My dog Kerbey is a quasi-Internet celebrity. With his cartoonish tiny legs, large torso, giant bat ears and confused eyes, any picture I put up of him on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram is guaranteed to get mountains of likes, retweets or exclamations of, “OMG you have the best dog EVERRRRR.” If Kerbey just lived his life through the Internet, that “best dog ever” title would be an easy win. Unfortunately, like a high-angled MySpace photo, Kerbey’s online persona is not exactly entirely accurate. For you see, Kerbey can be a major dick. Keep reading »
I saw “Reality Bites” at a seminal point in my life. I had recently graduated from college and simultaneously just realized that nothing in the world was the way I thought it was. The world was not, in fact, eagerly anticipating my arrival and waiting to hand me an array of opportunities. It was instead somewhat willing to offer me a chance to be an editorial assistant at a magazine I didn’t read for a rate just above the poverty level. Dashing men weren’t lining up to wine and dine me and teach me the ways of the ever-glamorous world I was joining. Instead, overgrown frat guys, who seemed roughly 2000 percent less fascinating now that I was no longer attending fraternity parties, were mildly interested in hanging out. Keep reading »
This piece is part of The Frisky’s How To Deal Week, in which we’re tackling mental health issues.
I suppose in some ways I was destined to become a control freak. I was born into a proud dynasty of control freaks. My family is Italian, and growing up it was made very clear to me that a woman’s job is to keep everyone–especially the men–in line. Not only was I the oldest child, I was the only girl with three younger brothers, so I had a big job to do. If one of my brothers did something dumb, I could expect a call from my grandma asking why I’d “let him act that way.” “You have to control your brothers,” my great aunt would tell me as she rolled out biscotti dough. “If you don’t, who will?” Keep reading »
I have seen a therapist off and on since my first panic attack at age 14. Talk therapy (and the delightful mood-soothing properties of 20 mg of Lexapro) are the reason I can put on pants and leave my house in the morning. With their help, I’ve learned how to self-soothe anger and disappointment, combat the negative self-talk that leads to depression, and create boundaries with my loved ones. My current therapist is this rad little old Italian lady who not only gets me but champions my very Jessica-ness. My life is infinitely more manageable for me under her care and as such I am the world’s biggest proponent of talk therapy. [Nuh-uh, I am! -- Editor]
But all of that doesn’t change a separate fact: sometimes what really makes me feel good is retail therapy. Keep reading »
Since I’ve just marked my 30th year on this planet, I’ve lately found myself reflecting on my life. As it stands now, I’m in love with a man who freely admits he’s pretty nuts about me too, I’m lucky enough to be translating my passions into (albeit meager) paychecks, I volunteer, I vote. All good stuff, the hallmarks of a person who has her life together.
The thing is, I never thought I’d live this long. Having a perfect storm of prerequisite issues that aided in the devaluing my own life, it wasn’t too long ago that I was swinging madly between maladaptive behaviors. I didn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I thought a lot about killing myself. I was hospitalized several times during my college years. Despite all the hospitalizations, the awkward post-hospitalization meetings with the Dean of Students, and the weekly meetings with my therapist, I was unable to discuss the problem I kept well-hidden.
I was a cutter. Keep reading »
“Do you think I need therapy?” Evan asked. “I probably should start seeing a therapist.” He sighed and I shrugged.
“I can’t really answer that for you,” I said. “But it’s really helped me.” Evan and I had been fuck buddies off and on for over a year, but in the last few months we’d become better buddies and been doing less fucking, which, he told me, was how things usually went for him.
“Once I start to like a girl more as a person,” he had explained, “I’m less interested in having sex with her.” I looked at him like he was a little crazy, but whatever. His friendship was better than the sex, so if I had to choose between the two, friends it was.
“You seem to really know what you want in life,” Evan said. “You seem really in touch with, like, your issues. I don’t think I am.” And now, here we were, with Evan asking me if I thought he needed therapy. I do, by the way, but I think everyone does. Especially the guys I’ve dated and/or slept with. Many of them have gotten help for their various issues — crippling insecurity, narcissism, depression, anxiety, rage issues, etc. — but always after we’ve gone our separate ways.
See, I’m always the girl before the therapist. I’m a fluffier for mental health professionals. And it is fucking annoying. Keep reading »
So uh, don’t freak out, but I was pregnant and had to have an abortion last weekend.
Yes, yes I know, my uterus is ruled by Murphy’s Law. Patrick and I both thought it was pretty funny, in that “oh, life” way, when it occurred to me a few days after I missed my period why I wasn’t bleeding.
Being first-trimester crazy (I have fits of horrific rage, I get depressed, I can’t sleep, I can’t concentrate) has made everything more difficult these last couple weeks. Having an abortion is really not that big of a deal, but it would be even less of a deal if one were not suffering from overhormones when it’s all going down.
I didn’t really waffle at all on it. Patrick and I are both exhausted. When we are at home dealing with the kids, someone constantly needs something (or many people need things at once), and then there’s cleaning up after four kids, etc. We already should do more for our kids than we do. There is no way we can deal with another pregnancy or baby on top of one-year-old twins, two older children, work, and life. I could feel Patrick’s terror at the thought; he’s already on his last nerve. It would also be very difficult to afford. and where would we put another baby? Keep reading »
In this piece, reprinted with permission from Role/Reboot, Lynn Beisner explains the difference between the two phrases “The best choice for both my mother and me would have been abortion” and “I wish I had never been born.”
If there is one thing that anti-choice activists do that makes me see red, it is when they parade out their poster children: men, women, and children who were “targeted for abortion.” They tell us “these people would not be alive today if abortion had been legal or if their mothers had made a different choice.”
In the past couple of months, I have read two of these abortion deliverance stories that have been particularly offensive. The first story is one propagated by Rebecca Kiessling, the poster child for the no exceptions in cases of rape or incest. On her website Kiessling says that every time we say that abortion should be allowed at least in the case of rape or incest we are saying to her: “If I had my way, you’d be dead right now.” She goes onto say, “I absolutely would have been aborted if it had been legal in Michigan when I was an unborn child, and I can tell you that it hurts [when people say that abortion should be legal.]” Keep reading »