Coming Clean

This past summer, I fell in love for the first time in my life. I was in a really dark place in May, a darker place in June, but in July, I saw the light for the first time in a while. I had someone in my life that made me smile on the regular, who made love songs sound right instead of mushy, who had me waking up and falling asleep with a smile on my face.

I remember looking at him and thinking that finally, I had found the most beautiful soul and he was mine. Someone had finally, finally looked at me and chased me, rather than the other way around. I had someone look at me and call me perfect, someone call me every night before bed just to talk, someone tell me that they couldn’t get me off of my mind.

Yet, I always knew that it was too good to last. In fact, I have a note on my phone from October, a letter I wrote that would never send, that reads as follows:

If I could’ve told you I loved you the first time I met you without you thinking I was completely, out of my mind crazy, I would have. I didn’t really believe in things like love at first sight until I saw you. You make me want to be a better person every single day. I never, ever want to stop getting to know you. A month in I didn’t want anyone else kissing me or loving me for the rest of my life but you, and I still feel that way now. I knew when you offered to sleep on the couch the very first night we hung out. I knew when you held my hand driving us to our very first date. I knew when we stupidly took a canoe out at Papoose Pond at 2 in the morning just to look at the stars. I have never, ever doubted my love for you, even when I was being stupidly anxious and convincing myself you were better off without me. And I knew you felt the same way too, about loving me, before you even told me. I love how you get stupidly excited about the simplest things, like grills and hats. That sort of enthusiasm for life is contagious and I’ a much happier person with someone like you besides me. Your happiness is infectious and the way you show off things like grills and hats is exactly how I want to show you off to the world.

But when will you wake up and realize that the person you love isn’t someone you want to be with anymore?

Eight months later, my worst nightmare came true. My anxiety and my depression got the best of me and I lost control and caused a fight that should have never happened, and you left. You decided my baggage was too much for you to bear on your shoulders and you left, just like every other person before you has.

Two weeks after we broke up, I was officially diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety. I’m down 11 pounds, I’m nauseous almost every day, and I’m on anti-depressants. I’m living, for the rest of my life, with a mental illness that I will battle every single day. I’m in therapy up to twice a week, trying to make myself stronger and healthier so that any relationships - friendships or otherwise - I create in the future can be void of the problems that my brain creates.

The thing about depression is that you never fully understand what it’s like unless you have it. You wake up every day, feeling like you’re so far down the hole that it’s impossible to climb out. You look at the people around you, who you love so much, and wonder how much better their lives will be without the burden of your illness weighing them down. You lay in bed and struggle to find the motivation to start your day, you lose interest in almost everything, and there’s just this nagging feeling of wanting it to be over.

I have never, ever considered ending my life until a month ago. And even then, it wasn’t how or when I’d do it - it was just a desperation of no longer wanting to be sad, of wanting to fall asleep and never have to wake up to such a chilling feeling of sadness again. The medication is helping, and with the help of my friends and my family, I’m starting to see that it eventually will get better, you just have to take it day by day and not sweat the small stuff.

In the span of two weeks, I was broken up with, diagnosed with a severe mental illness and lost a friend. Ironically, the friend I lost was the same one who got me to see the light at the end of the tunnel when I was a freshman in college.

And yet, I’ve survived 100% of my bad days, I’m seeking out the help I need, I’m being open with my struggles and for that, I am incredibly, incredibly proud of myself. There are days where getting out of bed physically hurts, and I’d like nothing more than to cry all day. There are days where I wake up with a pit in my stomach and tears on my face and wonder if I’m ever going to wake up and just be. But there are days where I wake up and appreciate the beautiful weather, when I smile because I’m waking up in a house full of people who love me and a brand new puppy who can’t see my flaws.

So to you, the boy who pieced my heart back together again and then shattered it, I understand. I don’t love you any less than I did eight months ago, but I resent you for supporting the other people in your life suffering from this disease and choosing to cut me off. I would kill to spend just another week with you, but I hate you for letting everyone in your life judge me and talk about me when I’m still here defending you. I still think you are one of the most beautiful souls I have ever met, and I feel so incredibly lucky to have had you brighten up my life for as long as you did. So thank you, for making even the smallest part of me feel like the girl I used to be, before this awful disease entered my head. And simultaneously, screw you for giving up on me.

I am more than depression. I am more than anxiety. And I’m going to overcome this for me and only me, because I’m a beautiful person too, and I deserve the best of me. 

To Girls Who Love Boys They Shouldn't

One day, you’ll meet a guy who can smell the want you wear on your wrists like perfume.



He’ll talk to you under the guise that he noticed you from across the bar. He’ll tell you he likes the way your hair glows despite the dim lights, the way you look up at him through your eyelashes. You’ll drink it all in, loving the way his hand feels on the small of your back, wondering what his voice sounds like in the morning.



Later, when you’re talking beneath the sheets - soft voices and softer skin - he’ll say your eyes remind him of the sun setting on an autumn day, that your lips remind him of the roses his mother used to grow in the garden when he was a child.



You crave his touch for days, weeks. You feel intoxicated every time your phone lights up with his name; you feel drained every time he pulls on his jeans and walks out the door. You try not to notice how he changes the subject when you ask what he loves, what he fears, what he feels.



A year from now, you’ll laugh when you think about how he knew how you liked when he kissed the inside of your thighs, but couldn’t name your favorite movie. How he only showed up when the sun had set and he could see your silhouette from the moon that shone through the window in your bedroom. How he wouldn’t answer for days, only to show up with a beer and an apologetic smile and a kiss to the inside of your wrist when you wandered into the bar.



He’s the one that leaves, he’s always the one that leaves and you wish every single day that you had that option but you don’t. The boy has become an addiction, has thrummed through your veins every day since you met him. Leaving isn’t a possibility, was never a possibility. You’ll smile when he tells you how his girlfriend’s laugh sounds like wind chimes, how she loves Sixteen Candles and has a funny little freckle that sits between her breasts. You hope he doesn’t notice that the glass of wine hasn’t left your lips for more than a second since the conversation has started, hope he doesn’t notice how your voice trembles when you tell him you’re happy for him.



You comply with the boys from the coffee shops, bars, libraries around town. You can see it in their eyes that your smile isn’t convincing when you laugh at their jokes, but their mouths are warm and their sheets remind you of him. You hear the whispers, you know where they’re coming from. Damaged, he says. Sad, broken, torn. You choke on the truth; the rest swallow it like water.



It’s been 236 days, 14 hours, 12 minutes and 6 seconds since you last spoke to him. You’ve stopped letting the shower run until the water is cold. Your hands are no longer jittery, your affinity for vodka has run dry. You’re not whole, but you are well on your way. The warmth has begun to spread back into your bones, and you smile often. You remember when you could count how many times your smile saw the light of day on one hand.



Your hair still glows, you’ve grown to like your eyes and your lips remind you of gerberas, because you won’t let him stuff you into a cliché. When you see him in the bar, your eyes don’t flicker with panic. You shake out your hair and the bounce in your step isn’t a masquerade, it’s genuine. When you feel the ghost of his touch on your wrist, you shake away the feeling and smile as you tell the bartender, “Whiskey, please.”



412 days, 22 hours, 16 minutes and 18 seconds since you’ve last spoke to him, and you are whole. There is a boy that loves Harry Potter, who dreams of owning a house on the beach and who is (secretly) afraid of bees. You are whole.

My Nana

Nana and I on Prom night, 2011

Last year I called my nana from school and she had asked me if I had a boyfriend. I told her no, and she responded, “Well hurry up. You’re not getting any younger.”



That’s who she was. A completely unabashed, unashamed individual. My nana was always one to speak her mind. She would tell you her opinion without sugarcoating it - regardless of whether or not it should be sugarcoated. Everyone else on the road was a stupid jerk. She threatened to knock out any one of our boyfriends if he treated us badly. And her grandchildren were the smartest, funniest, cutest people to her. Everything was black and white to her. She stood firm in everything she believed in, whether it be morals or the way to pronounce a word. And that is one of the millions of reasons that I loved her, and will continue to love her for the rest of my life.

My favorite and best cuddler. At first, I thought I was crying. Zoom in, and it's clear I was laughing.

One of the biggest joys in her life was being a mother, as well as a grandmother. I can’t tell you how many times she asked me if I needed any money, or if I wanted her to cook me breakfast, or if she could take me shopping. My nana was an amazing cake decorator - we all tried to learn her skills but none of us ever caught on. She loved taking care of people. When my sister was playing baseball, she was a staple down at Nipper Maher park - wearing her baseball hat to show her support. The people down there grew to love her as much as wed did. Even up until her final days, she was constantly worried about everyone else - trying to get out of bed to play cards with someone or to cook someone a meal.



Nana and I at her old house at GardenCrest.

The dementia was hard on the family. It really is a test of patience, and I know I wasn’t too patient with her sometimes. But, she’d ask the same question forty times with the same enthusiasm every single time. I’m a writer, and I know I’ve explained what I write about to her so many times - and I know she never understood it once. But she kept asking, because she loved me and she wanted to know what I loved. She loved being around her family. I loved being around her.



She fought hard until the very last day. So many times I thought she was down for the count, just to have her bounce back, normal as ever. Everything was a hard fought battle for her, and time after time again, she’d come out victorious. To quote Stuart Scott, “You beat cancer by HOW you live, WHY you live and the manner in which you live.” I think it’s safe to say that my nana beat cancer with flying colors.



Nana and I at DisneyWorld. She loved Winnie the Pooh. I loved her.

I’ll miss the phone calls just to chat and tell me she loves me. I’ll miss her playing with my hair and scratching my back. I’ll miss her telling me to look at my dogs in excitement, even though they were probably doing something I’ve seen them do a million times. I’ll miss every single thing about my grandmother, and it’ll be a void that I’ll have a hard time filling. But I love you, nana, and I’ll see you again someday. Eat all the Hershey bars you want. I love you so much.

Why Modern Dating Might Not Be So Bad After All

I TRY TO LIVE BY THIS QUOTE // FLORA BELLA COLLECTION

Nearly every time I log onto Facebook, I see another twenty-something year old sharing an article about the tragedy that is modern dating. And nearly every time, I roll my eyes.

To me, the truth is that modern dating is going to be what we make of it. I've definitely had times where I've wanted to get swept off my feet and have the perfect husband, the perfect wedding, the perfect family. And conversely, I've had experiences that have made me want to climb into my bed and grow old with some Jamba Juice and a Netflix subscription.

Overall, I think we demonize modern dating way too much. I used to text my high school boyfriend compulsively. It led to a lot of stress, a lot of fights, and a lack of personal space for him. Since we've broken up, I've realized how important my personal space is to me, and really regret the forced communication. Texting, while an amazing tool in so many different ways and for so many different things, can also jeopardize something really great (note: I'm not saying my relationship with my ex-boyfriend was great. It was far from great. I'm just trying to make a point). I know that I used to need a constant reassurance that the person I was with actually liked and wanted to be with me.

More recently, I've been involved with someone who only texts me when he's trying to hang out. And while that sounds sketchy, it lead to some pretty great conversations in person that wouldn't have happened through texts. I'm the type of person who over-analyzes everything, and the lack of texting is something that is brand new to me, but I've also had more fun on a few dates with this kid than I ever did with my ex-boyfriend. And that's because there's so much to learn about him and so much to talk about when we're together. While I'm still stressing out and getting major anxiety over this kid, I know it would be ten times worse if he was sending me text after boring text that I would then try to deconstruct.

Dating nowadays just happens. If it works, that's great. If it doesn't, you try again. The "hook up culture" we frown upon is not the monster we're making it out to be. I feel that in the olden days of dating, women especially were expected to be less vocal about what they craved in a partner. Hook up culture enables us to find someone that we enjoy being with on an emotional and physical level, and in today's day and age, there's nothing wrong with that. I understand the anxiety over hook up culture. He asks to hook up and if you don't, you're a tease, but if you do, you're a slut. You really want to hook up with him but are concerned about coming across too easy, but sex isn't this sacred, only-for-the-one-you-love experience for you. These are all legitimate, unfortunate concerns that women today have, and it comes from stereotypes and expectations that are grossly engrained in today's society (but, more on that later).

Be vocal. Tell the artsy boy with pretty eyes and nice hair that you liked kissing him and would've done it again had he called. Tell the cocky bro who asked you out and then whined about being friend-zoned that you would never consider settling down with someone that uses the term "friend-zone" seriously. Tell the reserved, cute hockey player that you'd enjoy hanging out again sometime and follow up on that offer. Let him know how you're feeling, because if you don't, how is he supposed to know?

I just think us twenty-something-aged women can take advantage of the same thing we're demonizing. I think modern dating, hook up culture, whatever you choose to call it can actually work in our benefit sometimes. And if you have a particularly bad experience with it, it's not the end of the world. If that happens, take a page from my girl Liz Taylor's book: "pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick and pull yourself together."

One of the most important days of my life

MY DEFINITION OF HAPPINESS. PHOTO BY JARED WICKERHAM/GETTY IMAGES

If you ask any hockey fan, there’s not a lot of negative things to say about the Boston Bruins. They’ve been Stanley Cup contenders since 2008, they have a strong core of players that are both talented on the ice and beloved off of it, and they’ve adapted the gritty, physical brand of hockey that Bostonians are accustomed to and love to watch. But with all the good that the Bruins bring to the table, there are bad moments that most fans can pinpoint in a second. Fans around during the Bobby Orr era can tell you of April 8, 1971, where a heavily favored Boston Bruins led the Montreal Canadiens 5-2 in the second period, only to have Montreal come back to win the game 7-5. This game is often referred to as “the worst loss in Boston Bruins history.” The Canadiens ultimately went on to win the Conference Quarterfinals, and Boston Bruins fans everywhere were left heartbroken.

May 5, 2013 looked like it was going to be one of those moments. The Bruins were facing the Toronto Maple Leafs in the Conference Quarterfinals, and though the Bruins were up 3-1 at one point in the series, the Leafs were able to force a Game 7. My interest in hockey as a sport, and the Boston Bruins as a team was piqued the year before, when the Bruins drafted 18-year-old Tyler Seguin and won the Cup that very same year. Coming from a very sports-oriented family, I often felt out of place, as I was the only non-athlete of the family; hockey was a way that I found I could better relate to my dad and my sister. Though my dad grew up in a baseball household, we all liked how physical and violent hockey could get – it was a means of bonding for us, because it was something we were all passionate about and it was one of the few sports I understood in an analytical sense. I didn’t feel dumb talking about hockey, and my dad was psyched that I had finally taken some interest in sports. “I wish you were around in the 70’s,” He would say. “You would have loved the physicality and the rivalries.”

Needless to say, Game 7 had our house a little rocked. Growing up, my generation has been a little spoiled – we saw the Red Sox win their first World Series in 86 years in 2004, the Celtics win their first NBA championship in 22 years, the Bruins win their first Stanley Cup in 32 years, and the Patriots win three Super Bowl titles. My household expected nothing less than greatness from our sports teams, and the fact that the Leafs had been able to force a Game 7 was unnerving.

My dad, my sister and I had settled down on the couch to watch the game. There wasn’t really any talking, save celebrating a goal or commenting on a hit. The end of the second period saw the Leafs up 2-1, but that was a deficit that was neither threatening nor season-ending; to put it simple, we were used to the Bruins falling behind by a point or two, but we had the confidence that they would win.

The third period quickly nulled that confidence.

Six minutes into the third period, goals from Phil Kessel, a former Bruin, and Nazem Kadri put the Leafs up 4-2. The game seemed all but over. My sister, red in the face, stomped her way up to bed, and I sat on the couch in a quiet panic. I was so sure that the Bruins would be able to pull this off; though it was uncommon, somewhere in my heart of hearts I truly believed the Bruins would bring home a Stanley Cup for the second year in a row. My dad changed the channel, grumbling about how the Bruins always did this – always got our hopes up, only to dismantle them in one, swift move.

Thirteen minutes later, my sister came barreling down the stairs. “Dad, the Bruins,” she began; only to have him cut her off. “It’s 4-3, we know. They always do this,” He said, and Taylor shook her head wildly. “Dad, the game is tied.” My father and I were in the kitchen at this point, binging sadly on some snacks, and all three of us rushed to the living room and turned the game on. Nathan Horton had scored the first goal of their comeback, and the Bruins pulled goalie Tuukka Rask to add an extra attacker. Milan Lucic’s goal put the Bruins within one, and with 51 seconds left in regulation, Patrice Bergeron tied the game for the Bruins. The game was headed into overtime, and to say my heart was pounding would be a gross understatement.

I don’t remember the goal that won the game for the Bruins. It’s one of those moments where you literally black out from excitement. It happened so quickly, and before I could even register what was happening, my family and I were jumping and screaming. I never got a chance to process it.

I’ve watched it online so many times, and when my out of state friend asked me why she should be a Bruins fan, this comeback was the first thing I showed her. Sometimes, when I watch it, I still get emotional. Patrice Bergeron scored the overtime winner to send the Bruins to the Conference Semifinals. It was also the first time in NHL playoff history that a team trailing by three goals in Game 7 went on to win both the game and series.

This moment is the epitome of Boston Bruins hockey to me. Sure, I would love a team that I’m constantly confident in. I would love a team that I know will win when it counts, and will do so without sending their fans into a panic. But at the end of the day, what’s the fun in that? Sports, above all, are about the adrenaline rush – for both the athletes and the fans. Sports are about moments that you can look back on and tell your grandchildren about, whether those moments broke your heart or made you cry from happiness.

I never truly understood the meaning of resiliency until this Game 7. The Boston Bruins have become the poster children for the word resiliency, and rightfully so. Game 7 was not only a great moment for me as a Boston Bruins fan, but it was a great moment between my father, my sister and I. Sports – and in my case, the Bruins – have a way of bringing people together, through heartbreak and celebration. The Bruins ultimately ended up losing to the Chicago Blackhawks in the Stanley Cup Finals that year, but it’s really telling that I don’t remember that loss – I only remember Game 7’s win.

This team will be important to me forever because of this single moment. It kick started my interest in sports journalism, it made me love hockey as a sport that much more, and it brought me closer to my family – what more can you ask for from a local team?