Feminism | Posted by Louisa G on 05/21/2014
Why We Need To Stop Romanticizing Mental Illness Amongst Teen Girls
I realized recently that my generation has a strange fascination with the perception of mental illness, especially as it relates to teenage girls. I’ve noticed young women posting many quotes about mental illness on their Instagrams and Tumblrs — the sadder, the better, it seems. I think this increasing fascination with and performance of depression may stem from the media through the likes of movies and books where “broken” girls are seemingly put back together by the undying love of a man. This goes further than the typical boy-meets-girl cliché of an 80s movie and delves into the fantasy that someone with severe depression can be simply “fixed” by the right guy.
The infatuation people have with making mental illness something that can be seen as beautiful and even romantic …
Creative | Posted by Carson R on 06/22/2012
Everything Was Okay
*Trigger warning: the following story may be upsetting to survivors of / those sensitive to descriptions of sexual assault*
Eve is a palindrome. Reverse the order of letters, and the word remains the same. You’d never notice anything wrong with a backwards eve.
Eve is a marketing consultant. She lives in a narrow townhouse in Seattle. Her cat, Charcoal, roams the metal stairs and hardwood floors. In her living room, a whiteboard of scribbles rests on the black sofa. On the kitchen counter, a stack of invoices bears coffee stains. This is her office, where the computer is always on. Every morning, she comes downstairs and shakes the mouse, and the monitor casts a glow upon her face. The sky is just beginning to brighten as she types out her …
Creative | Posted by Sonia L on 10/15/2010
Blazing Stink of an August Sidewalk
Blazing stink of an august sidewalk. My fingers my eyeballs are grey with the newsprint of this morning’s sins and a heavy shamed sickness knowing I am born with Certain Inalienable Rights: to have legs. To speak read write words on a page to love without fearing the circle of empty faces bodies hating reasonless shoulder to shoulder, sure in blamelessness hands grope for stones. Would they break my glasses first? Or my breasts, badge of my station, proof in the flesh of my wickedness. The fashion models have blood in their hair.
They told me I was my own to give or not. They loosed my foremothers from their ovens handed them ballots and birth control But I was created unequal The girls who I was not born learn …