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You Should Have Been an Abortion

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No!! Not you! You’re obviously lovely and know a good thing when you see it. I decided to title this essay in the most click-baitey way I could conceive because I’m sharing some things that I think are important for people to understand. Obviously, it worked because here you are. Welcome! Hello! My name is Stacy. I’d like to share a brief sliver of my world with you. Go grab a cup of tea or a large whiskey. I’ll warm up my introduction as I wait. I’m a writer, known for humorous writing from the heart and Content Writing on Aruba (my home away from home). I’ve shared some incredibly painful memories in various blogs. This essay is, by far, the most personal and painful. I feel physically unwell, writing these words, because they bring back some of the worst of my life’s experiences.  “You should have been an abortion!” Those words were hurled at me, for the first time, during a very low point in my mother’s battle with mental health. Over the course of my tumultuous teenage years, ...
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Addicted

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Finding My Way from Hot Mess to Nama-Stacy I quit smoking on January 1 st at 11:00am. I’m a non smoker now but...I’m going to level with you guys, I’m still an addict. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of walking to the supermarket by my house and buying a loose Nevada. Just one. (Nobody would ever have to know.) I’d stand by the dumpster, with my dirty little secret, and flick my Bic at the end of that cigarette. The empty paper at the end would crackle as it ignited and glow red while I pulled that first drag of smoke into my mouth. It’s been so long since my body’s had a hit of nicotine, I’d feel it right away – that familiar lightness in my head and tingling in my fingertips. That feeling -while oddly satisfying- isn’t what I miss, though. It may sound bizarre but the loss of the emotional support cigarettes provided me has been devastating. In the 6 months that have past since I quit smoking, the tobacco stains on my fingers and teeth have faded. However...
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I could have been a Racist

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I am a white, American woman.   I come from a middle class, Republican background, received an excellent education and have an impressive vocabulary.   I’m a pacifist but I’m from New Jersey, so don’t fuck with me. I fancy myself a starlight night philosopher, a champion of the underdog and a connoisseur of boxed wine.   If it hadn’t been for my mother’s influence and my vast, lifelong love of books, I would probably be a complete racist. When I was about four years old I came home from my grandmother’s house and asked my mother what a nigger was. She was appalled and her response was perfect.   She bought me a little black baby doll and nestled it among my other dolls.   She told me that we are all people and we are all the same.   I have no memory of this event - my mother told me this story when I was older.   She also told me that it she had to drive all over New Jersey to find a black doll because (even today) they are not easy to find. M...
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