It’s been more than four years since my husband announced he was in love with my friend and no longer wanted to be married to me.
To call these acts wild, to see them as separate parts of consciousness, is to be a tourist in your own city.
He attempted to have sex with me, and I managed to stop him by saying I had a tampon in, my period blood a greater deterrence than my protest.
His bluegrass band at the gravesite? Check. No embalming? Check.
“I feel like I’m hyperventilating. I can’t stop crying and I can’t breathe. I’m afraid I’m going to drown on dry land.”
Staying in contact with biological family no matter what they’ve done is a message beaten into us from every side.
I have been afraid most days of my life, which is what anxiety is, and the months of this pregnancy have been the most anxious of my life.
My feeding tube could make my life easier and better, but a visceral shame pulsed through me when it came to actually using it.
“What does it mean when your body is your art? Can a thicker brush not make just as beautiful strokes?”
“Blind and print-handicapped readers do not have the luxury of deciding whether they will go old-school and deny the digital age.”