How can I sit here and encourage other women to talk about their mental health when I can’t even be honest about mine?
There’s nothing I can let go of that ends my renewed experiences of stigma and shame surrounding mental illness.
“Toothpaste, coffee filters, a vibrator…” Grocery lists are about to look really different.
“Real lesbians don’t wear strap-ons.”
Despite our strides toward gender equality, it seems menstruation is still shameful, and must, at all costs, be hidden.
My name is Elizabeth, and I’m mentally ill.
I’m not particularly interested in looking for a romantic relationship.
Every day was a struggle to get up and go to class. I found no meaning in anything I did.
Sometimes the hardest place to be is inside your own head.
How could I be naked with my sickness in public and, simultaneously, unseen?
I wasn’t raised to hide mental illness, even during times of crisis.
‘Tampons? What are those. We don’t say those words out loud.’
Because there shouldn’t be anything shameful about it.
Soon you’ll be able to get it on whenever you want.