“I had to move in with someone I barely knew. I was determined to keep this baby, whether my boyfriend stuck around or not. ‘You’re going to have to deliver the baby.’ I squatted on the bathroom floor. I was convinced I was going to die, that I couldn’t do this on my own.”
“After my husband’s death, I ventured to a kid’s birthday party with my son. I was nervous. As I started mingling with the moms, things got weird. I not-so-casually slid into the conversation that I’m a widow. I was still wearing my rings, so they assumed I was married. This poor woman looked dumbfounded. I kept thinking, ‘Should I have done this differently?’ I cannot pretend my husband didn’t die just to placate people around me.”
“He couldn’t understand why his wife, the woman he knew who had anxiety, the anxiety he understood to be excess worry, or panic, would actually be getting angry. But as I said it… the relief washed over me.”
“I needed a cold drink. It was so hot outside, and I was so thirsty, and I just felt a stirring in my soul saying, ‘stop at Sonic, girl, and get you a Route 44. Think about that tiny crunchy ice. You deserve it.’ I am not one to ignore heart whispers, so I stopped, thinking I had enough change to buy it in my center console thingy. But I thought wrong.”
“This moment was one I’d never in my 33 years of anxiety imagined happening to me. I held my phone steadily pointed towards my little boy, in hopes of capturing his every move on video. I was witnessing something I’d never have wished on the worst of enemies. I searched ‘Polymicrogyria,’ ran to the toilet, threw up my breakfast and curled into a tight ball. When I tell friends my son has a condition that causes epilepsy, they respond by saying, ‘at least that is treatable.’”
“I thought marriage would be the end of all my problems. 6 months into my sobriety, we found out we were having a baby. I quickly got addicted to my painkillers and stopped breastfeeding 4 weeks in. ‘Your life will never get better. Just end it.’ I sat there and cried with a shotgun in hand. I was taken away in an ambulance while my son slept in the next room. I went from being the middle class, church going, straight As, lead in in musicals, student council member to prison time.”
“For a while, this actually worked. I posted more freely; comfortable in stating my true heart, sharing my real struggles and joys without the shackles of the judgement they would surely throw my way. I did not feel the urge to edit or tip toe. I didn’t censor what was truly felt, even knowing it may help someone else, for the sake of possibly ‘pleasing’ these two. Or even for the sake of them not saying anything at all. I was freed.”
“My mom always reminded me she LOVED being a mother. She’d follow with, ‘But there’s just something SO SPECIAL about being a grandma!’ I drove home crying, thinking of all the times I harped at her for giving the kids too many sweets, or letting them stay up too late, or doing anything that grandparents do. What I would give to go back to those moments and soak them up instead of roll my eyes.”
“I’m tired of carrying pepper spray. I’m tired of clinging to my cup at parties like some wild animal out of fear of getting roofied, again. I’m tired of school dress codes. No, my shoulders are not sexy or distracting. I’m tired of women covering their bruises with makeup before work. Y’all, I am TIRED.”
“My friend invited me to a local nightclub. Before I knew it, I was dancing with someone and their hands were rubbing up and down my back. He whispered in my ear, ‘Are you wearing a corset?’ That scared the absolute life out of me. It was my scars, once a gaping hole through my back, and he could feel them through my clothing.”
