So much of my childhood was underscored by the idea of the proverbial wagon — off the wagon, and on it again and off it and on it.
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Most of the time we’re all weird together, feeling like we’re weird alone.
Stop being such a people-pleaser! I know you want to be accepted and liked by others but you don’t have to throw yourself under a bus for adulation.
The simplicity of the concept shook me to the core.
Instead of food feeling either like a complete indulgence or a total clinical buzzkill (as it had when I’d gone to a nutritionist), it felt like a holistic practice.
There’s more to self-care than manicures and cheesecake –– although those are always highly welcomed, too!
This was not how today was supposed to unfold.
I excelled at hiding my mental illness and drug addiction. I had many friends. I was outgoing. I was an actress, an equestrian, a cheerleader, a volleyball player, a straight-A student. Nothing could possibly be wrong.
I feel like I have been gaslighted, like I am in the wrong for not being more morally compromising.
When I set in stone my firm goal of going on 14 dates in one month, that meant I had to find 14 people who would go out with me. It wasn’t as easy as you’d think.
When all else fails, place your middle and forefinger against your neck, wrist or chest to feel your pulse, breathe, and remember that you are here. You are as singular as a fingerprint. You exist for a purpose larger than yourself.
I work to claim a uniquely fat femininity that thrives when my belly is full.
I’m too sensitive. I should just let it go.
I just can’t shake this feeling that he’s going to leave me and find someone who makes him happy without being insane.
Looking at the future makes me worry about the increasing part that my family will have to play in my care and I hate that I’m causing them difficulty, but there isn’t another way.
NO ONE would choose to be an addict. There is no clear way for me to articulate the hell of active addiction. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.