A space has been created by this unflinching journalism, this unabashed Instagram memoir.
I believed I had been nurtured, like a lamb, for one purpose: Mine was to be thin.
And does asking these questions make me a good mother?
We’ve spent quarantine in faulty mirrors, sparking negative feedback loops.
Science provides me with a vocabulary of illness, confirming what my body already knows: that it will never be the same
Estrogen and testosterone have historically been deployed to produce gender compliant citizens. What if, instead, they were agents of autonomy?
It goes like this: sit with the thought, don’t move your fingers, arms, legs, let it enter you, let it stay, let it leave.
Living with mental illness is a constant cycle of wellness and illness, and each recovery is impermanent.
On the heels of my diagnosis, I feel there is no way to construct a narrative around what’s happening to me—a deep betrayal for a writer.
And then there were the wigs: exercises in risk-taking, rejections of my boring and shame-consumed past self.
Being an “interesting” patient who also happened to be a trainee made me a morbid little celebrity.
In France, universal (or socialized) health care is half-NASA, half-MacGyver. And it works. I have to suspect the main objection to adopting the best healthcare system on the planet is just that it’s French.
Being disabled means hundreds of thousands of people believe they always know better than you do.