I’ve never been a big fan of Mother’s Day. It’s not the commercialization that fuels my dislike, though — it’s that for 14 years, I haven’t had a mother to celebrate.
On September 20th, 1996, my mother’s 36th birthday, she died. Four years earlier, she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. In the intervening time, she endured hours of chemotherapy and radiation, the loss of her hair to the chemo and a breast to mastectomy, a surgery to reconstruct her missing breast, a bone marrow transplant, and countless days away from her family in the hospital. All this while raising three children and making sure that “cancer” was never, ever a dirty word in our house. Keep reading »
The decision to cohabit with my now ex-boyfriend Jeff was prompted by a fight over my period.
Jeff and I came back to my place after dinner to find my male roommate and some of his buddies sitting on the couch. He was angry because he just got laid off. He was drunk. In general he was a big a**hole. Keep reading »
I screwed up royally recently.
My boyfriend Alex and I needed to get a signed lease to our landlady who was having some legal troubles. I left it in the lobby for her to pick up, but before she could, it disappeared. I called new management, but they said they didn’t have it either.
When Alex came home, I told him what happened. “You made a copy though, right?” he said.
Crap. “Uh, no,” I admitted. Keep reading »
My pattern with escape began as a kid.
I am 14 years old and in my pediatrician’s office. My family has just moved back to New York City after a 5-year stint in Massachusetts. I’m turning into one of those surly teenagers. My mother has read
SavingReviving Ophelia and now my father is reading it, too, and I see the sad face of that wispy-haired girl staring up at me from her wrinkled paperback cover every time I pass his bedside table. Dr. Sedlis is asking how school is going. My mother is in the room and she says, “Not too well. It’s a large public school.” This is true. I hate it there. I am lost and they are making me take oboe lessons even though I signed up for piano. The girls are goths and punks and I am neither. Dr. Sedlis advises putting me into private school. Keep reading »
Wow, what a crazy past few months. I believe I cared for myself pretty well after my big breakup, which was now almost four months ago. I surrounded myself with my family, which was easy because I moved back in with my parents. I spent a lot of QT with my girl friends. I drank and shopped and watched crappy TV shows, as you do. When I felt ready to poke my head out of my hole and venture out on dates again, I splurged on a couple pairs of sexy heels. I kept myself busy buying furniture for my new apartment, being a good sister and friend, doing my taxes — anything I could think of.
Now I’m all moved into my new place. I go on dates with a new guy, casually, once or twice a week. After months of tiny tornadeos wrecking havoc on the blessed life I had six months ago, outward appearances look like the dust has finally settled.
Inside? That’s a different story. Keep reading »
One night, while six months pregnant, I woke to the sound of something crashing down the stairs. That something, I discovered, was my husband Jason, who lay sprawled on the floor like a limp marionette. At first, I was worried. Had he broken his neck? Was the father of my unborn child alive? But my next thought might strike some people as mean, although I can explain. It was: Good—serves him right. Keep reading »