Feminism, Forgiveness, and my ongoing battle with anxiety, inadequacy, and inconsequentialness.

You know I’ll be the first to say that feminism comes in all shapes and sizes. It’s not that stereotypical militant, let’s kill all the men, no more stay at home wives and mothers, no more men taking care of women bullshit.
Someone once said to me: “The feminists made it not okay for a woman to want to be taken care of by a man… I like when my husband takes out the garbage, and the feminists took that away”
When did they do that? Dude, I hope someone takes out the garbage for me every day for the rest of my life. The feminists made it okay to want something different. In my mind, and I hope in the minds of others, feminism promotes the thought that being any kind of woman you want and having any kind of relationship you want with another man or woman is your right. Stay home and cook and clean and raise a beautiful family. If it’s what you want, do it. Do it alone, do it with another woman. Don’t get married, become an astronaut, spend the rest of your life finding life on Jupiter. Marry a man whose dream is to stay home and raise a family. Marry a man who works, get the amazing job of your dreams, and maybe you’ll have kids and maybe you won’t. It’s up to you. If you want to be in a relationship where the man is sexually dominant, do it. Sometimes the woman will be sexually dominant. Either way, for either party, it’s never demeaning if it’s what you want. Feminism is just an equal playing field, and there’s no right or wrong way of “doing it”.
Why am I discussing this?
I feel that I’ve always had a very idealized theory of “what is right”.
Recently I saw the pseudo bane of my existence Tomi Lahren blast the women at the women’s march, stating that they were horrible examples for their children. She showed children holding signs depicting Trump in the toilet, signs cursing potus, and suggested the women get mirrors to point into. In this very specific aspect of what she said, I’m on her side. Now, I don’t like Trump. But it is not okay to teach our children to put people down, especially in an important public forum such as that, where all eyes are on us, where the main focus should be positive. I’d be more moved to see a child with a poster asking Trump to pass DACA than with a picture of Trump with x’s for eyes. I want to see children at that march with signs raising women up. With signs asking the president for help. With signs depicting positive messages and spreading love, not hate. Otherwise, we’re the same as what we’re fighting against. Another time I was surprised by Tomi was when she discussed leaving access to birth control alone, because she doesn’t want the government to tell her what to do with her birth control or her fetus, just like she doesn’t want them to tell her what to do with her guns. It’s not all black and white. It’s just not.
Ok, again, wtf am I even talking about?
This lengthy and babbling intro is just a launching point for my latest moral quandary: Me, too… and I forgive you?
There are two men who have taken advantage of me in a sexual way, and I forgive them. Disclaimer: I was not physically hurt in either situation.
They were both close to me, not strangers, which is usually the case. One was genuinely an issue of mistaken consent, very Aziz, if you will. The other is someone who I know was weak and would genuinely never try to hurt me. In both cases, “genuine”. In both cases, oh, I know them, they’d never hurt me. Oh, he’s a really good person. I know he didn’t mean it. I know it was a mistake.
But wait – are you reading this and thinking : “wtf you Tomi supporting, S&M loving (I hate it, tbh), wanna be feminist hero freak!”? Oh, me, too.
Anne Frank said it first, “Despite everything, I believe people are really good at heart.”
It’s not like these guys were Nazis! These are good people. They slipped up. One I truly believe was an accident. The other made a mistake in a weak and dark time in his life. I’ve done that! Haven’t we all? Isn’t that truly possible? I’ve made genuine mistakes. Not mistakes that should be written off as general flaws of my gender and species. Mistakes and even choices that have hurt me so horribly once I made them, because I knew I hurt another person I cared about.
I want to be clear that there is a separate person who was close to me that took advantage, and I will never forgive him, or trust him ever again. So I swear that I can be discerning!
I forgive these two people. And I’m worried that it’s the “wrong” thing to do, regardless of their merit. Hi, I’m Hanna, and I’m a huge hypocrite. What a goddamn dumb thing to say. But what about all the strides we’ve made in becoming voices for consent and voices that won’t take crap and voices that share in each other’s suffering and say “you’re not alone”? We don’t forgive, we keep fighting.
That’s bullshit, too, right? Militant, women don’t stay home, cut off the dicks bullshit?
We forgive and we keep loving and we keep fighting. And we don’t question if we’re right or wrong because we’ll never be objectively sure. The only thing that is objectively right in this world is love. It is the only thing that will keep this world good (I’m having such a Wonder Woman moment. You can call me Gal, if you’d like.)
Life, politics, feminism, people, love… these things are not black and white. Well, love is love is love, but that’s for another time. I just don’t want to ever be made to feel bad for forgiving someone, same as I don’t want anyone to feel bad for wanting to be a stay at home mother, or for anyone to feel bad for liking to be spanked during sex, or for being made to feel bad for those things. I don’t even want to feel bad for liking something Tomi said.
I’m being the hardest on myself though. Because all those things are okay for other people. But come on – say it with me – Feminist Hero.
My therapist says that if other people give us permission to feel okay about something, they can easily take it away at any time, along with our self confidence. If we give ourselves permission, if we give ourselves self confidence, we can never lose it.
We will now practice what my therapist said: it’s okay to like yourself, it’s okay to be happy with yourself, it’s okay to be strong in your convictions, it’s okay to not care about what anyone else thinks, it’s okay to be different, it’s okay to think differently.
And you know what? Even if these things weren’t “okay”? That would still be okay.

My Body, My Body Image

I think I’m pretty. Is that a weird thing to say? Well, I do. When I look in the mirror, unless there is a blemish on my hard-earned baby smooth face, I’m generally happy with what I see. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that the most important thing is to love yourself, for everything you are. But lately I’ve been wondering – are we conditioned to like ourselves? Essentially, thinking we like ourselves, when that like is only based on what we’ve been conditioned to believe from others. We think it’s because of our evolved and higher selves, that we don’t care what others think, but maybe we genuinely believe we don’t when we do? I sound crazy, right? Yes, I took my meds today.
Hear me out. There were certain facts I knew growing up, thanks to my mother. I had beautifully shaped eyebrows. I had little but perfect bow lips. My nail beds were a naturally good shape. If I lost ten, twenty, thirty pounds, boys would totally be into me. I knew I was pretty. And I knew I was fat. I also knew that my physical worth and confidence were directly correlated to what boys thought of me. My mother wasn’t cruel about it: “your curves are so sexy, your waist is so small… just imagine how you’d look if you lost fifteen pounds.” Instead of being a butter face I was a butter body.
I’m currently at the heaviest I’ve ever been. I’m so up and down all the time; I don’t even know how to think of my body anymore because it’s never the same. I can’t count on it. A few days ago someone stopped me on West End Avenue and asked, “Are you a plus size model?” I was so flattered. But kind of insulted. I hated that I went to a negative place so quickly. Should I be insulted? What’s wrong with being plus sized? Why can’t I just accept the compliment in the way it was intended? Why am I still thinking about what this person said?
Funnily enough, at this weight, I’ve had more male attention than ever before. The girl that was too fat to be noticed by boys is now crawling with men. And they all say the same thing: “I love your body.” So naturally I’ve been looking in the mirror in a different way lately. I clearly am deserving of male attention even if I’m not thin. Should I like this body? If I like it, is it only because men do?
I used to think that I was genuinely perfect, except for my weight. For real. I know, I’m legit the worst; if I lost weight I’d be perfect. As I develop mature friendships and learn about myself through others, I know I can be mean and selfish and quick to anger and bad with money, and if you ask my close friends, a million other things.
So do I even like myself? What is it based on? I like my eyebrows. On a list of things I like about myself I did in therapy, I accidentally wrote eyebrows twice. I like my laugh. I like that I am a reader. I like that I travel. I like that I make time for my family. I like my lips even though they’re a little too small. I like that I took care of my mother as she died. I like my skin. A cast member at Sephora just told me she rarely meets people who know their skin as well as I do. I’m gonna hold onto that one for a while.
I like my curves. I like that my butt is big. I like my body. Right? Should it matter if it’s from male attention or not? Isn’t it good to just feel positive about my image? Why does this bother me so much? I clearly think I’m a feminist hero and as Lena Dunham puts it, “the voice of my generation”, so I’m supposed to like myself regardless. Dress for myself. Love my body like a temple made of Nutella. Good, now I’m failing the feminist agenda. Good, now I’m upset for subscribing to that kind of thought, as feminism comes in a million different thoughts and values. Good, now I’m upset because I’m upset.
My therapist had one thing to say to this unraveling: be kind to yourself, give yourself permission to like yourself. Oh, ok. Cool. So easy. I legit don’t know how to do that, and it’s something we’re working on.

Do you guys have any thoughts on this subject matter? I’d love to hear back!

Questions

Did you know the exact moment your life left your body?
Did you know that David and I were holding your hands when it happened?
Were you embarrassed when I threw my body on top of your dead one when the burial purification people came to take you away from me?
Were you upset that I yelled at your friend during Shiva because she was being a pain in the ass? Are you upset that I really made my friend do it for me?
What was it like seeing your father again?
What was it like when your mother joined you not even a year later?
Were you upset that I was jealous?
Are you upset that Grandma was cremated?
Do you think it’s pathetic that I sometimes sleep in your bed and pretend you and Oliver are next to me?
Were you mad that time I was mad that truck missed me by mere inches when it ran that light?
Are you mad about Trump?
Are you mad about Hillary?
Are you watching the new Will and Grace?
Do you think I should wash the blanket you died in?
Do you think I should wash the sweatshirt you died in, my gray Farmingdale State one, that I knew you stole?
Do you know I found all of my Abercrombie leggings from ten years ago that you claimed not to have taken in your drawers?
Do you know when I’m with your ambulance, and does your soul come closer to me when I’m with it?
Do you know each time your ambulance saves a life in Israel?
Does your soul come closer to me when I Will Wait For You comes on?
Do you purposely make it come on when you know I need direction or reassurance?
Did you enter my name in that Ed Sheeran contest so that Gila and I could meet him?
Do you know when I cry?
Do you cry when I cry?
Are you crying now?
Does David Bowie just sing Life On Mars all day?
If I made it so we were together again would you be mad?
Do people who do it on purpose not go to heaven?
Do you remember what my skin feels like?
Do you worry I’ll never wear the earrings you saved for me for my wedding day?
Do you worry I’ll never have a child to name for you?
Do you worry I’ll never have a child to be like you?
Do you get mad when I let guys treat me like crap?
Do you know when I’m wrong before I know?
Do you know I went to Utah last year to be treated for depression?
Were you upset that I was spit on with holy water?
Have you read my book?
Do you have more important things to do in Heaven than watch me and listen to me all day?
Do you think your Amarige perfume expired?
Should I throw out your cherry red Dior lip rouge?
Does Daisy still follow you everywhere?
Do you understand things like cancer and the Holocaust now?
Do you know how well Dad is doing?      Do you miss me?
If I pray really hard, will you come back?
Remember when I held your hand in the hours before you died, and I told you that I’d be okay? Did you know I was lying?
Do you think I’ll ever get better?

 

The Different Colors of Brave

 

People have told me I’m brave for talking about my struggle with mental illness. For being open with my depression and for being candid. I’ve been told I was brave to watch my mother die alone. While I’ve appreciated every time that’s been said to me, I always feel like a fraud when they say it. It doesn’t feel brave to me. It feels natural. It didn’t feel brave to take care of my mother. I just did it. She was my mother. Of course I did it. And it’s my life so I talk about it; my story, my mental illness. I’ve always been very open and very willing to talk about my experiences. I can’t really think of anything I’m not willing to talk about.

But.

Me, too.

When I first saw the campaign to show how common sexual harassment and assault is, I froze. My stomach dropped. I wanted to vomit. All I could think was: no, no, no, no.
It’s one thing I can’t bring myself to say: me, too.
Maybe I don’t have to talk about it? Maybe there are enough women and men alike posting those words, or sharing their stories, so I don’t have to share mine, right? What’s one more story going to do? Why do we need another “me, too?”
But if everyone thought like that, we’d have none of the stories and none of the campaigns and awareness. The point is to shed light on the volume.
But this pressure I feel to speak up…
I am embarrassed by my story. I never thought it would happen to me in a million years. It’s weird that the one time I could actually do something that I’m afraid of or take a risk, or be “brave”, I choose not to.
I was once at a lecture on Women, Sex, and Violence in Literature and one of the speakers postulated that women will always compromise themselves in the pursuit of sex. It wasn’t going to be me. Ever. But it was.
I fight stigma. But I am the stigma: I don’t want to be the victim that gets blamed or for anyone to say that I was asking for it or that I get around. I’ve already been blamed. It was one of those moments when your eyes open wide and you see how horrible the world actually is. And I’m embarrassed of what people will think. How it will affect future relationships. When people see me it will be the first thing they think of. I will not have anyone feel bad for me.
I am in awe of every single person who has made their status “me, too”, so in awe with those who have shared their stories.
I know sexual assault isn’t something to be embarrassed about.
But I am. Because I didn’t care about it for longer than two days after it happened. I don’t think about it. If I don’t care or think about it, then it didn’t happen. I still don’t care. But I’m feeling the pressure to care. It will only hurt me if people know about it, and I refuse to see myself that way. Because I am a strong woman and these things don’t happen to me. But it did. And now I’m feeling pressed to confront something I don’t want to talk about or think about. I’m not brave enough to share my story. But to the ones that have: you are the true definition of bravery.
I hate when people allude to what happened to them but don’t say it. It’s so attention-grabby and annoying. I know the point is to spread awareness. And it’s my responsibility as a someone who likes to think she speaks for good and justice (I may have just watched Wonder Woman.) People who do nothing are complacent, complacency is consent.
I know this post is very convoluted and seems like I can’t make up my mind on where I stand. Do I care? Do I feel I was actually assaulted? Do I care? Is there a difference between feeling I was assaulted, and the act being legally considered assault? Just because someone says something doesn’t mean it’s true. Wtf is going on in my head?! If the media is going to talk about someone being a good swimmer despite their horrible actions, it’s going to be me. I’m the good swimmer. Put that in the news. My mind is a mess.
But for now I’ll just say: me, too.

High Holidays On Ice

Fall: Books released in fall are magic. The crisp new book pages are like the crispy fall leaves; the smell of the pages is like that fresh fall smell, a little bit chilly and a little bit burny. The PSL is back. Scarves? Booties? That gorgeous black fur and leather coat from Lord and Taylor? Done and done.

Everyone knows I hate August, the month when my depression symptoms tend to be at their worst, but let’s be honest: September and October aren’t much better. The Jewish high holy days are upon us. I hate them. It used to be that on Rosh Hashanah, two days of exalting God and celebrating the Jewish new year, my mother and I would sit together in temple and giggle and shush each other, and pray. As my mother got sicker and sicker, I prayed harder and harder for her good health and survival.

On Yom Kippur 2014, the day of atonement, when God signs people to the books of life or death, I just asked for my mother’s survival over and over again. “Don’t let her die.”

But she did die. Two weeks later. I must have looked like such an idiot, standing there praying and crying for something that not only wouldn’t happen, but would come so unbelievably soon after. What a chump. God must have had a good laugh at that one. I no longer go to temple on these holidays. If I am in my hometown, I will have to sit alone in the row my mother and I used to share together. Alone. And the whole congregation will look at me with pity. It used to be that when the last shofar sound was blasted at the end of Yom Kippur, my mother and I would cry and hug. I was crying because I was so happy the fast was over. It was like when the names were drawn in the Hunger Games. We hoped the odds would be in our favor. Now, the sound of the shofar is a bitter reminder of how alone I am.

I refuse to look like a fool again. I wish God would just tell me what to ask for so I don’t waste my time. In the serenity prayer we ask for the strength to accept what we cannot change, the courage to change what we can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Can I get some wisdom over here? Maybe that’s something to pray for: the wisdom to know what to pray for.

God spared my father when he was at his sickest. God helped me get an amazing job, which was literally handed to me on a silver platter; I never even applied for it. God kept me from boys that I prayed for things to work out with. Looking at the people they have become, I am so incredibly thankful for being spared. I am happy. My mother is dead and I have major depressive disorder. But I’m happy.

This year I choose to not ask for anything. I choose to be grateful for what I have. I don’t know what to ask for; maybe something I ask for isn’t right for me. But I have a father and a brother who love me. I have friends who love me. I work in a fun and supportive environment and I have a boss and coworkers who love me. I am a writer and a dental hygienist and feel lucky to be both. I am in love with the book I am writing; it feels like the truest thing I’ve ever done. I live in the greatest city in the world. I’ve met Brendon Urie five times. I love my bed. I got an amazing parking spot today.

I was lucky enough to once have the greatest mother in the world. She is in heaven, she is in my heart, and she loves me.

I started this post feeling really sad and down. I dread this time of year. Maybe that’s part of why I hate August so much: it signifies this time is coming. This is when my mother died. But as I continued to write, I began to smile. I smile when I think of all the good I have in my life. Being happy is to be grateful. I am depressed and I am happy. Is that weird? Good. Because I am weird, and for that I am grateful.

In August we have Nervous Breakdowns

 

I’ve had a nervous breakdown every august for the last five years.
August 2013 – my mother was hospitalized for bleeding tumors in her brain, I realized how serious my mother’s cancer was, and had a nervous breakdown.
August 2014 – was told my mother was going to die, I had a nervous breakdown
August 2015 – dad in hospital most of summer, mom was already dead, I had a nervous breakdown.
August 2016 – Large scale depressive episode, I had a nervous breakdown.
August 2017 – large scale depressive episode… WTF

Um, hello?! I can’t be experiencing a large scale depressive episode. I went to The Bridge, remember? I spent three weeks in the Mormon equivalent of the looney bin. I hiked for gods sake. I asked all my friends for financial help. I know how to “Utah” situations: identify my feelings, what does it mean I am lacking, and what steps do I need to take… then I am supposed to act instead of react. I take anti anxiety and anti existential crisis and anti depressant pills, and the fact that the pills are really pretty colors makes me irrationally angry. I see my therapist and my psychiatrist frequently. I am mindful of my breathing. I know that just because I think something doesn’t mean it’s true. I know that beliefs and facts are two different things. I can talk myself down off the cliff all day.

So what the fuck? What is happening?
Why can’t I get out of bed ever? Why do I cry all the time? Why am I begging God to not let me wake up in the morning? Why am I so stressed out at work? Why am I constantly letting people walk all over me? Why does any favor asked of me feel like it’s taking away from my ability to care myself? Why do I hate everyone and everything? Why can’t I talk myself down from the goddamn cliff anymore?

I haven’t slept in three nights. I’ve been up all night crying and actually yelling at God or the universe or whatever “my mother isn’t dead so just bring her back. Now.”

Did I fail The Bridge? I failed Utah. I failed the mormons. I’m Andrew Ranells before he became Africa. Yeah yeah he believes god has a plan for all of us. Go eat a maple glazed donut in hell, Andrew. Belief isn’t truth. Duh.

I’ve been struggling with depression for over half my life now, and I’ve had a lot of therapy. And yet in the fifteen years since my diagnosis, I’ve never figured out the common cause for any situational exacerbation of my symptoms. What makes my poorly firing synapses lose their seretonin drip altogether? Molly figured it out right away. (I’ve known my writing mentor/editor/hero Molly for a little over a year.) She recently pointed out what I’ve never fully understood before, but now can’t stop thinking about: I have abandonment issues. God I’m so basic. Pour me a PSL while I grab my Uggs and filter all my pictures with Valencia so my highlights pop, then we can talk about my abandonment issues.

But holy shit, it’s literally at the core of every interpersonal conflict I’ve ever had. Someone I needed and counted on died. Or left. Or wasn’t what I thought or needed them to be. We’ve all seen One Tree Hill – people always leave. Come on dummy, Peyton Sawyer told you that fourteen years ago. Why didn’t you tattoo it on your goddamn clavicle?! But I say it all the time: I don’t want to ever have to count on anyone, and I don’t want anyone to ever have to count on me. I feel like I’ve been talking out of my ass. Why do I feel so shocked by what seemingly shouldn’t be a revelation? Because it never sank in: PEOPLE ALWAYS LEAVE

 

But if you hate everyone and everything then you don’t care when they leave. Dude, I had it right the whole time and then I went to freaking Utah where I learned that a life without pain is a life without love and that’s not a life worth living. And I believed them. But beliefs aren’t truth. So this past year I opened myself up to new relationships, new opportunities, and the ability to experience family and right relationships.
Let’s take inventory: mom still dead.
This year I opened my heart and trust to two men that I thought were actually worth it – turns out they’re not.
Dad looking out for only himself, but trying to pretend he cares that I exist. If he needs something, I exist. He needs, therefore I am.
I’m afraid to disappoint my boss and my patients because I CANT ABANDON them and won’t allow my boss to ABANDON me so I’m so obsessed with doing everything perfectly that at night I have nightmares about forgetting to confirm the patients or being late to work or (this one is so embarrassing) not entering the treatment in the computer fast enough. Face in Palm. I’m making my job stressful when it doesn’t have to be. No one else has these problems. Other people have normal nightmares like they’re naked at school. I’d love to be naked at school.

 

I know I didn’t fail The Bridge. I’m so freaking dramatic. Today I texted my friend who went through it with me:
Me: do you ever feel like if you can’t work through the hard times for a long period that you failed The Bridge?
Friend: all the time
I know this is normal. I know we’re not perfect. I know it’s okay to feel down; maybe I just need a boost in meds, maybe this is just a sad period that I need to push through.
I recognize I’m allowed to feel shitty and feel stressed and cry all the time and it doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me.

I feel like this is supposed to have a positive ending. I’m supposed to say: people are worth it! Not everyone leaves! Love is worth the pain! You can count on people!
I mean, I could say those things. Insert inspirational depression blog quote here. And hey, just because I don’t believe them, doesn’t mean they aren’t true.

Bonkers

 

Last week I was having a discussion with my writing class on why women generally feel the need to apologize for things that men would generally never apologize for. My instructor brought up emails – women would often include “sorry for bothering you, but…” and men would usually just straight up ask for what they want. The way you are answered will be the same, whether you apologize for asking or not. At work, I am not afraid to ask my boss for something I need or want. She, in turn, has no problem saying no. I’m lucky and she usually says yes, but sometimes she just has to say no, like any other boss. Or friend, or family member. (And if I NEED something, she’ll always say yes.) I find this particular aspect of our relationship to be respectful and trusting – we are both not afraid to communicate honestly.

But there are so many areas in my life where I apologize to other people (aka, not my boss) for the dumbest shit. Many times, it was the other person who should have apologized. Many times, there was no need for an apology at all, and this is the most important issue I’m getting at: I realize that I was actually apologizing for being myself, or for stating a need or want. THAT IS NOT OKAY.

As many of you know, I love making lists. I even have a list-making voice that everyone thinks I made up but really I stole from my friend Ari, who in turn stole it from Bill Hader’s Stefon. In fact, my friends could list to you, in order, in the same exact voice and tone, my “favorite things”: highlights, lowlights, cheesecake, Jimmy Fallon… Or the ingredients to Blockhead’s fireball bulldog: fireball, margarita, champagne nose… a straw… (this drink is guaranteed to get you shwasted… if that’s what you’re into…) 

A LIST OF THINGS I HAVE APOLOGIZED FOR THAT I NOW TAKE BACK:

1. I once apologized for asking a guy to wear protection. He didn’t want to, but why should I be sorry? He should have been sorry! We both would’ve been sorry dealing with a baby and the clap. So I take it back. I am NOT SORRY that I asked you to put a lid on it.
2. I was once forced to go rock climbing. I had almost reached the top of the cliff, but my knee literally gave out and I couldn’t put any more weight on that leg. My guide was screaming up at me to finish, and ignoring my pleas to repel down. Finally when they brought me down, I apologized to my guide for not being able to finish. FUCK THAT! I know my body better than anyone. There’s a fine line between pushing yourself and knowing when to stop. Only I can know that line. I am NOT SORRY that I didn’t reach the top.
3. I once apologized to a married man for not wanting to sleep with him. “I’m sorry; I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Of course it’s not a good idea you idiot! It’s the worst idea! It should never have been an idea to begin with! So thanks for not respecting me, or your wife, or your children, and I am NOT SORRY for not sleeping with you, you GARBAGE PERSON.
4. So many women do this one, and I’ve probably done it more times than I care to admit. We’ve all been there and some guy on the street walks by and mumbles/shouts/sings any variation of the following: what up Shorty, you got a man? Damn girl, you’re beautiful, you got a boyfriend? You know where a guy could take you for some good Chinese food around here? By the way, that last one was asked to me and a friend while we were literally standing in front of two different Chinese restaurants. My response is always, “sorry, I have a boyfriend”. You know what? I don’t have a boyfriend. And it should be enough just to say “no, thanks.” Or in my friend Gila’s case, shout “That’s rude!” and then by some miracle the guy will actually apologize. It happened. He apologized. I was there.

Once I was rushing to the gym on Broadway and 49th with my headphones in. A guy on the street tried to hand me his demo and I said, “No, thanks” and kept walking. Through my headphones I could hear him shouting, “You don’t want to take something from a black man’s hand!” I stopped walking, turned around, took my headphones out, and shouted, “Excuse you! No you do not! You do not say that to someone who politely declines something you are offering.” Okay, fine, one time I said something I could feel good about. In situations of cat calling, staying silent often feels like complacency and even complicitness. Saying “no thanks” seems weak and futile. But saying “sorry, I have a boyfriend” suggests that if not for that dumbass imaginary boyfriend in my imaginary Park Avenue penthouse  (jk, you all know I’d die to live in Grenwich) cooking a roast in my imaginary pink Le Creuset cast iron skillet, I’d be all yours buddy. Let’s hand those demo tapes out together. I AM NOT SORRY I DON’T WANT TO BE YOUR SHORTY.

5. I had once been into a guy, but because of the circumstances, I didn’t do anything about it. I knew it could never work, and I seriously doubted he was even into me. Then, months later, behold! He is into me! A guy I’m actually into is into me! This doesn’t happen to me. Like, ever. This was followed by some really (hot) intense texting, radio silence, and then him telling me he needs time to work on his health and can’t be attached. I may have freaked out. And freaked out some more. And then apologized for being crazy. The truth is, I was embarrassed for not being able to let go when he was genuinely trying to do the right thing for himself. But am I crazy?

I totally understand his need to be healthy; it’s what I want for him, too. But you can’t tell a girl you’re into her and then not be into her and expect her to forget it ever happened, or to let it go immediately. It takes some of us two-three weeks to let go of shit like that. And to be honest, that’s the stronger some of us. The strongest ones can just say “okay” and never bring it up again, but how strong are they really and who are they kidding? Anyway, since we’re strong, we don’t go down lightly. There will be texting, shouting, irrationality, and “irrationality”. At first I was like, oh shit, this isn’t who I am. Now he’s seeinga totally insane side of me. Now he’ll never want me. But then I was like, know what? I am crazy. I don’t care. This is who I am. But then I was like, know what? I’m not crazy! It’s not crazy to still be into a guy and still be hurt after going through the emotional rollercoaster HE INITIATED, no matter how good the other person’s intentions are. I know he cares about me (I hope), and I hope he’s still into me even though he might now think I’m a psychotic handful. But that’s on him. I’m a human being with human emotions and I’M NOT SORRY ABOUT IT. Although, I am sorry I said I hate you. That was horrible. And not true. You’re a really special person and I’d give anything for us to get back to where we used to be.

6. Shiva for my mother was one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had. For seven days my house was packed with people from morning until night. No chance for a quiet cup of coffee in the morning before the chaos starts, because oh, it already started.  There were about twenty men in my living room saying shacharit (Jewish morning prayers) and me walking through my house in my pajamas and discussing my feelings with my golden retreiver was disrespectful.

So I kept apologizing. For taking a nap in the middle of the day when people had come to pay their respects. For shutting down and being unable to show my face. For making my own damn coffee because no one will ever be able to make it like I can (during Shiva the mourners are not allowed to serve themselves). For showering. For looking in the mirrors that the mirror ladies had covered while literally shoving me out of the way (mourners cannot shower or look in the mirror during Shiva). They covered the mirrors ten minutes after my mother died. Please shove me out of the way. I’m numb anyway so I probably didn’t feel it. For having my dog out. I’m so sorry I need my dog around to comfort me, but all these strangers are afraid of dogs, so I should probably put him away. You think my dog didn’t just suffer a monumental loss? He slept in the spot she died for weeks. My dog needed me, and I needed him.

Shiva is dumb. As the only female mourner, I always had to be around. But the other male mourners in my household kept bouncing because, again, Shiva sucks. They never apologized for leaving. So you know what? I am NOT SORRY that I fell apart after my mother died and I couldn’t live up to everyone’s expectations of me.

If you are ever sitting Shiva, I won’t say anything if you want to wear pajamas all day and shower and look in the mirror. I’ll do it with you.

Sick Sad World (thanks Daria!)

*all photos in this article are from genius 1990s MTV show “Daria”*

​It’s been a while since my last post, and that’s because I’ve been feeling so well and taking the time to focus on the things that make me happy: working, writing, and traveling. In addition to working on my novel I’ve been taking a new writing class and I have started performing my personal essays at story telling shows. Now if only I could get back to the gym and get swimming again! And also be a little better about seeing my friends… unfortunately my bed still beckons to me like a bright shining star. I’m still not as good as I should be about making social plans with the people I want to hang out with. Swimming and being social: there’s always stuff to work on.
​Recently I went through an experience that flipped my whole positive and fulfilling trajectory all upside down. One night a few weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night hot and freezing, with a dizzying migraine, and my sight going in and out of focus. I knew I had a fever, but I didn’t have a thermometer. I prime now-ed (is that how you say it?) a thermometer to my apartment, and was shocked that the thermometer read 105 (Fahrenheit, for you foreigners.) My friend asked if I was using it right because if I had 105 I’d be dead, and I rolled my eyes. Of course I was using it right. I looked at the box; I’d been using it under my tongue like a normal human being, but this was apparently an infant thermometer, and was supposed to be used on the temple. If I hadn’t felt like dying I would have felt pretty dumb. Okay, I felt dumb anyway.

​With the thermometer used right I had 103. I was alone in my apartment. No one was around. I knew I had to get to the hospital or a doctor. I didn’t have the strength to call a cab and get in one and get to an emergency room. I called an ambulance which brought me to the ER at Columbia Presbyterian. While the nurses did all their workups and labs on me, I realized I was laying there silently crying. Hot tears were flowing from the corners of my eyes and soaking the hospital sheets around my head. A nurse said, “What’s wrong honey?” To which I replied, “I’m just afraid.” Yes, I was afraid. But I knew what it was – I was alone. I’d never been to the emergency room before. Any time in my life I’d been ill, my mother had always been there. She’d leave work early, stay home, take me to every doctor, fight with me to take my medication, tell me sick people don’t stay up all night texting boys when they should be sleeping, and make me Lipton tea with milk and honey. Growing up, I thought everyone put milk in their tea, not just the British. As you all know, my mother passed two years ago. So here I was in the hospital, alone. My father couldn’t drive to me, and probably would have contracted some illness if he would have come. My brother was on a date. My roommate was in LA. I didn’t text the majority of my friends; as I hadn’t been that social lately, why would they drop their lives to come?

​The doctors told me I had Pneumonia. This was weird to me because I hadn’t been coughing nor having trouble breathing, but it was there on the x-ray. The dental hygienist in me wanted to tell them they were wrong, as it was clearly cervical burnout, but only a dental professional would get that and that’s not a thing on non-tooth x-rays. Actually, only my boss laughed at that joke. Speaking of my boss, I asked the nurse if I’d be able to go to work the next day. She laughed in my face. I began to panic. Who would see my patients the next day? If I don’t work I don’t get paid… how would I pay my rent? Did I have organs I could donate in the hospital for money? What would be a good street corner to sell my body on?
​So I sat there and cried. I had no health insurance and didn’t think to say my name was Monica Geller like in Friends. I had no money. My patients had no one to clean their teeth. I had no mother. I was alone in the hospital. My father, who’d passed the pneumonia along to me, couldn’t afford to be Indian gifted. My roommate was across the country, but even if she’d been in NYC, I couldn’t expect her to drop her life for me, same as for every other friend of mine. But had my mother been alive she would have been there no questions asked. She would have dropped anything she had for me. She would have beaten my ambulance to the hospital, same as I used to do for her.
​But then the friend who’d told me I used the thermometer wrong appeared at my hospital curtain. I’d asked him to tell my boss I was sick, and unbeknownst to me, she’d asked if I was alone, and told him to come to me. I’m pretty sure he would have come anyway. I felt so loved and cared for when he was there, and felt so loved and cared for when I found out my boss had made sure someone was there since she couldn’t be.

​I spent the next week at home alone in my apartment, since my roommate was still away, laying in the dark and sleeping and crying. It hurt my eyes to watch TV. I couldn’t work and I was poor. I felt so shitty and I had no mother and I was alone. It was such a horrible feeling – I could’ve died and no one would have known. I’m not even sure why I cared about that. Since my mother had died my mantra had become “I’m strong, I don’t need anyone, and I can take care of myself.” But I couldn’t take care of myself; I needed someone, and someone specific. My Mama. My boss and the rest of my office checked in. My friend who knows how to use thermometers brought me medication and Gatorade. I’m so grateful I had them.
​I finally went back to work. And then relapsed. All of my symptoms came back. And again, I had no one. People were at work. People had events they needed to run. I didn’t even bother telling my brother. I called my father crying hysterically, and then felt bad immediately because I knew there was nothing he could do. He wouldn’t come – no one would. But you know what? It wasn’t so bad this time around. This time I only cried because I couldn’t find my nurse and I was hungry and my head felt like it was about to implode. Around midnight my roommate and my thermometer friend were free and offered to come, but I said no, because I had no TV and didn’t want them to be bored.

​The doctor said I had C-dif and let me go. My roommate sprayed the whole apartment down with Clorox and was convinced we were both going to die. I was confused because she seemed much more concerned than the doctor. Thermometer friend suggested that maybe I’d misunderstood the doctor, and that’s why he’d wanted to come the night before – to listen to the doctor for me.
I’m an idiot. I kicked myself for not letting someone take care of me because I thought I would be inconveniencing them. Just because I don’t have my mother anymore doesn’t mean I don’t have someone who would still drop everything, even if not always. Turns out, the doctor wasn’t clear: I had a c-dif like episode due to complications from the pneumonia, likely a reaction to the antibiotics. In other words, my roommate and I weren’t going to die. From C-dif, that is. We’ll probably die when the mouse in our apartment figures out how to use the knives.

Yesterday someone told me I’m living the dream because I have a great job, but have time to pursue my dream, interests, and goals. I feel so grateful for all the amazing things I have in my life, but recently, I’m the most grateful for the years of unconditional love and support I had from my mother. I now realize that just because my mother is gone doesn’t mean I’ll never experience these emotions against.
Anyway, back to swimming and social life! Thanks for reading!

Feelings are not Facts

Recently I was bogged down with two acute conditions, one right after the other. First I sprained my ankle and tore most of the ligaments on the left side of my left foot. Then when that finally healed, I endured almost three weeks of a practically antibiotic-resistant lymph infection. I rested as much as I could. I stayed in bed for whole weekends, and every night right after work. Finally the stress of missing the gym, missing my friends, and not being able to get around or go out got to me, and I feel this led to an episode of chronic migraines that lasted almost a week. My spirits were down. My work ethic was down. I tried to remember everything I had learned at the Bridge, but my mind went blank.

Finally the shit hit the fan. I was informed that I did not have my shit together and that I was regressing. Hearing this killed me, because I did not think it was the case. I tried to explain my thoughts, and was cut off, being told I was trying to be a martyr. I was not in the position to argue, as defending myself would be seen as attitude-y and excuse-y. My migraines were chronic, meaning I was in control of them, and because I finally tried to socialize and go to a holiday party, which I left early because of said migraine, I was putting myself in a position of not having my priorities in line. Again, not in a position to discuss.
So after crying about it for a very long time, I spoke to my therapist that night. We were skype-ing, because he is my therapist from the Bridge. He heard what I said and replied, “That’s bullshit. Just because someone says you don’t have your shit together, doesn’t mean it’s true. Just because someone thinks you’re acting like a martyr or that you have attitude doesn’t mean you do. Feelings are not facts, and just because someone says something doesn’t make it a fact.”
This really resonated with me. We spoke more, and I was able to pinpoint what I had been feeling, and what I was doing that made this person feel hurt and stressed out. I couldn’t change this person, and I had to accept that. But I could take responsibility for my own actions.
I’ve applied this principle in many areas of my life; when something is someone else’s personal life or issues that they’re taking on me, and when something is really my own issue. Sometimes it can be a combination of both. People often don’t realize the affect their words have on other people, especially when they lash out and are not able to have a calm, respectful discussion. I immediately think I did something horrible. I attack myself for being a certain way. I need to show myself some love and compassion. It’s okay to slip. It’s okay to have a few off days or even weeks. I shouldn’t beat myself up over it; realize what my issue is, and realize what the other person’s issue is. Often the issues will not be the same.

Feelings are not facts. You can feel you’re in love with someone, but that doesn’t mean it’s true. You can feel someone doesn’t make you a priority, but that doesn’t make it true. Someone can be going through a personal crisis and take it out on you without even realizing their cruelty or disrespect; it doesn’t mean they are cruel or disrespectful.We are in control of our feelings, once we identify what they are and what they mean. We are able to act instead of react, which of course, is much easier said than done. If someone says you don’t have your shit together and you believe them, then you don’t have your shit together. If someone says you are regressing and you believe them, then you are regressing. We get what we put out in this world. So if we think: that’s bullshit, I’m allowed to slip up, and I know what I have to do to strengthen myself because I am confident and strong and wonderful, then we have all the shit in the world together. And that’s progression, not regression.

Cliche time: The only person who can belittle you is you. The words of others mean nothing… (except for when they do, and if we’re able to take personal inventory of ourselves and recognize when we’ve hurt someone, we of course must make amends.)
As the new year approaches, I am grateful for the people in my life, the amazing city I live in, the roof over my head (which sometimes leaks) and my wonderful job. I intend to work towards right relationships with others, and that begins with myself.

Breaking the Stigma: Post Partum Depression -written by Shaina Giller

This post is written by my very first guest blogger, my friend Shaina! Thank you so much Shaina for sharing your story.

Breaking the Stigma: Postpartum Depression

Shaina Giller
I had an amazing first pregnancy. I was so thrilled to be pregnant, and felt so blessed every minute of those 9 months. While I did have morning sickness, back pain, among other things, I just loved being pregnant. I just loved feeling my son kicking and hiccupping, and knowing he was always there with me. People couldn’t believe how happy I was to be pregnant, even up until the very end. In fact, on my due date when they told me my water had broken and I was in labor, I actually cried because I wasn’t ready to not be pregnant anymore! My labor and delivery was long, but relatively uneventful. My son, Evan, was born – he was so perfect, 8 pounds, 6 ounces, with 10 beautiful tiny toes and fingers, and little rolls of “chub” that I loved so much. And the cheeks – oh, those cheeks! I was in love with him from the minute I saw him.

During our hospital stay he was in the NICU due to minor complications during delivery, but everyone was doing well and there was nothing to be concerned about. I was in a ton of pain and noticed how so many of the other women around me seemed to be able to stand up, hold their babies easily, even just get dressed into (comfortable) regular clothing, while I was still being pushed around in the hospital wheelchair because I was just in too much pain to even try standing up or getting dressed. I wondered what was wrong with me that I looked and felt so awful but the rest of them were handling it better than me, but I tried pushing those thoughts out of my head and focusing on my baby. I wanted to breastfeed so badly, and met with the hospital lactation consultant and attended a breastfeeding class while I was there to try to maximize the chances that I could. Because of my long labor/delivery and the way the timing worked out, I hadn’t slept in almost 3 days, other than the occasional 15-30 minutes here or there. I was determined to give my son only breast milk, so I insisted the nurses wake me every time he needed to be fed in the NICU, so I was going upstairs to the NICU every 1.5-2 hours around the clock to try to feed him. I was completely exhausted, but I told myself that this was motherhood and I wanted to do the best for my baby, so I pushed through.

Once we got home, we had our first night together. My husband, Shimmy, had to go to work the next day so I insisted he get some sleep. He told me to wake him if I needed any help, and asked me to wake him no matter what after a few hours so he could take over if Evan wouldn’t sleep. I already knew I wouldn’t be waking him because I was the mom, so in my head, I should be able to handle it on my own. The night was awful. Evan screamed the ENTIRE night. Inconsolable. I sat there crying hysterically right along with him. I had no milk, he was starving, I hadn’t bought any formula “just in case” because I was convinced I should only be breastfeeding, and he just cried and cried. I already felt like a complete failure. I went from this amazing high of being so happy to be pregnant and then meeting my sweet little boy, to this feeling of complete and utter failure at everything.

The next couple of weeks got worse. Evan was colicky, and cried day and night. He hated the bouncy seat, stroller, bassinet, carrier, swing, floor, and carseat. He screamed at the top of his lungs all day, every day, sometimes until he turned purple. I was terrified to even leave my apartment with him because all he did was scream. I remember trying to take a walk with him once in the stroller, and he cried and screamed so loud everyone on the street was staring at me like I was a terrible mother (or so I thought). I quickly went back inside and just cried. I felt so isolated, so alone. I didn’t understand why everyone else seemed to have these sweet, happy, smiling babies, and mine just cried and cried. In my mind, it must be me. I must just be a terrible mother. I hated myself for not being able to make him happy, for not producing enough milk for him, for him clearly hating me as his mother no matter how hard I tried. I wanted that bond everyone talks about, but all I felt was emptiness. I loved him so much, but felt disconnected. Almost like he wasn’t mine. It’s a hard feeling to explain, but I loved him and felt like he wasn’t mine all at once. I just wanted to run away, because he deserved a mother who would be able to make him happy. A mother who was able to calm him, and feed him, and who wasn’t failing at everything.

Finally at 4 weeks Evan was diagnosed with a tongue and lip tie, but even after getting it snipped, I still produced hardly any milk. I so desperately wanted to breastfeed my baby, and with all the people saying how “breast is best” and making it seem like formula is poison, I felt like the worst mother for failing at this too. In my mind, what kind of mother was I that I couldn’t feed my own child? Finally, after encouragement by the pediatrician, my OB/GYN, and my husband, I stopped.

I very vividly remember my 6-week postpartum appointment at the OB/GYN. I didn’t realize I had been scheduled to see the nurse practitioner, and when they told me, I started crying and insisted I see the doctor instead. I had a great relationship with her, and I love her as a doctor. She has always been wonderful, compassionate, and caring. I knew something was wrong with me, and needed to talk to her. I got to the appointment, and they handed me a questionnaire. Questions about if I spend a lot of time crying, or if I ever feel suicidal, or how my connection was with my baby. And I lied. I lied on every single question. I had planned on talking to her about how I felt, but in the moment when I saw those questions, I was embarrassed and felt horrible for having the feelings and thoughts I was having. How could I be so miserable when I had such a wonderful, supportive husband, and a healthy (maybe not so happy, but thank G-d healthy) baby at home? I was too embarrassed and ashamed to admit to how I was feeling, so I lied on the questionnaire and I lied to the doctor when she asked how I was doing. I cried a lot during the appointment, but blamed it on pain from the recovery (which was pretty bad also), when really it was from being ashamed of my feelings, and knowing it was even worse that I was lying about it and would continue suffering alone. I felt so hopeless when I left, and so alone.

It took 18 months before I was finally diagnosed with postpartum depression. 18 months of hell. Of feeling alone, isolated, ashamed, guilty. The guilt was the worse part. I felt like no matter what I did wasn’t enough. My husband, Shimmy, was wonderfully supportive, always there if I needed him, and I really honestly believe I couldn’t have survived without him. But even he didn’t know the full extent of how bad it was, because I kept most of it to myself. I tried to put on a fake smile, act like things were ok, all while I was dying on the inside. Whenever the façade cracked and I showed how hard of a time I was having, people would tell me how I should just be grateful for all the blessings in my life. How I should appreciate my husband and son more. And every time people said that to me, it made the feelings so much worse. I KNEW how blessed I was. I KNEW how grateful I should be. But that’s the funny thing with depression – you just simply can’t control how you feel. Logically I knew how I SHOULD feel, but the fact that I wasn’t feeling that way just exacerbated the terrible feelings of guilt. I had the life I always wanted, but somehow felt like I was dying on the inside, and felt like the only one in the world who felt this way.

I spent 18 months going to sleep at night and wishing I wouldn’t wake up the next morning. Praying something would happen to me so I didn’t have to exist anymore. I felt like my husband deserved a better wife, my son deserved a better mother, my parents deserved a better daughter, my friends deserved a better friend. It didn’t matter how much Shimmy supported me or reassured me, I felt like a burden to them and to my whole family. I wished I would get hit by a car, or all these other million ways I could just not exist on this earth anymore. I remember at one point I almost got into a bad car accident on the highway with a tractor-trailer, and I pulled over after and cried hysterically because I was devastated that I didn’t get hit. I know it sounds awful, but I really, truly believed my whole family would be better off without me. The depression was awful, but the anxiety was just as debilitating. I felt like I was constantly suffocating from the fear of bad things happening to the people I love. I walked down the street every day and had visions of cars swerving onto the sidewalk, lightposts coming down, trees falling and hitting my husband or my baby in the head, one of us tripping and falling and cracking our heads open on the ground. I was afraid to go anywhere and often felt like I couldn’t breathe because I was so terrified of losing the people I love most. I had such intrusive thoughts that caused so much anxiety, I just couldn’t take it anymore. Any possible thing that could go wrong crossed my mind, and I was so terrified of anything happening to Shimmy or Evan, I couldn’t function anymore.

At 18 months I started experiencing panic attacks, I had difficulty breathing and frequently felt like I was suffocating and couldn’t get enough air, and I started losing weight. A friend of mine recommended her therapist, and I will forever be grateful. I really believe it saved my life. He was amazing, and finally diagnosed me with postpartum depression. After 18 months, I finally understood why I felt the way I did. While this didn’t make it easier, it was so helpful to know why I felt this way. I was afraid of medication, so refused to even consider that option and opted to continue therapy, which helped a lot, but not entirely. I finally did start feeling a little better, but then got pregnant with my younger son. While the pregnancy was completely planned and wanted, as soon as I saw the positive test I began to panic. I panicked about having another colicky baby, about the isolation, the feelings of failure, the PPD returning full force. I spent 9 months depressed and terrified. Finally, with the encouragement of Shimmy, I spoke to my doctor about my fears and my situation. We came up with a plan, and she felt due to the history of severe PPD before, I should start to take a low dose of medication in the hospital the day my son was born. I was scared of the meds, but after a lot of thought and consideration with my doctor, therapist, and husband, we decided I should try it. I needed to do everything I could to avoid what I went through the first time.

My son, Zachary, was born a month early (which I wasn’t at all ready for!), but thank G-d healthy, and the happiest baby in the world. For all the time his brother spent crying, Zach spent smiling. Shimmy and I would sometimes look at each other and wonder out loud WHY was he smiling so much? Was everything ok? Was this normal? How did this happen? It was a shock, a very happy, wonderful shock, but a shock nonetheless, to have a baby who was HAPPY with me. I finally felt like maybe I wasn’t a terrible mom. Maybe sometimes colic is just colic, and maybe it really wasn’t a reflection on ME as a mother.

I started Zoloft in the hospital the day Zach was born. I was put on a very low dose, I made sure to have a great support system around me, we hired a baby nurse for 3 weeks to make sure I had the chance to rest and sleep, as sleep deprivation can be a huge contributor to PPD, and I swore to myself I wouldn’t put so much pressure on myself to breastfeed. I am so thankful I listened to my doctors and started the meds. My experience the second time was nothing like the first. I ended up switching entirely to formula by around 1 month (I had no milk and even though the doctors told me it was safe, I was still anxious about the meds being passed on to him through breast milk), and it was such a relief. A fed baby is a happy, healthy baby. A formula-fed baby with a happy, healthy mother, is better than a breastfed baby with a mother who can’t stop crying or having panic attacks. I had an amazing, supportive husband, therapist, pediatrician, and ob/gyn who helped me so much during this postpartum period. I did end up having some PPD symptoms return at around 4-5 months postpartum, but the doctor increased my medication a little, and I felt much better. It never got nearly as severe as the first time.

I won’t say I don’t have bad days, because I do. I still have more anxiety than I should. I still worry a lot about my kids, my husband, my family, money, health, the future. Work stresses me out and I do still feel often (especially lately) that I am trying to do too many things at once and not doing a great job at any of them. I get overwhelmed easily and still often feel like I’m failing at a lot. But I don’t have the constant feeling that everyone would be better off without me. The medication has allowed me to appreciate my life and my family, and ENJOY them more. I can enjoy my incredibly supportive husband, and my family more. And most importantly, I can enjoy being a mom to my hilariously funny, sweet, and smart big boy Evan, and my happy, smiley little guy, Zach.

It took me a long time to be able to open up about this and not feel so ashamed. But an interesting thing happened when I started to be more open about it – people started coming up to me in private and sharing their stories. I can’t even count anymore how many people have told me privately about their struggles with PPD, their experiences with medication that they took (or still take), the feelings of loneliness and guilt that they had and how they thought they were the only ones going through it, their relief in seeing that someone else experienced the same thing and they weren’t the only ones. One of the hardest things for me was needing to constantly pretend on the outside that everything was fine, when on the inside I felt like I was dying. I wish I had known how common this is when I was going through the worst of it – I would have reached out for help sooner.

If someone had diabetes, or a heart problem, or a thyroid condition, nobody would expect them to fight through it by just putting on a smile, without getting help from a doctor or taking medication. The same should be for mental illness – depression is a chemical imbalance in the brain, a medical condition just like any other. And nobody should be expected to fight through it on their own, put on a happy face, and just pretend everything is ok.

I am opening up about my experience with postpartum depression because I truly believe it needs to be talked about more. The stigma of postpartum depression (and all other types of mental illness) needs to be broken in order for things to get better. People – especially new mothers – need to understand they aren’t alone, and aren’t “broken,” just because they are struggling so much. And most importantly, I want people to know it CAN get better with the right therapy, sometimes medication, and the right support system around you.