I wish I could write this in the past tense. I wish I could say that depression happened to me once and now I'm fine. I wish I could say that I wrote a suicide letter, freaked myself out, went to therapy, and now I'm happy. I want to say, confidently, that I'll never feel that low again.But I know

It's Jocelyn's birthday and she's turning 15. Her family has invited Liz and me for a small family dinner at Olive Garden to celebrate. At the table, I order the ravioli di portobello because I love mushrooms. My dish has seven raviolis coated in a whitish-pink sauce with tomatoes and chives. I

I have a prolapsed uterus, something I wrote about a few months ago. My OBGYN suggested Kegels to start. She mentioned physical therapy but said if I didn’t get better, I might need a pessary, a device inserted into my vagina to hold up my uterus. Needless to say, I started doing Kegels every

I've been having a hard time lately. My unemployment and personal failures, wrapped in mood and anxiety disorders, have essentially reduced my self-esteem to nothingness. My confidence interacting with the world is moot. I recently left a psychiatric hospital where I was put on a slew of

So you're here for your massage appointment. You check in, drink a glass of lemon or cucumber water, and your massage therapist greets you. You're led down a dimly lit hallway to your treatment room. You disrobe and lie under the sheets. But what does your massage therapist really think about