Today is my birthday. I am thirty-five.
As I woke up this morning, swallowing the reality that I am nearly halfway through my life, I asked myself: How did I get here? And maybe more importantly: Where is here?
I am an adult. That’s what thirty-five means. Not
It really is so stupid. But I have learned that moments of breakdown come, as they should, unexpectedly. When you’re holding a fragile nervous state together with a safety pin –it’s always that stupid, small, silly thing – that unravels you.
The first day I
I would like to report that Thanksgiving went…better than expected. Even my husband said so in the car on the way back.
The night before the holiday did not go well. My brother came over to see his nieces he hasn’t seen in months. He said
“Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.” – Natalie Goldberg
I’m not sure what prompted me to write this. I’d been banging my head against the desk, trying to
There is a certain level of pain a woman must be in to take her husband’s phone from its charger and carry it into the bathroom at one a.m.
There’s another level, unknown to most women, to take that phone downstairs, hands shaking, and call
“Do you think he’s cheating?”
That’s the first question every woman asks.
My lawyer, my cousin, my friend’s sister walking me through the divorce process.
No, I say. I am sure of this.
They feel too bad for me to question further,
It began as a thought. The kind that flits through your mind like a moth, landing lightly before disappearing. Only this one stayed. It drifted from brain to throat, emerging as a joke:
“If I sell this book,” I said. “I’m buying a Porsche.”
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