Bodies

Those who know and love people with depression usually want nothing other than to help. But during the times I've been depressed, even the most well-intentioned efforts to help often backfired.

Something powerful shifted for me when I turned 30. I decided to stop caring about my weight as a means to measure my success, beauty and worth as a woman. I gave myself permission to care for my body, and to care for the woman inside that body first.

For six months I was a heavy user, a big spender, the girl who let her boyfriend snort lines off her ass and tits. For six months, I fell into cocaine culture, and then, just as suddenly, I fell back out.

If this sort of heat sounds appealing to you, you are either A. 83 years old or B. insane.

When I first got sober, I was resistant to a lot of the things I was hearing in 12-step communities and recovery circles. I’ve always been a feminist and much of the rhetoric I was hearing seemed to go against everything I stood for.

Four pills. They keep me sane. They keep me grounded. They make me tired. They make me mad. They are the thing I should thank for my mental wellness. They are the thing standing between me and maximum productivity.

When the pill doesn't work, try this.

What is this body? I wonder lately as I look in the mirror. Despite the fact that I’ve had this body shape for years now, it feels unfamiliar. I feel like it doesn’t reflect who I really am. But what body would reflect that?