#happy
by Rebecca Dimyan
The night before I kill myself, I post a picture on Facebook. In the photo, Jazmine and Azalea wear matching pink princess dresses. Jazmine has her arms around her little sister while my husband laughs, tiara-clad and grease-stained nails painted a shade of bubble gum. A gaggle of stuffed animals and dolls surrounds the three of them on the floor, each wearing various dress-up accessories for what Jazmine has declared is tea party time. It’s a wholesome portrait of an average family which I appropriately caption #girldad #typicalfridaynight. The post gets over a hundred likes.
Missing from the photo is the pile of laundry on the couch, the bits and pieces of crackers flecking the living room carpet, and the dirty dishes towering in the sink. The kitchen looks like one of Jazmine’s drawings: colorful chaos—old food scribbled on countertops, mixing bowls, spoons, and partially opened boxes of pasta strewn about the surfaces, not put in their proper places—like the limbs she gives the people she creates. Unopened mail, mostly bills, are flung about the table like forgotten confetti. My husband’s scowl returns after the picture is taken and the sound of two girls screaming in frustration fills the air. The T.V. plays Peppa Pig in the background as Raffi and I resume our argument about everything and nothing.
When my first daughter was born, I felt drained. It was like all the energy and sunlight inside me had been sucked out, and I was left in complete darkness. The sound of the baby crying was awful, a tea kettle screeching and ignored. Before Jazmine was born, we went out all the time: glasses of wine after work, brunch on Sunday afternoons. But then the baby came. The baby came and wine nights, like sleep, seemed like a relic of an ancient past. Simple tasks became overwhelming. The house was invariably covered in dust and toys and crumbs and laundry. The bed was never made. If I had posted these pictures with fitting hashtags like #failingatmotherhood #fucklaundry #neaterwithoutme, no one would have liked them and everyone would have criticized.
Worse than the messy house and the lack of free time is the way I feel when I look at my babies. Numb. I remember thinking when Jazmine was born that she doesn’t make me smile the way all the moms do in Instagram pictures and advertisements. That perfect, teeth-filled smile that dominates their faces. It’s a reckless, loving, stupid, unflappable smile. The authentic kind of smile that can’t be faked, filtered, or edited because it’s so real, so genuine, so contagious that it makes any face beautiful. It’s a mothers’ smile. In the hospital, I grabbed a hand mirror from my hospital bag and practiced contorting my mouth, forcing it into that shape, but it never looked quite right. I tried again when I got home while Jaz slept in a Moses Basket beside me in the bathroom. Still, my lips were too tight or the muscles in my face were too tired. It just looked wrong—like a broken doll-face. #postpartumbeautyisamyth.
Missing from the photo is the pile of laundry on the couch, the bits and pieces of crackers flecking the living room carpet, and the dirty dishes towering in the sink. The kitchen looks like one of Jazmine’s drawings: colorful chaos—old food scribbled on countertops, mixing bowls, spoons, and partially opened boxes of pasta strewn about the surfaces, not put in their proper places—like the limbs she gives the people she creates. Unopened mail, mostly bills, are flung about the table like forgotten confetti. My husband’s scowl returns after the picture is taken and the sound of two girls screaming in frustration fills the air. The T.V. plays Peppa Pig in the background as Raffi and I resume our argument about everything and nothing.
When my first daughter was born, I felt drained. It was like all the energy and sunlight inside me had been sucked out, and I was left in complete darkness. The sound of the baby crying was awful, a tea kettle screeching and ignored. Before Jazmine was born, we went out all the time: glasses of wine after work, brunch on Sunday afternoons. But then the baby came. The baby came and wine nights, like sleep, seemed like a relic of an ancient past. Simple tasks became overwhelming. The house was invariably covered in dust and toys and crumbs and laundry. The bed was never made. If I had posted these pictures with fitting hashtags like #failingatmotherhood #fucklaundry #neaterwithoutme, no one would have liked them and everyone would have criticized.
Worse than the messy house and the lack of free time is the way I feel when I look at my babies. Numb. I remember thinking when Jazmine was born that she doesn’t make me smile the way all the moms do in Instagram pictures and advertisements. That perfect, teeth-filled smile that dominates their faces. It’s a reckless, loving, stupid, unflappable smile. The authentic kind of smile that can’t be faked, filtered, or edited because it’s so real, so genuine, so contagious that it makes any face beautiful. It’s a mothers’ smile. In the hospital, I grabbed a hand mirror from my hospital bag and practiced contorting my mouth, forcing it into that shape, but it never looked quite right. I tried again when I got home while Jaz slept in a Moses Basket beside me in the bathroom. Still, my lips were too tight or the muscles in my face were too tired. It just looked wrong—like a broken doll-face. #postpartumbeautyisamyth.
"Trying to stay sane feels like running drunk with a stack of fragile plates. #PPD #justkiddingImfine"
There is no point in telling anyone how I feel. How could my friends, with their perfect jobs and relationships and manicured nails, possibly understand? Trying to stay sane feels like running drunk with a stack of fragile plates. #PPD #justkiddingImfine. Women are supposed to love their children from the moment they are born. Women are powerful creatures; we create life; we can do anything. At least, this is what I’ve heard. Of course, my own mother didn’t exemplify these attributes. Mama took her morning orange juice with vodka. Mama said a messy house built character. Mama said it was important for six-year-olds to cook their own meals—it taught self-reliance. Mama said bedtime stories were for babies and invalids.
In the hospital, I overheard the new mom in the bed next to mine saying to her mother standing giddy beside her, “How could anyone hold their baby and feel anything other than overwhelming love? Isn’t she just the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen?” Baby only hours old with any traces of waxy white vernix covered by a floral headband that matched her swaddle and her mama’s floral-print robe; both were Instagram-ready. #Imahotmess
I remembered looking down at Jazmine suckling the rubber nipple of the bottle, little gulping sounds filled the air. I felt nothing at all. Except the sting of failure. She had trouble latching, and I wasn’t successfully breastfeeding. My nipples were probably not the right shape or too large for her. It was obviously my fault. I had only been a mother for a few hours, but I was already failing at it. Sweet photos of other women holding their babies, some covered in elegant wraps, others exposing the baby sucking at their teat lit up Facebook; #breastisbest haunted my newsfeed for those first few months.
In the hospital, I overheard the new mom in the bed next to mine saying to her mother standing giddy beside her, “How could anyone hold their baby and feel anything other than overwhelming love? Isn’t she just the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen?” Baby only hours old with any traces of waxy white vernix covered by a floral headband that matched her swaddle and her mama’s floral-print robe; both were Instagram-ready. #Imahotmess
I remembered looking down at Jazmine suckling the rubber nipple of the bottle, little gulping sounds filled the air. I felt nothing at all. Except the sting of failure. She had trouble latching, and I wasn’t successfully breastfeeding. My nipples were probably not the right shape or too large for her. It was obviously my fault. I had only been a mother for a few hours, but I was already failing at it. Sweet photos of other women holding their babies, some covered in elegant wraps, others exposing the baby sucking at their teat lit up Facebook; #breastisbest haunted my newsfeed for those first few months.
Another Tuesday morning, another ritual disaster, another baby girl. Or maybe it’s Wednesday. Sometimes, I lose days like I lose baby socks in the drier. I named this baby Azalea like the flowers my mother planted one year in front of the house on Pine Grove. We only lived in the small cape for six months, but I had loved the white picket fence and the backyard with an old swing set that belonged to someone else’s children. I helped mama plant the pink shrubs. I loved them even when mama told me once upon a time if someone gave you a bouquet of azaleas in a black vase it was considered a death threat. She continued, “If bees ingest pollen from Azaleas, they make mad honey,” she laughed an energetic but mournful sound, a sound like old Jazz, a sound I loved. “If you eat this honey it could make you sick or kill you.” These were the only kind of stories mama told me, and I loved them even when they gave me nightmares.
My Azalea arrived wrapped in a classic white, pink, and blue hospital blanket—not a black vase. She is a difficult baby who cries often. She makes hectic mornings more challenging. This particular morning Jazmine refuses to get dressed for school because her favorite pink and blue polka-dot dress is dirty and the baby won’t eat breakfast or stop throwing food and Raffi doesn’t help with anything because he is late for work again. I don’t have time to clean the kitchen before getting Jazmine on the bus and the baby to daycare. I ignore the dirty, crusty dishes spilling out of the sink and dried food caked like paste on the countertops. The refrigerator is nearly empty except for hotdogs at the back of the freezer because I didn’t have time to get to the store over the weekend. The car’s gas gage is on empty but it should probably be enough to get to work, and I have less than a half hour to get to the bar for my day shift anyway so no time to stop now. I see everything that needs to be done and feel nothing. I feel nothing except thirsty. So, before I drive to work, I drink a glass of vodka. The burning feels good. It feels good because I can feel it. Is this why Mama always started her day with vodka instead of coffee?
I banish thoughts of Mama, take out my phone, and post a picture of Jazmine helping Azalea put yogurt on her little spoon which I manage to capture before Rafi starts yelling and Jazmine starts crying and the baby starts screeching like some kind of wounded animal. I post #justanothertuesdaymorning. The picture gets twenty-five likes before I start the car. Lana from work even comments how sweet the girls are and what a beautiful way to start the day. She has two boys and her Facebook pictures always show hugging, laughing, adoring children.
My Azalea arrived wrapped in a classic white, pink, and blue hospital blanket—not a black vase. She is a difficult baby who cries often. She makes hectic mornings more challenging. This particular morning Jazmine refuses to get dressed for school because her favorite pink and blue polka-dot dress is dirty and the baby won’t eat breakfast or stop throwing food and Raffi doesn’t help with anything because he is late for work again. I don’t have time to clean the kitchen before getting Jazmine on the bus and the baby to daycare. I ignore the dirty, crusty dishes spilling out of the sink and dried food caked like paste on the countertops. The refrigerator is nearly empty except for hotdogs at the back of the freezer because I didn’t have time to get to the store over the weekend. The car’s gas gage is on empty but it should probably be enough to get to work, and I have less than a half hour to get to the bar for my day shift anyway so no time to stop now. I see everything that needs to be done and feel nothing. I feel nothing except thirsty. So, before I drive to work, I drink a glass of vodka. The burning feels good. It feels good because I can feel it. Is this why Mama always started her day with vodka instead of coffee?
I banish thoughts of Mama, take out my phone, and post a picture of Jazmine helping Azalea put yogurt on her little spoon which I manage to capture before Rafi starts yelling and Jazmine starts crying and the baby starts screeching like some kind of wounded animal. I post #justanothertuesdaymorning. The picture gets twenty-five likes before I start the car. Lana from work even comments how sweet the girls are and what a beautiful way to start the day. She has two boys and her Facebook pictures always show hugging, laughing, adoring children.
My eyes used to be a pair of blue sunny afternoons; now, they are overcast, encased in dark half- moons—branded by too much vodka and not enough sleep. I don’t want anyone to notice so I wear my large aviator sunglasses. I’m incognito from my own life. I especially don’t want anyone to notice the smell of vodka on my breath at 10 a.m. so I chew peppermint gum until my jaw is sore. I check in on Facebook when I get to the bar and post Working the day shift today. Come have fun with me! Got eight likes, but no one showed.
When I don’t go home after work, I get into my Toyota and drive to the gas station. I fill the tank so Raffi won’t need to worry about it. I also splurge on a bottle of Absolute. I think about running off to Norway to paint fjords like I said I had wanted to do when I was in college. I never even made it to Europe.
When I don’t go home, my husband calls a dozen times, each time getting the automated “this voice mailbox is full.” None of this is unusual. Raffi calls at least a dozen times a day, everyday. #controllinghubby #momneedsabreak
When I don’t go home after work, I get into my Toyota and drive to the gas station. I fill the tank so Raffi won’t need to worry about it. I also splurge on a bottle of Absolute. I think about running off to Norway to paint fjords like I said I had wanted to do when I was in college. I never even made it to Europe.
When I don’t go home, my husband calls a dozen times, each time getting the automated “this voice mailbox is full.” None of this is unusual. Raffi calls at least a dozen times a day, everyday. #controllinghubby #momneedsabreak
"My eyes used to be a pair of blue sunny afternoons; now, they are overcast, encased in dark half-moons—branded by too much vodka and not enough sleep."
When I don’t go home, I drive to the bridge I used to love as a kid. It never gets a lot of traffic except for teenagers looking for a place to smoke and drink. Junior year of high school I smoked my first cigarette there with my best friend. Nirvana played from the car radio as we sipped coffee from Styrofoam cups. She couldn’t get the lighter to work, and I laughed at her, lighting and then inhaling like an expert. But then I choked and couldn’t stop coughing. I wish I could smoke first cigarettes and enjoy small rebellions again. #foreveryoung
When I don’t go home, I drink half a bottle of vodka. I turn the music up in the car. N’Sync is on the radio. Bye. Bye. Bye. I switch the heat off even though it’s cold. I don’t want to waste gas. When the song ends, I get out of the car and walk outside. Bye. Bye. Bye. It’s so cold. But I don’t really feel it, I don’t really feel anything, and so I remain, standing outside, on the bridge, not going home, watching the sun dip behind the hills. Everything is gold, and, for a minute, I consider going home. I think about Jazmine and how much she’d love this sunset. Then it is dark and home doesn’t really exist anymore. And then I think about how much easier their lives will be without me anyway; I can’t keep the house neat enough, I’m not organized, I’m always losing permission slips and vaccine forms. I even lost Azalea’s birth certificate once, but then Raffi found it under a pile of unread magazines on the kitchen table. Their lives would be so much tidier, so much easier without me. Mama would probably say this would be the ultimate lesson in self-reliance. Teach the girls how to take care of themselves. But #Iamnotmymother.
And Raffi would make a handsome widower. He could easily find a better woman to raise our daughters. I imagine a pretty blonde who wears ruffled aprons when she bakes chocolate chip cookies. I burn everything I bake. She will wear Lululemon and bring the girls to Mommy and Me yoga classes and teach them how to wear makeup. I could never do those things. The water is dark but also blue and gray—like my eyes. Maybe I always belonged to the water.
I could never be like the other moms—the other women with their cute outfits, clean, styled hair, their organic snacks, and the rigorous schedules—the space of their days filled with swim lessons and music classes and homemade gourmet meals. Their houses were always so clean when I took Jazmine to playdates. “Why is our house messy, Mommy? Jessie’s house smells like oranges! I love oranges. Can our house smell like that, too, Mommy?”
When I don’t go home, I drink half a bottle of vodka. I turn the music up in the car. N’Sync is on the radio. Bye. Bye. Bye. I switch the heat off even though it’s cold. I don’t want to waste gas. When the song ends, I get out of the car and walk outside. Bye. Bye. Bye. It’s so cold. But I don’t really feel it, I don’t really feel anything, and so I remain, standing outside, on the bridge, not going home, watching the sun dip behind the hills. Everything is gold, and, for a minute, I consider going home. I think about Jazmine and how much she’d love this sunset. Then it is dark and home doesn’t really exist anymore. And then I think about how much easier their lives will be without me anyway; I can’t keep the house neat enough, I’m not organized, I’m always losing permission slips and vaccine forms. I even lost Azalea’s birth certificate once, but then Raffi found it under a pile of unread magazines on the kitchen table. Their lives would be so much tidier, so much easier without me. Mama would probably say this would be the ultimate lesson in self-reliance. Teach the girls how to take care of themselves. But #Iamnotmymother.
And Raffi would make a handsome widower. He could easily find a better woman to raise our daughters. I imagine a pretty blonde who wears ruffled aprons when she bakes chocolate chip cookies. I burn everything I bake. She will wear Lululemon and bring the girls to Mommy and Me yoga classes and teach them how to wear makeup. I could never do those things. The water is dark but also blue and gray—like my eyes. Maybe I always belonged to the water.
I could never be like the other moms—the other women with their cute outfits, clean, styled hair, their organic snacks, and the rigorous schedules—the space of their days filled with swim lessons and music classes and homemade gourmet meals. Their houses were always so clean when I took Jazmine to playdates. “Why is our house messy, Mommy? Jessie’s house smells like oranges! I love oranges. Can our house smell like that, too, Mommy?”
"He knows I'm not happy, but nobody, especially me, wants to say that out loud. No one wants to be the one who touches the cracking glass."
I am nothing like those other moms, those perfect housewives who have it all together. I see the judgment in their condescending smiles, hear it in their well-meaning questions. “What activities is Jasmine in? Is she taking swim lessons at the new pool?” I see the perfect images of smiling, happy kids in professional photos. And their mother’s faces, devoid of worry lines, glow on the screen of my iPhone. I scroll through the pictures they post in my online mom group: Tanya’s twin boys swimming in the kidney-shaped pool in their backyard. Beautiful, dark-skinned Ellie holding her six-month-old chubby daughter and laughing as she reaches out for the bubbles her husband Gary blows at the edge of the photo. Leah, dressed in a Ralph Lauren collared sweater and pearls, serving her husband and three toddler-aged blonde children what appears to be a pot roast. They may as well have fallen out of a Norman Rockwell painting. And I wonder, for a moment, if this is real. I think of my carefully curated pics and clever hashtags and the messy details just out of the frame. But then I remember, it doesn’t really matter anyway.
Sifting through their social media posts like I’m bobbing for apples, I’m reminded of Mama again. I asked her once why we weren’t like other families. She told me that question was meaningless because storybook-perfect families don’t exist. It didn’t stop me from wanting it though—the mom who baked cookies and made delicious dinners and smelled of peppermint and oranges, like my best friend’s mom. Mom’s who did laundry and showed up to basketball games and read bedtime stories and who didn’t drink Vodka or lose jobs every few months or forget to pay the heating bill. I didn’t believe her when she told me happy, perfect families didn’t exist, that they were like Bigfoot and Santa Claus because Mama lied almost as often as she drank vodka.
I look at my reflection in the screen of the cellphone. My eyes are skies the sun had fallen out of. I don’t sleep, but I drink. Often. Too much. Too often. A beer or two before I put Jaz on the bus in the morning. I need it to get going in the morning. A few shots during my shift. But my regulars want me to shoot with them, I’d rationalize. The drinks after work. Glasses of wine until closing with a few co-workers. I need to vent before going home. #shiftdrink #sheworkshardforhermoney
Raffi told me a few months ago that watching me try to run the household is like watching glass crack slowly. He knows I’m not happy, but nobody, especially me, wants to say that out loud. No one wants to be the one who touches the cracking glass. We don’t want to step in a pile of shards.
Sifting through their social media posts like I’m bobbing for apples, I’m reminded of Mama again. I asked her once why we weren’t like other families. She told me that question was meaningless because storybook-perfect families don’t exist. It didn’t stop me from wanting it though—the mom who baked cookies and made delicious dinners and smelled of peppermint and oranges, like my best friend’s mom. Mom’s who did laundry and showed up to basketball games and read bedtime stories and who didn’t drink Vodka or lose jobs every few months or forget to pay the heating bill. I didn’t believe her when she told me happy, perfect families didn’t exist, that they were like Bigfoot and Santa Claus because Mama lied almost as often as she drank vodka.
I look at my reflection in the screen of the cellphone. My eyes are skies the sun had fallen out of. I don’t sleep, but I drink. Often. Too much. Too often. A beer or two before I put Jaz on the bus in the morning. I need it to get going in the morning. A few shots during my shift. But my regulars want me to shoot with them, I’d rationalize. The drinks after work. Glasses of wine until closing with a few co-workers. I need to vent before going home. #shiftdrink #sheworkshardforhermoney
Raffi told me a few months ago that watching me try to run the household is like watching glass crack slowly. He knows I’m not happy, but nobody, especially me, wants to say that out loud. No one wants to be the one who touches the cracking glass. We don’t want to step in a pile of shards.
Then the glass finally shatters, all on its own. On a Tuesday or Wednesday, prompted by nothing more than getting out of bed.
They say it gets worse with each baby. Makes sense. You have less sleep, less time. If I was dangling on the edge of a cliff before she was born, then her birth was the weight I could no longer bear. The pediatrician’s office makes an effort. They provide you with a questionnaire. Circle which applies—one being the least, five the most. I feel stressed. I have difficulty feeling happiness. I feel disconnected. It was a valiant effort, Doc. I can’t admit this to my husband, my friends, the moms in our play group. Why would I admit these feelings to a pediatric nurse who probably doesn’t even really look at the responses? Each wellness visit plays out like the last one: Measurements are taken, baby and I snap a picture which I post on Instagram with #babymilestones #twentypoundsandgrowing #momhealthisanafterthought. The last hashtag remained an afterthought.
The girls won’t understand this now, maybe not even when they’re older. But I can promise this—they are better off without me. I’d only make their lives more difficult and messy. They’d only cut themselves on the shards of me. This is the ultimate act of love. I won’t let them have my childhood; I will not become my mother. I will save them by leaving them.
These are the drunk thoughts bouncing around my head. It’s not quite as cold as it was a little while ago. Tree branches stretch out in the dark like arthritic fingers—like arms reaching out for help and receiving nothing but still, dead air. The skies are drained, cloudless, starless. The trees are nearly dead. I think for a minute about bedtime stories. Jazmine loves when I read to her before tucking her in for the night. Even Azalea is soothed by the sound of my voice rhyming and repeating silly phrases from their collection of children’s books. “I love the way you read to me, Mommy,” she snuggles onto my chest. Azalea babbles in what seems to be agreement.
They say it gets worse with each baby. Makes sense. You have less sleep, less time. If I was dangling on the edge of a cliff before she was born, then her birth was the weight I could no longer bear. The pediatrician’s office makes an effort. They provide you with a questionnaire. Circle which applies—one being the least, five the most. I feel stressed. I have difficulty feeling happiness. I feel disconnected. It was a valiant effort, Doc. I can’t admit this to my husband, my friends, the moms in our play group. Why would I admit these feelings to a pediatric nurse who probably doesn’t even really look at the responses? Each wellness visit plays out like the last one: Measurements are taken, baby and I snap a picture which I post on Instagram with #babymilestones #twentypoundsandgrowing #momhealthisanafterthought. The last hashtag remained an afterthought.
The girls won’t understand this now, maybe not even when they’re older. But I can promise this—they are better off without me. I’d only make their lives more difficult and messy. They’d only cut themselves on the shards of me. This is the ultimate act of love. I won’t let them have my childhood; I will not become my mother. I will save them by leaving them.
These are the drunk thoughts bouncing around my head. It’s not quite as cold as it was a little while ago. Tree branches stretch out in the dark like arthritic fingers—like arms reaching out for help and receiving nothing but still, dead air. The skies are drained, cloudless, starless. The trees are nearly dead. I think for a minute about bedtime stories. Jazmine loves when I read to her before tucking her in for the night. Even Azalea is soothed by the sound of my voice rhyming and repeating silly phrases from their collection of children’s books. “I love the way you read to me, Mommy,” she snuggles onto my chest. Azalea babbles in what seems to be agreement.
"She said it's cruel to keep a creature like that locked up. They belong to the sky. I think that maybe Mama belonged to the sky, too."
I take a few more swigs of vodka and start thinking about Kate Chopin. The twentieth-century writer was such a renegade. The Awakening is a favorite of mine. I remember reading it junior year of college. I had always loved English. That year my professor told me I was smart, and I might have even believed her if I wasn’t crushing on the cute guy who sat next to me. Raffi was thinner then and full of jokes and compliments. He hated the book. But I’m drunk and shaking a bit and maybe even a little nauseous now, and I’m stuck on Chopin and birds and symbolism which reminds me that I had a parakeet once. I loved that bird more than I loved almost anything about my life at seven or eight. I remember coming home from school on a bitter cold day to an empty bird cage. Mama told me the bird was sad so she let him leave. She said it’s cruel to keep a creature like that locked up. They belong to the sky. I think that maybe Mama belonged to the sky, too.
I take the iPhone out of my pocket and toss into the darkness. Just before the rush of cold, I feel again. My gut tangles, tenses, expands, contracts, and I almost throw up but don’t. I hear Jazmine’s voice—delicate, soft, a September breeze. My sweet Azalea—her cry like wind chimes in a rainstorm. And then, the sound of Mama’s voice—cigarette-muted and sharp like a crack of thunder. Her voice was a flock of geese flying south for the winter. There’s the sound of car horns and vehicles passing in the distance and the earthy, sweet smell of the water below.
I take the iPhone out of my pocket and toss into the darkness. Just before the rush of cold, I feel again. My gut tangles, tenses, expands, contracts, and I almost throw up but don’t. I hear Jazmine’s voice—delicate, soft, a September breeze. My sweet Azalea—her cry like wind chimes in a rainstorm. And then, the sound of Mama’s voice—cigarette-muted and sharp like a crack of thunder. Her voice was a flock of geese flying south for the winter. There’s the sound of car horns and vehicles passing in the distance and the earthy, sweet smell of the water below.
Rebecca Dimyan is an award-winning writer whose nonfiction essays and short fiction have appeared in national and international print and online publications including Vox, xoJane, The Mighty, 34th Parallel, and many others. She is also an adjunct professor at several colleges in Connecticut. Rebecca recently completed a memoir about her experience with chronic illness.
