I’m sitting in the backseat of Laura’s car on the way to the beach with friends, and we’re trying to understand Type 1 diabetes. It’s not easy for me because the parts of my brain meant to understand anything other than language, politics or sociology seem to be nonexistent.

Abductees report feeling, “as though something is growing inside their head,” “repeatedly stabbing pain,” “intense, excruciating pressure at the base of my skull”

As a child of Los Angeles, I spent my youth trying substances delightfully illegal, yet seemingly abundant. My eager teen consumption of hallucinogens slowed to mere dabbling

The morning after graduating from my master’s program, my boyfriend looked at me over a table covered in empty glasses of mimosas and bloody Marys and asked, “Wanna look at puppies today?” I gawked, ordered another blood

My boxing teacher tells me I’m too tense, that I hold everything in my neck and shoulders. Loosen up, he tells me. When that doesn’t work, he calls me a model citizen and

It was a grey midday in Moorpark, California, a sleepy suburb flanked by fertile farmland and soft rolling hills.

All through my high school years, I thought my little brother might die. He had Type 1 diabetes and epilepsy, both diagnosed in adolescence. Managing the two conditions

I stopped drinking in Seattle when I was twenty-two. I went to a young people’s gathering, and the people sitting around the table were my age or younger