Author: Allison Epstein

Final Post: We’ve Come a Long Way, Kid

Look at where we are

There may be one person in the world who’s surprised I’m quoting Hamilton here. That one person probably isn’t you.

Yes, this will be my last post on The Body Pacifist.

If you hadn’t guessed this was coming from the title of this blog, the almost literal years I have been going between posts probably tipped you off.

But I’m making a concerted effort to shoot for closure where it’s possible, and so I wanted to put up one last blog before ghosting off into the sunset.

I started The Body Pacifist in February of 2013. I was a junior in college, I was in the first few months of serious eating disorder recovery, and man, I was scared. Everything was scary. That’s what I remember most from those days, and what jumps out at me most reading posts from the first year.

Although I try not to read those posts too often anymore, really. It’s not a past that’s particularly comfortable for me to look back on. Those blog posts were valuable in that stage in my life, though, and so I leave them up for others who might be in that stage too.

When I started blogging here, I don’t think I ever expected anyone to read anything I wrote. The point wasn’t to gather followers or to make millions in ad revenue.

(Which is good, because you know how many dollars in ad revenue I’ve made four years later? Zero dollars.)

Writing was a way to get my thoughts out of my head and onto a screen where I could look at them. Analyze them from a distance. Figure out where I was, and where I needed to go next.

And the fact that so many of you joined me for that ride, and that so many of you found my close-reading of my own thoughts to be helpful, has been a never-ending and incredibly gratifying surprise.

Fast-forward to January 12, 2017, and let’s take a quick look around before I vamoose.

The last time I weighed myself was in February of 2016, at a doctor’s appointment. Just a twinge of anxiety, and then I went along with my day.

I’ll probably get weighed at my appointment next month, but I am genuinely—and I mean it—not worried. My clothes fit, I feel healthy, and I know I’m probably in the ballpark of where I was last year. Read some posts from back in the archives, and you’ll see I seriously doubted whether reaching a static weight was even possible. Well, I’m here to tell you it is, and I’m at mine, and man is it nice to have one less thing to worry about.

Once I finish writing this post, I’m going to go have dinner. I have leftover Indian food that I cooked last night in the fridge, and I’m going to go heat it up, and I’m going to eat it while streaming season seven of Mad Men.

Stress level thinking about that: Zero.

I still deal with anxiety and depression on occasion, although whether it would still be diagnosable or not at this stage is anyone’s guess. (Well, actually, I guess a therapist could make a pretty educated guess, but that’s a decision for another day.) But food is not a source of angst for me anymore. It’s not a source of anxiety.

It’s just…


For the past two Thanksgivings, I’ve had seconds, hung out with family, and watched my football team lose spectacularly with a beer after the meal. Two years in a row, I’ve forgotten that I have a reason to be anxious.

I genuinely do not have a reason to be anxious.

Writing that sentence is strange. I never thought I would do it. But here I am, writing it, and it rings true.

I haven’t thought about my eating disorder in months.

I assume I will, now and again. I’m not setting myself up for a “perfect recovery,” because the only thing you can do with perfection is disappoint your expectations of it.

But in terms of my eating disorder, this place I’m at right now feels pretty damn close to perfect.

I won’t be writing for The Body Pacifist anymore, and I’m also no longer working for Adios Barbie, although not quite for the same reason. But this isn’t the end of my writing life. I’m focusing more and more on my fiction writing, and slowly but surely I’m starting to get a handful of things published in a handful of places. Check me out on Twitter @AllisonEpstein2 to see what’s new—including more shameless plugs just like this one. And if you’d like to get in touch with me personally, still feel free to do that in the usual ways.

But whether you’re stumbling across this blog now or you’ve been with me for a while, there’s one message I want you to take away from the four-year journey recorded in this blog.

I want you to write this message on a beautiful piece of paper and tape it to your bathroom mirror, and every morning when you wake up, I want you to look at it and read it out loud.

I want you to believe this, because it is the truth, and I am living it.

Recovery is possible. And you can do it.

I believe in you.

Now get out there and keep going, one step at a time, one day at a time.




An Open Letter to White People Reacting to Police Brutality



Image via Odyssey

Hang on a minute.


Before you post that Facebook comment.

Before you wave your #AllLivesMatter flag.

Before you turn to a black person—a black person you may or may not know—and regulate their grief, their fear, their anger, their burning sense of injustice. Before you make a call to “just follow the rules and you’ll be fine.” Before you say “People are dying by the thousands in other countries.” Before you say “Let’s make sure we hear both sides of the story” when cameras have already captured every angle there is.

Before you do that, stop. Take a deep breath.


And when you do, I hope you’ll realize a few things.

It is not your place to tell someone how they are allowed to feel in the face of brutal and blatant injustice. Their pain does not need your approval. Their pain has never asked for it.

It is not your place to tell someone their suffering, their anguish, their lives do not matter to you. Because when you remain silent, when you change the channel, when you close your eyes, that is what you’re doing.

It is not your place to question someone’s lived experience based on your opinions, hearsay, and sound bytes picked up from cable news.

Because when another person of color is murdered by police.

When the punishment for selling CDs, or carrying a handgun with the proper permit, or breathing air on American soil while black.

When the punishment for these crimes is death without asking questions.

When all of these things are true—and more than true, they are common—no one needs you to play devil’s advocate. 

The devil has enough advocates as it is.

Before you bring up the victim’s previous run-ins with the law, remember that our constitution protects citizens’ right to trial by jury, not summary judgment at the barrel of a gun. Remember that a criminal record is not grounds for murder at any time and without warning.

Remember that white people committing mass murders have been arrested without incident, and taken to Burger King before heading to prison, and white people committing heinous crimes have been bewailed as “young men with potential, and their whole lives ahead of them.”

Remember that.

Remember that the same people who search for proof that victims of police brutality deserved what they got, that there was something about them that made their death justified, those are the same people who set up a Kickstarter campaign to support Darren Wilson and George Zimmerman.

Before you say anything about the five officers killed at protests in Dallas last night, before you join the crowd condemning the entire Black Lives Matter movement for the violence—despite, at press time, it being “...too early in the investigation to say whether there was any connection between the shooters and the demonstration—ask yourself this.

Yesterday, did you speak the words “a few bad cops”? Yesterday, did you remark that “isolated incidents of violence” can’t be used to criminalize a whole group who, by and large, just wants to protect the lives of Americans?

(Which, by the way, I also believe. Which is why opposing police violence, racial profiling, and the inequitable and corrupt system we now have, that is not the same as “hating cops.”)

You can’t use that rhetoric for officers, then turn on a dime when black people are involved. That’s not how logic works.

Oh, and before you say “isolated incidents of violence” again, remember that 566 people have been killed by police since January 1, 2016, and that young black men are nine times more likely to be killed by police than other Americans. I don’t know when something stops being “isolated,” but it’s certainly well before the 500-a-year mark.

500 a year. That’s approaching twice a day.

Before you share the videos.

Before you drop them on a black friend’s timeline and say “oh isn’t this horrible?” Before you spring them on people who aren’t expecting it, who do not need to see black lives broken again, who already understand what that looks like and do not need reminding.

Before you do that.


You don’t get any bonus ally points for treating the loss of black life as entertainment. You don’t get to fling it around showing how woke you are, with no regard for the trauma you are leaving in your wake.

You are sharing the murder of a human being.

You are sending trauma to your friends and loved ones. You are autoplaying trauma in their timelines.

If that doesn’t make you want to throw up, honestly? What is wrong with you?

This is not the time to center your feelings. Yes, it hurts. Yes, you feel helpless and sad and angry and sick. I do too. I feel all of these things. I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t. But this is not about our feelings.

It is about our silence and our indifference. And that needs to stop.

Amplify the voices of people already out there doing the work. Collect your fellow white people when they say something fucked up and racist. Take the burden of explanation on yourself.

It’s not people of color’s job to do that work. It’s not people of color’s job to exhaust themselves having the same conversations over and over, in this real moment of trauma.

That’s on us.

White people, we can do better. And we MUST.

We must speak when it is our turn to speak, and only then. And we must also listen.

Writer Ashley C. Ford puts it this way:

Screen Shot 2016-07-08 at 7.04.06 AM.png

America’s history with racist violence is long, and it doesn’t disappear the day after an incident. It endures. It has endured for hundreds of years, with or without hashtags, with or without body cameras. And it will continue to endure until the day we all demand better.

Those demands are being voiced. We cannot give up until they are met.

It is literally a matter of life and death.










Depression and Me: A Conversation Told Through Email

From: Me

Subject: Just checking in


Hope you’re doing well. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, what with the eight million things I’ve already given you to worry about. So don’t take this as me rushing you. If we can’t condense the timeline, we can’t, and that’s that.

I just wanted to check in and see if you had a timeline for when you were planning to head out.

Don’t get me wrong, I love having you around.

Well, “love” might be a strong word. “Gotten used to” might be more accurate. But I’m trying to be polite. I hope you can see that. I’m really trying.

It’s just that I’ve got a few things to take care of this weekend, so if you could just let me know what your plans are, I’ll plan accordingly.

Let me know either way.

I really appreciate it.

From: Depression

Subject: (No subject)


I’m not a train. I don’t come on schedule.

Try again tomorrow.

From: Me

Subject: Hey, I’m serious

Maybe I wasn’t being clear. Sorry about that. I’ll try to be more direct — sorry if this comes off abrupt. I really do apologize. But I don’t know how else to make you listen.

Fuck off, OK?

I’ve got to go to work tomorrow. I’ve got a short story that needs writing. I need to clean the bathroom, put gas in my car, come up with a good Mother’s Day present.

I’d love to entertain you, but you’re heavy. You’re dense as a neutron star, solid as a ship’s anchor, and when you sit like that on my chest, you make my ribs ache. I’ve told you before how brittle my bones are, but I’m not sure you heard.

Oh, and I’m tired. 

From: Depression

Subject: Kid, please

You can stick it out. Be nice. I came all this way to be with you. The least you can do is make me up a bed on the couch. Maybe cook dinner. Paella sounds good. I don’t have anywhere else to go.

From: Me

Subject: What the ever-loving fuck

This isn’t what we agreed on, you fucker. You’re not in the running for the National Book Award. Keep the plot twists to yourself.

I don’t have the energy for you right now. There’s enough going on without this. Without the cramps twisting my stomach, the weak feeling in my knees after every muscle in my legs tensed past breaking while I was driving home on I-55. I don’t have the energy for these nightmares.

And I sure as shit don’t have the energy to worry about how much I weigh on top of all of this. I refuse to let you guilt-trip me for skipping the gym because I had a panic attack on the way there.

That is not. How. This. Works.

From: Depression

Subject: Yes it is

That’s exactly how this works. You know the drill.

Settle in, hombre. It’s gonna be a long night.

From: Me

Subject: Listen up

Here’s what you’re not getting. I’m gonna break it down for you. Listen good. I’m only gonna say this once.

My body is my sanctuary.

It is my temple.

It is the one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment decorated with pages from my favorite books, paintings of owls looking quizzically in the distance as owls are wont to fucking do, my favorite de-stress playlist drifting through the hallways from my speakers.

It is my home, and you do not get to come in here uninvited.

So consider this your eviction notice. I’ll give you one night to get your things together. I’ll lend you some duct tape to shut up the boxes.

But I’m heading off to sleep tonight, and when I wake up in the morning, I want you fucking gone.

Am I clear?

[0 new messages]

The Unbearable Exhaustion of Being Misunderstood

“Have you lost weight?”

I shift from my right leg to my left, leaning against the wall. The cold plaster rests against my shoulderblades, something solid to hold onto, preventing me from running. An alternative I’d rather like to take, but not a polite one.

“Uh, no,” I say, eloquently. “Pretty sure not.”

“Are you sure? Your face looks thinner. You’re so lucky you can lose weight so easily.”

Uh, no, I think, pretty sure not. 

This time, I shrug it off and keep it to myself, awkwardly steering the conversation in a new direction.

For the record, I’ve weighed pretty much exactly the same for the past 18 months, and my conversation partner had been on a diet for six weeks. I took Psych 101. I know a textbook case of projection when I see one.

But that’s not the point.

Even these days, still, sometimes I’m struck by how much empty space can fit between the people around me and a reasonable thing to say to another human. It feels like someone’s trying to stick a three-pronged electrical plug into a USB drive. The motivation is good and makes sense on a macro level, but something’s just getting hella lost in the execution.

Maybe what’s getting lost is the thread of my metaphor. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It’s not really a complaint, anyway, more a bewildered observation: that dear God, some people do not know how to talk about food and bodies and mental health. Three things that, in my daily comings and goings, are really important to talk about at least OK.

Have you lost weight?

I bought this cake but I don’t want it. Here. You’ll eat it, right?

Wait, hang on, why are you crying? You always look so put-together and in control.

(Excuse me, with that last one? Don’t make me laugh. It’s disconcerting to laugh and cry at the same time.)

When I’m lying awake in bed, way too late at night, I let my mind wander. And what it wanders to, more often than I ever expect, is a place where everyone understands one another perfectly.

Where I no longer need to pretend to be motivated when all I want is to crawl back into bed and stay there until summer.

Where I can be perfectly, unrestrainedly happy, even when everyone around me is having one of the Top Five Worst Days in Recorded Human History.

Where people will look at me from across the hall in my apartment building and realize 1) that person did not lose weight, and 2) it’s probably a pretty terrible idea to ask strangers about their weight without being prompted.

Because if there’s one thing more exhausting than having to cope with a brain that operates differently than the brains of most of the rest of the world…

It’s having to pretend like you don’t.

Having to pretend that chatting with other people about their diet and exercise regimens is fascinating conversation.

Having to pretend that changing plans at the last minute in a way that messes with my exercise routine still throws me for a loop, even though it shouldn’t, even though I wish it didn’t.

Having to go through my day being pleasant, approachable, responsive to feedback, eager to learn, and then coming home at 8 p.m. to lay on the couch and idly google variations on “how to stop feeling sad.”

I’m doing fine. Really. Seven out of 10 days are pretty good, and the three that fall at the low end of the bell curve, well, I can handle those.

But it would make it a metric fuckton of a lot easier if we as a species could set up a couple of groundrules:

  • Do not expect others’ relationships to their bodies to match your own.
  • Do not expect others’ moods, breaking points, or needs to make sense in the context of your own emotional paradigm.

But really, Bill and Ted put it best:

  • Be excellent to each other.

Don’t be a jerk. Give people space to hurt. Give people space to cry. Give people space to grow.

And we will grow.

Just maybe not in the way you expect.

A Note from the Author: Help a Sister Publish a Novel?


Read on, and this old-timey illustration of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre of 1572 will, I hope, make a bit more sense.

Hey, faithful readers!

First, an apology I’ve been so erratic in my updating schedule for this blog. Life. It is a multifaceted, complicated thing that gets in the way of doing the things I care about.

And another apology, because I’m not actually adding a new post right now. Rather, I’m phoning in a favor.

Some of you may know (I’ve written about it briefly) that I moonlight as a fiction writer. Others of you may have observed that I am passionately obsessed with the Elizabethan era, based on the sheer number of times I have alluded to Shakespeare on this blog. (Macbeth, my people. It is relevant to everything.)

Well, if you’re interested in fiction and folk wearing ruffs as I am, I’ve got good news:

Because you, dear reader, could maybe help me publish my historical fiction novel.

I was lucky enough to be selected randomly as a participant in National Novel Writing Month’s Pitchapalooza. What does that mean, you ask? It means that I submitted a pitch for my historical fiction novel, titled The Devil and the Rose. And if enough people vote for my story, I receive an introduction to an agent or publisher that fits my genre.

That’s right: It’ll only take you 30 seconds to HELP ALL MY DREAMS COME TRUE.

Wondering if The Devil and the Rose would be something you’d like to read? You can read the full pitch here, but here’s the quick and dirty version: Young rakehell university student Christopher Marlowe is conscripted into the service of Sir Francis Walsingham, Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster. His task? Uncover plots of regicide and Catholic rebellion in the household of everyone’s favorite Stuart nemesis: Mary, Queen of Scots. Oh, and also launch his career as England’s most celebrated poet. Oh, and also don’t let word get out that he’s gay.

I can’t imagine how complications would ensue.

Want convincing? The judging committee considered my book “a really fun story about a great era that holds lots of interest to lots of people, with a fascinating iconic superstar playwright who died tragically young at the center of it,” and added “the writing has a wonderful panache and style, which makes us feel comfortable believing that [the author] can actually pull this off.”

YO. What more endorsement can I give?

I know y’all didn’t subscribe to this blog to listen to me shout about why Doctor Faustus is the best critique of Catholic morality this side of Luther’s 95 Theses. (Although I will do so, enthusiastically and at length, if you ask.) So if poets in doublets aren’t your jam, by all means, pass me by. But this has been my dream since the ripe old age of five, and I’m trying to get better about asking for things that matter deeply to me, so I’m hoping you’ll forgive me.

And for my fellow Shakespeare junkies looking for some new fiction, well … help a sister out?

Here is where you can go to view my pitch.

And here is where you can go to vote.

(I’m Allison Epstein, by the way. It just occurred to me that I almost never use my full name on this blog. But yeah, that’s me.)

To everyone willing to take the time, I personally thank you as deeply, profoundly, and profusely as I am able without my heart exploding.

Thank you thank you thank you!

6 Easy Ways to Do Something Kind for Yourself Today


1. Compliment a Friend

I really do believe that most of us suffer from some degree of impostor syndrome.

We all have skills, talents, and unique ways of contributing to the world, but acknowledging and valuing them can feel immodest — like there’s something inherently sinful about acknowledging your worth.

So cut through the self-depricating voices in your friends’ heads, if even just for a second. They’re your loved ones for a reason. It doesn’t hurt to remind them why.

I’m still riding the high of a compliment I received this afternoon at the exact moment I needed it. And knowing you have the power to give someone else that feeling of value and importance is something to cherish — and something to be proud of.

2. Drink Some Water

Trust me. As a person prone to migraines — and a person who constantly forgets to drink water unless there’s a bottle directly in front of me at all times — this is a little thing that can make all the difference.

Stay hydrated, y’all.

3. Get One Thing Done

Not everything on your to-do list, mind. It can be overwhelming, looking at the list of personal, professional, interpersonal, financial, and whatever-else-have-you responsibilities piling up. And you don’t need to tackle everything at once. In fact, I’d argue you probably shouldn’t.

But the satisfaction of knocking one thing off your list can create a strong sense of agency. No matter how overwhelmed or stressed I feel, at least I got that one thing done today.

It can be the laundry you’ve been putting off for weeks. Calling a friend or family member. Scheduling a doctor’s appointment. Confirming your next session with a therapist. Actually doing the damned dishes for once.

(Why can’t I do my dishes in a reasonable span of time? The world may never know. *sheepishly sneaks off to do the dishes*)

4. Take 30 Minutes to Be

In our hundred-mile-an-hour society, productivity is king. And while there’s something to be said for activity to break through depression, it’s also important to remember that you don’t always have to be doing.

You can just be. It’s all right.

Whenever I can — and I admit, I’m not great at this yet — I try to set myself a 30-minute span to just do whatever my heart and brain want.

Sometimes it’s taking a shower, even though I already took one that morning.

Sometimes it’s calling a friend just to check in.

Sometimes it’s reading Game of Thrones fanfiction. (I make no apologies for my life or my choices.)

None of this means that you’re wasting time. You’re taking a moment to care for yourself mentally. And what’s more valuable than that?

5. Turn Daily Moments into Escapes

I’ve mentioned it before, but I swear by podcasts. I have a 2-hour roundtrip commute (hey, worst city for traffic in the continental United States), so I use podcasts to transform my commute into an escape from the world.

I’m not worrying about work or anything that’s gone wrong in my life. I’m catching up on the news, listening to stories from people I’ve never met, enjoying improv comedy. It’s a built-in time every day for me to get in touch with things I enjoy.

(Is this an opportunity for me to shamelessly plug my favorite podcasts? Absolutely. Try Welcome to Night Vale, the Thrilling Adventure Hour, Another Round, Snap Judgment, Judge John Hodgman, or The Bugle.)

Even if you don’t have a similar situation in your life, there are ways to turn your routines into daily moments of escape. Turn on your favorite music while you do household chores. Walk your dog a different route every day and enjoy getting out in nature. If you work from home, convert your workspace into a calming area of your house with scented candles, pictures of places that inspire you, or whatever makes you happy.

(Also, I’m fighting really hard not to make “Scented Candles” item number six on this list. You might not understand my thing for scented candles, but Buzzfeed does.)

6. Sleep

If you haven’t noticed, here’s the theme I’m harping on here: Productivity is great, but it should never come at the expense of your own personal welfare.

There will always be one more thing you could get done tonight. You could write two more pages. You could study for 30 more minutes. You could research for tomorrow’s presentation at the office for another hour.

Or you could curl up in bed, close your eyes, and give your body the rest it desperately needs.

The rest of the world will be there in the morning. But your body can’t be running on 11 all the time. Dial it back. Turn off the lights.

And don’t forget to breathe.

What do you think? Did I miss your No. 1 self-kindness tip? Let me know in the comments — I’m always on the lookout for new tips!