Voices

I admitted to being an opioid addict in The Washington Post. I never thought I would tell my parents about my addiction, let alone the entire world, but after a year of working on my sobriety, I felt like it was the right thing to do.

When I share that I’m in a bad place, I’m told to curl up in bed with a nice book, eat my favorite ice cream or to take a relaxing bath. While these are all wonderful and helpful ideas, I think it’s important to discuss aspects of self-care that aren’t all about resting and treating yourself.

Do you know what silence in response to blatant bigotry feels like? It feels really lonely. It feels like no one gives a shit.

Some people will need more scaffolding to tackle their problems. Others, like some plants, are best left mostly alone and will eventually flourish on their own. You have to gauge a person’s needs and meet them where they are.

I’ve never had any serious issues with past roommates, whether they’ve been friends, family, or someone I found on Craigslist or something. I consider myself really lucky in that way; I know there are horror stories out there. But, having lived with my mom for almost a year now, I’ve realized just how much of a burden it can really be.

In my sickest moments, supposedly in the safe hands of health care professionals, I have had a chiro compare helping me undress to ‘unwrapping a gift’; a physio make sexual innuendos about the stockings I had to slip out of for treatment. Again, despite the shame, I remained polite, paying the receptionist for a transaction that left me sick to the core.

It had never occurred to me to visit [a Planned Parenthood].... And yet, in a culture where the rights and healthcare needs of people assigned female at birth are constantly under attack, it’s easy, even for someone like me, to have warped ideas about exactly what one will experience.

Now that I’ve turned 30 (and wear caftans) I’m done reading vapid click-bait offering prosaic advice. This is not one of those articles.