Chelsea Cristene

That’s the thing about perfectionism. When you chase something unattainable, you complete a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Illness is intensely personal, but it never affects the person diagnosed alone.

This article first appeared on Role Reboot and has been republished with permission. 

I was a band geek in high school. In exchange for the Saturdays we spent at various competitions all over the state, we would get an occasional “down” day to watch a movie or just hang out in the band room. These were lazy days filled with giggles and gossip, and on one day in particular, kisses with my friend Jessica.

Jessica was cute and kind and one year younger than me. “I don’t see anything wrong when girls kiss girls,” she said as we sat cross-legged on the tile floor: something that you’re never supposed to think let alone say out loud in a small conservative town. “Neither do I!” I agreed. And there it was – a smooch!

I see no such kerfuffle over straight men at gay bars, so it appears that this brand of exclusivity is Dicks Only.

If Trump is right (there’s a first time for everything) and we need to state what a problem is before solving it, then let’s state it now. Radical white terrorism.

Anyone who has been a victim of abuse will tell you that the burden of emotional labor is enormous, and that it’s amplified by the pressure to keep quiet.

I realized that allergies, much like mental health, are largely misunderstood and often dismissed as trivial or exaggerated.

Knowing a few compulsive liars over the course of my life has taught me some things. Living during Trump’s presidency has reinforced them.

When men’s dating preferences were observed, the age of women they expressed interest in never (never!) deviated from the early 20s.

Thank you, Isolde, for making me pause, for encouraging me to ditch the pocket computer for conversation with someone new.