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.

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

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.

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.

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?

When the pill doesn't work, try this.