The Audacity of a Pretty Face
Dear Isabella,
I walked out of the room when you started going on about your perfect marriage; my sister walked out of my life because of my rudeness.
I have lain sharp objects into my arm because of what I can’t achieve, of what you have so easily achieved. Break-up after break-up, man after relentless man telling me he was seeing someone else; the Urgent Care doctor who, upon seeing my wounds, said: next time, go to the ER.
You are a therapist, telling others how to heal from trauma when you have had nothing but the privilege of a life without mental illness yourself.
How can you fathom helping others? When did you writhe on the floor, pouring prescription medication down your throat, going to the ER for real this time?
Your head is the bobble head of shame, and you should not be smiling.