All of my doctors assure me that the weight loss will slow down eventually, and then I can begin to settle into my new body. I have an irrational fear that they are wrong -- that this weight loss will never, ever end, that I will shrink away into nothingness and disappear.
I’ll never endorse the wake-and-bake approach to parenting, but I can’t see the difference between a glass or two of wine in the evening and a few hits of OG Kush off a clean bong.
If you had told my needle-phobic childhood self that I’d ever be begging complete strangers for a box of shots so I could inject myself at home I would never have believed it, but that was my life for months.
I grew up with the idea that doctors knew what they were doing, that they were competent and trustworthy and had most of the answers. I don't believe that anymore.
Going to bed that night, I decided I wanted to make certain that my daughter knew that no matter what happened between us -- no matter what she said -- that our relationship could not be so easily shattered.
There’s this perception that the lives of the disabled are somehow diminished, or that we carry some weight or sadness inside, and I want to dispel that.
I have long-standing relationships that never recovered from my diagnosis and friendships which have never been the same after reactions to my use of various aids, medications or therapies.
There is still too little room for the disabled or less-than-perfect in the yoga community. We talk about bodies and acceptance, but what we are usually talking about is healthy bodies -- or bodies that can be turned into healthy bodies.