We don’t have to be monsters, but we can have a monster as our god. A god of justice, a god of righteous vengeance, a god of fire and fury, a god of Saturnalian fun.
As I moved into a house where I hope to stay forever, I spent a lot of time with things other people left behind.
This year, time flew marked by dishes, laundry, trash, repeat. Occasionally I was seized with the worry that I was not doing the correct things.
I stood up and the top of my skull slammed hard into the ceiling. Weird, I thought, and then I stopped thinking at all.
Days have become generally unmanageable, and for some people it helps a bit to have a dog around, which I encourage.
That’s the thing with emotional abuse. You stop trusting yourself, which makes it hard to be alone, so you stay and you listen to someone else's version of your shared story.
I thought giving generously would mean, when I needed it, I'd receive help without asking. I am learning that life is not a mind reader.
My memories of these meals carried me, unwaveringly, from month to wretched month—attempting to re-conjure them gave me something to do at my most desperate.
Terrace House makes reality TV engrossing, ensuring a long-maligned medium and its most maligned genre are streaming their way into hearts around the world.
Should we not be talking more openly about the desperate need for black and brown mothers to be included in the conversation about what motherhood looks like in 2018?