My Experience with the Pfizer Vaccine

“We have a vaccine for you. Can you be here in one hour?”

This was the call I received from my local hospital on the afternoon of March 12th, completely out of the blue. A couple of weeks earlier, I’d joined a no-waste program that distributes leftover vaccines at the end of the day. (Many hospitals and pharmacies do this by the way—the best way to find out more is to just call.) The moment I hung up, I hopped in my car and drove to the hospital. I called my boss on the ride over to tell her I’d be late to work, and she completely understood. “You go get your shot,” I believe were her words.

00F6574D-ED90-4FE9-806C-75C6B2BDEE2FAside from some soreness in my arm that lingered for a few days, I didn’t feel much from my first shot. Emotionally, I was pleased and relieved but also a little guilty since I’d gotten my shot before most people my age. Knowing that my vaccine would have gone to waste otherwise helped me get over that initial guilt but it’s not lost on me that I was lucky. Consequently, I felt like I had a responsibility to share my experience and encourage others to get vaccinated too. I suppose that’s part of the reason why I’m writing this now, just three after getting my second shot.

Although I never once considered not getting my second shot, I was still nervous. How could I not be after hearing about the vast array of unpleasant reactions my friends and family who’d received it before me had had? Within my immediate family, my mama had a rash and, worse than that, my mom, a picture of good health, was so tired and lethargic that she didn’t feel motivated to get out of bed. All symptoms I’d experienced daily when I was battling major depression in high school and hoped I’d never have to endure again.

Despite my festering fears and anxieties, I showed back up at the hospital on April 2nd and got my second shot. After I’d sat around for fifteen minutes (protocol), I hopped in the car with my mom to head home (but not before picking up vegan ice cream at Whole Foods to celebrate). As we drove, I was overcome with immense relief knowing that I was finally protected and safe after over a year of living in constant fear. I’m fully aware that the pandemic is ongoing but it still felt like a major milestone.

So, how did my body react to Shot #2? Well, I woke up at 5 AM the next morning freezing cold and was only able to fall back asleep once I’d bundled up in sweats and fuzzy socks. When I finally dragged myself out of bed at 8:30, I was physically exhausted, sore, and shaky. I had a headache and a chill I couldn’t shake. My mental processing and productivity were significantly slowed. I spent the day lounging around in my pajamas, reading a book for English, watching March Madness, and editing a manuscript for an upcoming writing project. Easy and mundane tasks that made me feel mildly accomplished nevertheless.

IMG-1759By the evening, my symptoms had improved, and when I woke up the next morning, they were almost entirely gone. That was it: one crappy day that, in the scheme of things, wasn’t even that bad. One crappy day that, had it been the coronavirus, could have lasted weeks, if not longer.

I know that many people, for a variety of reasons, are still hesitant about getting vaccinated. To those people, I’d say: trust science. Trust research. Trust doctors. Trust that this is the only way we’re going to put this miserable and deadly pandemic behind us once and for all. The vaccine is the light at the end of the tunnel, and we’d be foolish to turn away from it. Because, to me, one day—a mere twenty-four-hours, if that—of feeling crappy is completely worth it if it means I can protect myself and my family and anyone else who’s close to me from a life-threatening virus. It’s worth it if it means I can travel again and give in-person book talks and go to work and do all the other things that have been put on hold for the past year; things that bring me joy and fulfillment. It’s worth it if it means our society—our world­­—can finally return to normalcy, and someday, hopefully in the near future, I can safely walk through my town and smile at people and see them smile back.

Reclaiming Freedom in Recovery

I used to take my freedom for granted—that is, until eighth grade when I fell into the clutches of anorexia. The thing about an eating disorder is that the stronger and louder it gets, the more it strips away from the sufferer. That year, over the course of a mere couple of months, I lost practically everything: my friends, my hobbies, my education, my ambitions, my hope, my independence, and my freedom. My life completely revolved around food to the point where it was the only thought on my mind and nothing else really mattered. My actions, as well, were dictated by my disorder; then, in treatment, they were closely monitored by my doctors and nurses. In retrospect, I find it a bit ironic that one of the reasons I started restricting was to have more control in my life, but somehow things spiraled so far in the opposite direction that I ended up with none.

Fortunately, recovery does just the opposite of the eating disorder. Slowly but steadily, I’ve reclaimed all that was taken away from me—and then some. From returning to school to making new friends to increasing my variety of foods to learning how to eat intuitively and independently, I’ve built a life for myself that, while far from perfect, is 100x better than the half-life my anorexia had forced me into. One of the greatest gifts this new life has given me is freedom, that same thing I used to take for granted until my eating disorder took it away indefinitely.

This newfound freedom extends to most areas of my life. It’s the freedom to choose what I want to eat based on a wide variety of foods, not just a small list of “safe” foods. It’s the freedom to go on a run and decide to stop after only a mile because my body is tired and deserves to rest. It’s the freedom to see a scale—in the doctor’s office, a friend’s house, etc.—and turn away instead of weighing myself. Very recently, it’s the freedom to commit to veganism (more on that soon), not because it’s an excuse to cut out certain food groups but because I care deeply about animal rights and the environment.

Just yesterday, while my mom and I were unloading vegan products we’d purchased at Trader Joe’s in the kitchen, she hugged me and told me how happy she is that I’m in a place where I can make these choices clearly, thoughtfully, and on my own. When I was very sick, my mom had to take on the role of the Enforcer and lay down the law in our house; what I could do, what I couldn’t do, what I could eat, when I could eat, so on. She took away all my control, not to spite me but to save me. She knew my disorder was calling the shots; that it wasn’t me who was hurling food across the kitchen or pocketing my snacks. She knew but I can only imagine how hard it must have been for her nevertheless. And what a relief it is now, for her sake and mine, that we’re not in that dark place anymore.

Seven years ago, I’d wake up every morning filled with anxiety and dread about what the day would bring and what I’d eat. Today, I woke up energized and ready to go, enjoyed some Cinnamon Puffins for breakfast, worked on an assignment for a course at my college, and did all of it without baseless fears filling my mind or panic and malnutrition hindering my ability to breathe. There’s a lot I regret about my past but there’s only thing I regret about recovery, and it’s that I didn’t commit to it sooner. Because this freedom truly is beautiful, empowering, and enables me to lead a fulfilled and independent life. Sometimes, you don’t realize the significance of something until you think you’ve lost it for good.

My Books Helped Me “Choose Life”

It’s been over three months since the third and final novel in my trilogy The Changing Ways Series came out yet it often still feels surreal that it’s over; that this project I’ve poured myself into for the past four years of my life is behind me once and for all.

Back in 2018—which seems forever ago now—I published my debut novel Changing Ways. It told the story of sixteen-year-old Grace Edwards who, overwhelmed by pressure and insecurity, turned to restriction to cope. This quickly spiraled into a full-blown eating disorder to the point where she needed to be hospitalized to save her life. In the hospital, Grace realized that the only way she’d get better and move past her disorder is if she committed to recovery.

I started writing Changing Ways when I was seventeen, one year older than Grace and just two years removed from the same experiences with anorexia and depression she goes through in the book. In fact, much of Grace’s story throughout the series is heavily based on my personal struggles with mental illness, as well as my successes in recovery.

I give writing a lot of credit for helping me get through that dark and scary time in my life when I was completely entrenched in my eating disorder. Initially, writing gave me a voice when I had none, then it was an outlet for my repressed thoughts and emotions, and ultimately it became my motivator by providing me with hope for my future and an identity that wasn’t dependent upon my disorder.

Putting my experiences into a seventy-five-thousand-word novel wasn’t an easy feat; it was time-consuming, emotional, stressful, and exhausting. But it was also liberating, exciting, hopeful, and inspiring. I wanted so badly to get it right; to write a book that truly encapsulated what mental illness was about while also not being harmful to a potentially vulnerable audience. When I published Changing Ways, I felt scared, as I’m sure anyone putting themselves out there for the first time would feel. I didn’t know what the response would be and how it would impact my recovery.

The reaction, however, was incredible and completely exceeded my expectations. It’s wonderful to know that this hobby—this coping skill—that basically saved my life is now helping other people. Furthermore, Changing Ways helped me. The more positive feedback I received, the more fulfilled and motivated I felt. (Obviously, there was some negative feedback too, which stung initially but has ultimately made me stronger and more resilient.) I started seeking out opportunities to share my story of how I went from an insecure teenager in the clutches of anorexia to an independent published young adult proudly living her truth.

In July of 2019, I published the sequel Breaking Free, which is a continuation of Grace’s journey that focuses primarily on her learning how to navigate life outside of a treatment facility, just as I’ve been doing for the past five years. Breaking Free came out a month before I started college in Boston, where my own recovery was put to the test as I came dangerously close to relapsing. Fortunately, I was able to overcome that difficult situation thanks to my incredible treatment team, my support system at home, and, of course, writing.

IMG-3463This past November, I published my third novel Choosing Life, which wrapped up the series in the best way I knew how: realistically yet hopefully. At the end of the novel (without spoiling anything) Grace is in the best place she’s been at since the start of the series—and that’s very much true of myself too. I was technically in recovery when I wrote Changing Ways, yet there was still a large part of me that clung to anorexia and wasn’t ready to let go. Today, that part is almost entirely gone. I’m no longer stubbornly straddling that fine line between relapse and recovery. I’ve chosen a side. I’ve chosen life.

*This post was written for A Mile a Minute. Read the original post here.

Finding Balance with Exercise

Growing up, exercise was a huge part of my childhood. I was the kid who played three sports competitively, five sports leisurely, and always had to be on the go. Both of my parents were college athletes so I have natural athleticism and coordination that enabled me to excel at pretty much every sport I tried. Soccer? Check. Basketball? Yep. Tennis. Game-set-match. Swimming? Well, I wasn’t too fond of getting my hair wet but it was exercise and I was good at it so why the hell not?

When my eating disorder crept into my life at age thirteen, my relation with exercise drastically changed. It was no longer a fun, social activity but rather an unhealthy, inflexible compulsion. It got to the point where I was exercising four-to-five hours a day and doing so not out of enjoyment but strictly to burn calories. If I missed a workout or run, I’d feel horrible about myself and default to restriction to cope. I was eating so little then that I was constantly weak and tired—and still, I couldn’t stop exercising.

It took my treatment team putting their foot down to break the self-destruct cycle I’d slipped in to. I was pulled out of Travel soccer, I was banned from going on runs, and my parents made me keep my door open at all times so I couldn’t get away with obsessive crunches or jumping jacks behind their backs. In fact, the only exercise I was permitted to do was going on walks around my block—and considering it was late-November and I had very little insulation, I wasn’t too keen on that idea.

I went from having a toxic relationship with exercise to no relationship at all—for five years! Sure, I went on leisurely walks and bike rides (when it wasn’t freezing of course), taught myself basic yoga, and played some casual games of basketful or tennis but that was the extent of it. I thought my days of being an athlete were behind me, just another thing my eating disorder had ruined forever. Then, just last year, my family got a membership to a local gym with an indoor track. I was in a much better place in my recovery and trusted that I could moderate my amount of activity, so I took to walking around it on days when it was too cold to be outside. After a short while, I progressed to jogging. I was awful at first—no surprise there, considering how long it had been since the last time I went on a run—but I kept at it nevertheless, determined to improve my cardio no matter how long it took. And that’s exactly what I did.

This past year has taught me that exercise—in moderation—is truly amazing. In addition to getting me out of the house and maintaining good physical health, I’ve noticed a significant improvement in my mental wellbeing since I’ve taken to running regularly. Exercise releases endorphins, which increase feelings of happiness and euphoria while simultaneously decreasing pain and stress. It turns out my eighth grade therapist wasn’t just talking out of her ass when she told me those walks around the block would improve my mood!

Exercise has also bettered my body image. For the years that followed my diagnosis, I struggled with body dysmorphia and genuinely believed I was overweight despite all the facts and figures pointing to the opposite. Partly because I’ve been weight restored for so long and partly because I’m exercising more regularly and as a result building strength and endurance, my relationship with my body has become much kinder and respectful. I won’t be posting lingerie pictures on Instagram anytime soon but I’m okay with the way I look; I’ve accepted it. There was a time in my life, not too long ago, when I never imagined that would be the case again but here we are!

That being said, I have to make a conscious effort to stay on top of my personality traits and triggers that could turn exercise into a compulsion again. This means sticking to a schedule, listening to my body, and not pushing myself to run faster and work harder when I’m not feeling up for it. It means eating more to replenish the calories I’m burning; something that was initially very challenging but is slowly becoming second-nature. It means not feeling bummed or stressed if I miss a workout but instead understanding that that happens when you’re trying to lead a balanced life.

And that’s really what I keep circling back to: balance. The age-old saying that everything (besides hard drugs, cigarettes, etc.) is good in moderation is one I strive to live by from the food I eat to the ratio I strike between work and relaxation to my newfound appreciation and participation in exercise. Of course it’s easier said than done but when you find that balance, I promise you’ll feel so much happier and healthier as a result.

How to Stay Sane in a Crazy World

To say this year has been difficult would be a vast understatement. This past week has been especially heartbreaking and once again demonstrated the significant racial inequities and poor leadership in our so-called “great” country. Then, of course, there’s the coronavirus, which has somehow worsened and is showing no signs of improving anytime soon. Add to that the worst president in American history making one horrible decision after another, and times are pretty bleak.

With so much chaos constantly transpiring, maintaining my mental health is challenging. There are days when I feel hopeless or angry or defeated or all of the above simultaneously, and I have to fight just to get through. And I’m not alone. I’ve done a few virtual recovery talks at treatment facilities I was previously admitted to, where it’s clear that everyone is struggling. Mental illness rates are at an all-time high, and it’s no surprise why.

As tempting as it is to vent about how shitty the world is right now, I thought I’d instead use this post to share some ways—tips, if you will—that I’ve been surviving these trying times and keeping my mental health in check. The first way is by not watching the news. I’m a politically-charged person who always wants to be “in the know” but at this point, tuning into one tragedy after another is causing me more harm than good. While watching the democrats win back the Senate was exciting and hopeful, that story was immediately followed by the storming of the White House, then by the rising COVID rates, then by Trump saying or doing something awful. On screen, the negatives far outweigh the positives so I’m taking a break for a bit. I’ve even unfollowed CNN on Twitter temporarily, which has made for a much less depressing timeline.

There’s a lot I don’t have control over right now, which is why something else that’s improved my mental health is focusing my energy and attention on what I do. I’m using the extra time I have from being unemployed to get ahead in my education, as well as work on new and exciting writing projects that, in addition to passing the time, give me motivation and hope for the future.

Eating well and exercising are two seemingly-simple steps that make a huge difference in my overall health and happiness. With my history of disordered eating and compulsive exercise, maintaining balance hasn’t always been easy but I’m in a place where, with a little conscious effort, it’s possible. The weather is pretty nasty in New England at the moment so I’ve found ways to get some movement indoors: yoga, cardio workouts on YouTube, and now running on the treadmill my parents bought us for the holidays (thanks, Mom and Mama).

Participating in hobbies and activities that bring me joy and distract me from all the stress and heartbreak has proved to be quite helpful as well. Reality television like The Great British Bake Off and The Amazing Race and TV dramas like The Queen’s Gambit and Schitt’s Creek keep me entertained for a sustained period of time and provide much-needed breaks from my writing projects and schoolwork. Games like Scrabble and Ticket to Ride challenge me mentally and force me to interact with others, which brings me to the next and final tip . . .

Not going at this on my own. I find it funny that in the early days of the pandemic, introverts like myself joked about how we’d been preparing for this moment and how social distancing would be a piece of cake. Well, this introvert got real sick of social distancing sometime mid-summer and wanted nothing more than to walk outside and hug a random stranger. But since I can’t do that, I’ll appreciate that I have the support of immediate family and continue to keep in touch with my friends over Zoom and Discord. Technology often gets a bad rap but it’s provided a way to stay connected with friends and family until we can see them in person again, and while it’s certainly not the same, right now it’s the next best thing.

Especially in the news, we hear a lot about nasty people doing nasty things. But there are just as many—if not more—kind and empathetic people who want what’s best for humanity. The doctors and scientists who are working twenty-four-seven to put an end to this pandemic. The mental health professionals who are taking on new cases all the time without complaint. The teachers who are trying their best to provide kids with a decent education in a complicated hybrid learning environment. The politicians who aren’t corrupt and genuinely care about their country or state’s wellbeing. The list goes on.

Just like those good people exist, so does hope. It’s cliché but this too shall pass, and when it does, when the pandemic is finally behind us, we’re all going to be a hell of a lot stronger—and hopefully a bit more gracious. But until then, I’ll keep practicing these tips and recommend that anyone else who’s feeling how I am—anxious, frustrated, and doubtful—try to as well. One final suggestion I have—and one I’ve said before on this blog—is to take life one day at a time. The future is so uncertain that there’s no point in stressing over it; instead, let’s focus on the present, be grateful that we’re still here and still in decent health, and be inspired that if we’ve made it this far, we can absolutely see this thing through.

Artists Sunday

In a year as difficult as 2020, it’s hard not to reminisce on how things were last year, before the pandemic. Last winter, at this same time, I was leading a very active life. In attention to my part-time jobs, I was giving in-person book talks, participating on mental health panels, and attending craft fairs every weekend (sometimes more than once!). I was in the best place I’d been in in terms of both my career and my mental health, and while I’m fully aware that I currently have it better than so many people, it’s still disappointing that all of that is gone indefinitely.

That’s why I was excited when I found out about Artists Sunday, a nationwide event for artists and craftspeople happening today! Artists Sunday is basically like Black Friday or Small Business Saturday but exclusively for art, giving artists a chance to showcase their work and shoppers a chance to give something special, unique, and hand-crafted this holiday season. Plus, by shopping with artists, you’re also supporting the local economy.

I’m thrilled to be participating in the first annual Artists Sunday. Here’s what you can expect from me:

New Work

You may know that I recently published my third book Choosing Life. The third and final book in the Changing Ways series, Choosing Life follows seventeen-year-old Grace Edwards, who’s one-year in recovery from an eating disorder, on her journey to navigate the ups-and-downs of recovery and overcome new obstacles to achieve her long-term goals.

Choosing Life is now available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle version.

But wait! There’s more!

Exclusive Promotions

In an effort to spread the word about my books and assist with holiday shopping I’m running a huge book sale starting today, Artists Sunday, and ending on Sunday, December 6th. For the entire week, all of my books will be 15% off on Amazon in paperback format and 25% off on Kindle!

After a year full of lows, let’s finish 2020 on a high. Social distancing may keep us apart this holiday season but we can still stay connected through art.

Sneak Peak of My New Book

In case you missed it, I published a book last week! Choosing Life, the third and final book in the Changing Ways series, is based on my personal experiences with an eating disorder and follows a high school senior as she navigates the ups-and-downs of recovery. Anyone who’s had to recover from a mental illness understands how very exhausting and constant it is. I hope this excerpt, taken from the end of Chapter Four, does justice to that struggle.

For the seventh day in a row, I wake up to dark clouds dominating the sky. I peer out my window, scanning the horizon for any hint of sunlight, but all I see is grey. It’s becoming harder and harder just to get out of bed.

The morning seems to last an eternity. I keep staring at the clock, as if somehow that will make time move quicker. My head feels heavy, and more than once, I catch myself zoning out. No matter how hard I try to stay alert and present, fatigue and inattentiveness continue to get the best of me.

I briefly consider checking in with my guidance counselor, but I decide not to. Everyone has bad days—or, in my case, a bad week. It’s like Bono says in Mom’s favorite U2 song: It’s just a moment. This time will pass.

By my one fifteen appointment with my therapist Anna, however, that horrible feeling of dread that I woke up with hasn’t passed. Instead, it’s only gotten worse. Mom drops me off at Anna’s office building, and I trudge inside, my feet dragging against the damp pavement. I take a seat in the waiting room and scroll through my Instagram explore page until Anna is ready to see me. After she’s recorded my weight, she takes a seat in her chair while I sit cross-legged on the couch.

“You look comfortable today.”

I glance down at my outfit: an oversized grey sweatshirt and black leggings paired with beige moccasins. “I was going to wear something lighter, but it was in the forties when I got up. Again.”

“Well, it is almost October.”

“I hate October,” I say.

“Because of the cold?”

“Because of a lot of things. It’s just . . . it’s hard to explain.”

Anna leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Try me.”

I sigh. “Last October, I was in a bad place. I was restricting food and hurting myself and feeling hopeless, like I had nothing to live for. It was also the first time I went to the hospital.” The thought alone sends a chill down my spine. “And although I’m doing better, the memories are still so vivid and constant. Like yesterday, Mom had on the radio, and a song I used to listen to when I was sick came on. Suddenly, all I could think about was lying in my bed and crying myself to sleep to those lyrics. It’s more annoying than anything else, really. I mean, something so small shouldn’t be able to mess with my head like that.”

“And yet, it does,” Anna responds. “When someone has gone through a traumatic experience, it’s common for certain things to trigger unpleasant memories. But what you have to remember is that you’re not in that place anymore. Who you were then is not who you are now. Does that make sense?”

“I guess so.” I stare out Anna’s window, watching as a single orange leaf floats to the ground. “I just wish there was a way to forget.”

Want to read more? Click here to purchase Choosing Life or visit Books By Me for more information.


IMG-9895I’m beyond excited to share that my new book Choosing Life is officially out and available for purchase! Choosing Life is the third and final book in the Changing Ways series and follows seventeen-year-old Grace Edwards, who’s one-year in recovery from an eating disorder, on her journey to navigate the ups-and-downs of recovery and overcome new obstacles to achieve her long-term goals. The story is based on my personal experiences with mental illness.

This book has been a long time coming, and I’m so relieved that it’s finally out. For the past three years, I’ve poured my heart and soul into this little series. I still can’t believe that it’s finished, that after spending countless days—and sometimes nights—writing and editing and polishing Grace’s story, it’s come to an end. It’s both sad and exciting because as heartbroken as I feel to say goodbye to these characters I’ve grown to love, I’m now able to officially close this chapter in my life and open a new one.

What that chapter holds, I have absolutely no idea. I’ve got weeks of marketing ahead of me, however, so perhaps 2021 will be the year I find out. In the meantime, it’d mean the world to me if you’d visit Amazon and check out Choosing Life. I promise you won’t regret it!

Click here to purchase Choosing Life or visit Books By Me for more information.

Tired, Fed Up, and Considering Moving to Canada

Okay, so the last part of that title isn’t quite true. I’m waiting for the final results of the election before I make any relocation plans. In all seriousness though, I don’t think I’ve ever felt as shocked and repulsed as I did watching the election. If I thought the nauseous feeling in my stomach was bad in 2016, it was nothing compared to last night.

A quick disclaimer that this post is very political/contains strong language and my own opinions and rants. Because what else would you expect from a sleep-deprived, politically-charged twenty-year-old who’s fed up with misinformed and close-minded adults making all the decisions?

Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Anyway, back to me feeling sick last night. Did I expect a blowout? No. Did I expect Biden to have a solid lead? I was cautiously optimistic. But I certainly didn’t expect such a close race. (Seriously, who’s conducting these misleading polls?) As I sat on the couch in my TV room, my two moms sitting next to me, and watched as more districts and states on John King’s magic wall turned red, I couldn’t believe it. It felt like 2016 déjà vu.

It genuinely baffles me how people—and so many at that—can vote for the bigoted, ignorant, disgusting man “running” this country; a man who once bragged about grabbing women by the pussy; a man who continues to spew hatred every time he opens his mouth or tweets; a man who has broken more rules and has had more scandals than any president in American history; a man who has taken an already-divided country and completely ripped it apart. And let’s not forget that this is the man who is responsible for thousands of people dying because he refuses to believe in science and wear a goddamn mask.

At least in 2016 no one knew how much damage this man was capable of causing.

But this is 2020, nearly four years of witnessing Trump wreak havoc in office. How can so many Americans still think he’s a good leader—or simply a leader at all? How can so many Americans still believe his lies and support his open, unabashed prejudice? And let’s not forget we’ve got four more years of McConnell and Graham too (howdidthishappen?).

A lot of people will say I’m overreacting; that I’m being a “poor sport” because my candidate might lose. But this isn’t a fucking basketball game; for many of us, our rights and our freedom are literally threatened by Trump. My rights as a queer female, my same-sex parents’ rights, my gay friends’ rights, my black friends’ rights, my Jewish extended family’s rights are all at stake. And that’s fucking terrifying, knowing that the leader of my country doesn’t just dislike me but wants to take my freedom away. The worst part is; I know I have it much better than many other people on Trump’s shitlist. At least he doesn’t despise the skin color I was born with.

If you’ve never experienced that fear, then you have no right to tell people not to be upset about the results of last night.

Honestly, even if Biden does pull through (and I have to remain hopeful that he will), I won’t be truly happy because that won’t change the fact that, despite all the awful things Trump has done, millions stood by him last night—and will continue to support his close-minded beliefs for years, decades, probably even centuries to come. And that’s a bitter pill to swallow.

2020, simply put, has been a complete clusterfuck. Worst. Year. Ever. It’s caused irreversible damage and brought immense pain to individuals and families across America and the world. Just when I thought there was a chance for some redemption, I was sadly mistaken. Because although Democrats turned out in unprecedented numbers, Republicans did too.

If you’re like me and feel upset, sad, scared, angry, disgusted, or all of the above right now, I advise you not to internalize it. Write about it, confide in someone you trust, do something that will make you smile or laugh or simply distract from this political pandemonium. Above all, look after yourself this week. It’s going to be a long and stressful haul so please prioritize your mental health and don’t get down on yourself. You did your part yesterday by showing up and participating in democracy. What happens next is out of anyone’s control.

The best we can do at this moment is to take care of ourselves and keep hope alive. And if things really do go to hell, at least there’s still Canada.

My Weirdest Halloween

I’ve heard a lot of people saying how weird Halloween is going to be this year. Many towns, mine included, are adamantly advising against trick-or-treating, while others have banned it completely. Then there’s the issue of staying socially distanced at parties, parades, attractions, and all those other highly anticipated, heavily populated festivities. Elizabeth Park, a popular local rose garden that always goes all-out for Halloween, actually decided not to put up their elaborate decorations this year to avoid drawing a crowd.

All this talk has got me thinking about my weirdest Halloween.

I’ve had a lot of interesting Halloweens in my young life. The worst one was in eighth grade when my eating disorder was so severe that a hundred-calorie chocolate bar seemed, in my mind, more terrifying than any ghost or ghoul or goblin. And who other New Englanders remember the very premature snowstorm that got the holiday canceled altogether in 2011? But I think that, of all my unconventional Halloweens, tenth grade takes the prize of being the weirdest, wackiest Halloween of them all.

In late October of tenth grade (in 2015), I was about a month into my nine-week stay at a residential treatment facility called Center for Discovery in Southport, Connecticut. CFD exclusively treated eating disorders, so suffice to say I was not the only person in the house with an irrational fear of sweets.

Those of us who were on Level 2 or higher were permitted to go on a staff-selected outing every Saturday. The Saturday before Halloween, that outing was to a pumpkin farm. I’ll be honest; I don’t remember much of what happened that day, other than a kid in my group getting scolded for trying to steal a pumpkin. But I do remember having fun—as much fun as I could have in eating disorder treatment anyway.

The next day, I visited a local Halloween store with my parents (thank you, Level 3 privileges) and bought a spooky masquerade mask and a white cape. I’m not sure what look I was going for; I think I was just so happy to be out of the house for a couple of hours that freedom was more important than costume coordination.

On Halloween night, three of us dressed up in actual costumes, two kids who didn’t have costumes on-hand borrowed hospital gowns and went as—no joke—insane asylum escapees, and the final kid refused to dress up altogether and wore pajamas. Our little motley crew, accompanied by two counselors, headed outside into the unusually warm autumn night and walked through the very dark and very desolate streets for about half an hour. (The houses in that particular neighborhood were enormous and pretty spread apart, which was good because if anyone saw us, they’d probably think we were a bit mad.) Afterward, we returned to the house for evening snack and ate however much candy we needed to fulfill our daily Exchanges. (1 fun-sized candy bar = 1 starch.) Then we made our nightly phone calls, watched a creepy episode of Supernatural, and went to bed promptly at 10:00.

In retrospect, it wasn’t a bad Halloween per se—at least in comparison to eighth or ninth grade—but it certainly was unconventional. Leave a comment letting me know what your weirdest Halloween was or if this year will take the cake. And if you are going out tomorrow, please, please, please be safe and wear a mask. And no, I’m not talking about the spooky kind!

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