Rumpus Exclusive: An Excerpt from Gayle Brandeis’s The Art of Misdiagnosis
After my mom hangs herself, I become Nancy Drew. I am looking for clues, for evidence. Answers.
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Breaking Through: Gayle Brandeis Discusses The Art of Misdiagnosis
Gayle Brandeis discusses her memoir, The Art of Misdiagnosis, out today from Beacon Press.
R.I.P.: Who Died in This House?
Death stigmatizes a property. I also believe that it stigmatizes a person.
The Rumpus Mini Interview #106: Louise Marburg
The stories [in THE TRUTH ABOUT ME], like Marburg herself, are insightful, witty, to the point, and told with her wonderfully dry sense of humor.
Working through Trauma
Danilova says the act of making the album helped her to work through this shared existential trauma.
#SuicideGirls: Why I Teach Sylvia Plath
But let’s not forget: feminism is, at least in part, about choice, and portions of life are play, not politics. Play and relationships and creativity and whatever we want.
Peeping under the Goddamn Door: The Price of Empathy in S-Town
[F]or the first time, I really see the tradeoffs between privacy and honest-to-god, up-close empathy.
Albums of Our Lives: As Cities Burn’s Come Now Sleep
Most often, I do not speak when I am alone. That morning I sat on the couch and said Oh my God. I said it aloud, again and again, Oh my God.
Written in Chalk: What It Means to Be Crazy
As truth becomes more elusive, as fact blends with fiction, we ought to take notice of how we categorize people, as categorization seems to be married to suppression, to disenfranchisement.
The Storming Bohemian Punks the Muse #25: Are You Now, or Have You Ever Been, a Success?
In America, everybody, it seems, wants to be a success. Me, too. Recently, I confided to a family member that sometimes, in moments of deep despair (fortunately they are fairly…
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—
The Sunday Rumpus Essay: Pandora and the Naked Dead Woman
Bite that apple, open that jar at your own risk and see how your garden grows, how hopeful you remain. Paradise is, after all, blissful self-ignorance.