Essay
This summer, I assigned myself the task of swimming home, moving through the neighborhoods and communities that, side by side, would bring me back to myself.
Described as a theme park necropolis, Forest Lawn Cemetery created a new template for posthumous culture in North America.
In my diagnosis, I saw the first irrefutable proof of myself. But so many others saw a referendum on what it means to be atypical.
Children like me, whose parents suffer from mental health issues, often become invisible ourselves.
Searching for a meaningful bond among those who are paying to find it.
A shot from my father’s gun killed our neighbor and traced a trajectory through decades of guilt, shame, fear and anger. Unraveling the moment my family calls “the accident.”
As more and more friendships are built virtually, we must confront the nuances of grieving someone you’ve never met in person.
Berlin sparked my curiosity about secret spaces, rooms accessible only through hidden doors. But even magic theaters for madmen are more interesting when someone is with you.
Did these women hate themselves, or did they write about a world that hated them?
- 1 of 15
- next ›