparkles of joy. My mother's death hits me even harder now that I am back in Canada. More than ever, I realize how truly alone I am. Yet, I remain stoic. However, the truth is that, despite whatever happened, or whatever she did, she was my mom, and I loved her. I loved having a mom—of being somebody's daughter. I used to call her every week. I worried about her. I complained about her. We argued. But she was still my mom. While in Brazil, I had my friends to take my mind off things. It helped. But now that I am back, I feel a vacuum. I have lost interest in many things—my writing group, the novel I was writing, the new drawing I had started. The birds distract me a bit, but those ...

I am so relieved to soon be leaving this place. Rio de Janeiro has decayed very quickly, and that saddens me. I spent my childhood, my adolescence, and my early twenties in this city. Now there is mafia, shootings — the feeling of being unsafe is very real here. It is striking how people grow accustomed to it. Accessibility seems to have bypassed Rio altogether. It does not matter if you are walking with a cane, if your difficulty is obvious. People push and shove to get what they want. Yet, if you enter a store and say “Hi” with a smile, you are seen as rude because you did not say “good morning” instead. Some cab drivers will even ask you to get out of their cars if you request help opening the door or getting in — especially if you express surprise at their behavior. You are expected to accept it. To stay quiet. The streets are suffocated with cars, buses, and motorcycles. The noise and the stench of burned oil and gas fill the air. Black smoke pouring from buses stains the blue sky...