Afrofuturist Triptych for My Mother
This is what I think of when I think of home; Africa is my altar.
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Posts Tagged: self harm
The Mania of Queer Desire: In Praise of Fever Ray’s Plunge
I remember driving a bird mad once.
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Blood Falls: On Self-Harm and Making Pain Visible
Always present and never heard, like the pain I feel but don’t know how to share.
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Nurture Rupture: On Motherhood, Writing, and Gender Inequality
Do I have a public self that is separate from my private self? I’m not so certain about that.
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ENOUGH: A Drama Queer Navigates Trauma
A Rumpus series of work by women and non-binary writers that engages with rape culture, sexual assault, and domestic violence.
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Ablutions: A Triptych
I am twenty the first time I turn the water red.
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Smoke Screen
I am an oracle who, while dispensing answers to all those who seek them, cannot predict my own future.
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Breathing into the Paper Bag: Talking with Jenny Valentish
Jenny Valentish discusses her memoir, WOMEN OF SUBSTANCES.
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Breaking the Codes
So I said nothing. To protect you, and to protect myself.
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Inborn Autistic Disturbances of Affective Contact
Maybe you were whistling before you could talk, too.
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ENOUGH: He Could Kill Me
A Rumpus series of work by women and non-binary writers that engages with rape culture, sexual assault, and domestic violence.
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Becoming Bodies
[W]e wanted something different from each other’s bodies than what was actually there, which might be why our bodies sometimes came together.
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Voices on Addiction: Shame Is a Treble Hook
Shame is a treble hook that tells me that 1) I not only fail but am a failure, that 2) I not only damage people but I am damaged, and that 3) I not only lie but I am a lie.
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Back to the Places I’ve Left
“No one knows how to handle it,” I tell her, but I can see she’s angry and I’m speaking into the wind.
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Voices on Addiction: Dynamite
The world is a merry-go-round, a sawed-off shotgun, a ticker tape. There’s no struggle now. There’s only darkness, breathlessness, exit—
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The Saturday Rumpus Essay: No Wound
Maybe I can touch it and show it to you. If I convince you, we can call it real. And then perhaps it will be.
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The Saturday Rumpus Essay: Heirlooms
The strings of our DNA mark us as one, but it’s the roots of our memories that bind us.
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On Playing Games, Productivity, and Right Livelihood
One week last spring I said it out loud for the first time: “Sometimes I play so long, my fingers go numb.”
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The Saturday Rumpus Essay: On Madness and Mad Men
In my eight years as a Mad Men fan, the series has repeatedly prompted me to reflect on parenting.
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Albums of Our Lives: Nirvana’s Nevermind
The first time I listened to Nevermind, I sat on the bathroom floor with the liner notes and jewel case open on my lap.
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His Greatest Masterpiece
The banality of evil hides in people, and who they unleash it upon become forever tainted by their names. They become one. Creator and monster. Evil by association.
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anhedonia and Hypertext
Depression is often marked by this type of absence—loss of pleasure, loss of energy, loss of meaning. It is frequently described as a type of nothingness, and while that nothingness is something, it can elude usual means of communication.
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