essay

I walk out onto our fake dinosaur quarry, and watch in fear as a line of second graders get ready to witness my first time delivering the lesson.

Three of my favorite t-shirts used to belong to dead people. I wear them when I want to feel my departed loved ones close to me.

I was an American Jew in Palestine. I wondered if I had made a mistake in coming here, in leaving the relative safety of my hotel in Jerusalem, or the even greater comfort of my Seattle home, where my husband and six-month-old waited for me. But the most dangerous thing about eating lunch in Palestine was that I might have exploded from eating too much.

On loving a partner who's in chronic pain.

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Have you ever googled “baby ashes urn”? Has that ever been the highlight of your day? Have you gotten a renewed energy with this type of shopping conquest because it gives you something (anything) you can do for your dead child? Have you experienced such a distinct isolation that even getting gas or going to the grocery store paralyzes you?

Standing in the kitchen of my South Beach condo, I hear in my head what my mom said during my recent visit to California. “Be more vulnerable,” she pleaded while doling out unsolicited dating advice. I break a banana from the bunch on the counter and hastily peel it, shoving it in my mouth as I think of my defense. Is my mother really asking me to expose myself to harm? Showing softness has never come easily. But then the banana reminds me of my childhood best friend, Melissa. I could be soft with her, and she with me. We were vulnerable with each other, even mushy.

It was at this point when my starvation began at age 7 that I wondered: Am I controlling my body or is my body controlling me?