Poverty sometimes leads to frustration, then regret, and later, understanding.
“Put on your shoes. I need you to go to the store for me.”
Ah. Back in the day. Neighborhoods had local grocery stores within walking distance. The streets were reasonably safe. You could have your eight-year-old child walk to
An eight-year-old girl lays in bed with her covers pulled tight around her chin. She squeezes a bear just as old as she is against her side. Her parents are in the hallway screaming at each other about any and every misdemeanor that had ever occurred in their
I am 15 years old and standing in the back yard of a house in Seaford, Long island. It is a four bedroom cape with an above ground pool in the yard. My parents are with a real estate agent and they are discussing the property or rather
“She said no.”
The words pushed past my lips in a hiss of fury. My pulse was beating in my ears and my throat was clenching closed, strangling my breath. There was a wide swath of counter between myself and my father-in-law, gleaming white and
I used to think I was part of a minority. Having grown up in Utah and escaped what can be described as a cult-like religion, I only knew a few others who had experienced what I had. However, after a conversation with a friend I realized that there might actually
I didn’t go anywhere for Thanksgiving this year. My husband and I opted to stay in this year and eat some baked ziti that I made. My bonus kids spent the holiday with his ex-wife, and we’ll be doing our Thanksgiving dinner on Friday. For us, veterans of
Thanksgiving to my mother is the only day in the year we can eat with the family and not overload on matzoh balls, gefilte and kugel. I’ve never understood it. She’s never been one to play Mah-Jong with the girls or cook in the kitchen until the smells of judaism
I had just gotten done working out at the gym, and had stopped at the nearby Walmart to pick up some things for dinner. My four year old was at preschool, so I had a deadline, but trying to rush through a store with just one kid is still a
Editor's Note: This article deals explicitly with feelings of self-harm, anxiety and depression, and may be stressful and triggering for some.
So, being honest – writing about how you used to be troubled
but really are not troubled anymore can bring some things back to the surface and leave you feeling
She doesn’t use her dishwasher or her oven anymore.
Correction -- she uses these things, but not in the manner in which they were intended to be used. They have become filing cabinets of sorts. The top rack of the dishwasher is where she stores paper towels. Not rolls of