A year ago, I gave away my bed. I needed less clutter, in my home and in my mind, which to me meant sleeping on a cot for three months until I bought a futon and tatami mat. The cot was so narrow that one night I rolled right off it, in the middle of a dream in which I struggled to open a stubborn attic door that abruptly gave way. I went crashing to the floor, in the dream and in real life.

Still, what I missed most about my old bed wasn’t its size or comfort. What I missed most was the daily routine of making it, that satisfying, soothing morning ritual of smoothing the bottom sheet and resecuring any elasticized corners that might have released their hold on the mattress during the night and slunk into themselves. Next, I’d shake out the flat sheet, letting it drift downward, onto the mattress. Even my cat, who is annoyed by most household chores and the noises or disruptions they create, enjoyed the ritual. Granted, his enjoyment came from interrupting the bed-making — tail twitching dangerously, he pounced while the sheet was still hovering, then attacked it with startling ferocity, all teeth and claws.

Personal EssaysHeather L. HughesSeptember 30, 2020Depression, Self-care

Making Myself Up After My Mental Breakdown

Four months after my slide into depression became a freefall, I bottomed out in a psychiatric facility.

I barely recognized myself in the facility’s bathroom mirror. My eyes were startled, and my lips were unable to smile. Any attempt at one resulted in a rictus, a twisted grimace, as though I was trying and failing to replicate what I thought a smile should look like. For me, this is what depression feels (and looks) like.

Despite my brain’s inability to do much more than grasp where I was and race around the confines of my skull, desperate to escape, I noticed how colorless my mouth looked. I wasn’t wearing any lipstick.

Personal EssaysHeather L. HughesMarch 10, 2020Depression, Appearance, Recovery, Makeup

12-Step Groups vs. Group Therapy

My name is Heather, and I am not an alcoholic.

That may sound like the punch line to a hackneyed joke mocking 12-step groups and the people who attend them, but it’s actually the introduction I made with all seriousness — and initially with more than a little trepidation — at the Alcoholic Anonymous meetings I attended shortly after my discharge from a psychiatric facility. I didn’t have a drinking problem but I did need a place where I could go for an hour or more a day and not feel judged or pitied, one where I was free to talk or to remain silent, one where I didn’t have to put on a performance that I was doing better.

Personal EssaysHeather L. HughesFebruary 28, 2020Depression, Mental Health, Therapy, 12 Steps, Addiction

Learning How to Say "I Love You"

“Take care.”

For years that was my family’s sign-off at the end of phone conversations and visits alike.

To me, those two words expressed a similar sentiment to saying “I love you”: concern for a person’s well-being beyond the moment when you were talking, as they continued on apart from you, and you from them.

Most of my friends who talked with their families regularly said “I love you,” but we Hugheses were a little more formal and reserved.

Personal EssaysHeather L. HughesAugust 9, 2019Suicide, Relationships, Love, Family

After the Fall

After 11 years in New York City, at the age of 46, I was ready for a change. So I decided to move to the city that had fascinated me since my childhood in rural Maine: New Orleans.

In New Orleans, I imagined as I packed up my small apartment, I would live in a place with lofty ceilings, shuttered windows, slowly spinning ceiling fans, and, that precious luxury in New York, a yard. Or a porch. Or a balcony. In any case, not a fire escape.

Personal EssaysHeather L. HughesMarch 25, 2019New Orleans

My Unexpected Wedding Dress Obsession

The mice had shown no mercy. They chewed right through the organic linen garment bag I’d bought to protect my great-grandmother’s wedding dress.

Granted, even before the rodents, age had taken its toll. My great-grandmother walked down the aisle wearing the silk-and-lace custom creation in 1898. No matter how well constructed, how gently it’s been handled, after 117 years a garment shows its age. With a tattered hem and a train that shed bits of cloth — no matter how slight and subtle the motion — the dress had entered Miss Havisham territory.

Personal EssaysHeather L. HughesDecember 2, 2015Style, Relationships, Marriage, Love

Where I’m From

At a late-summer dinner party in New York City, I’m wearing my Electric Feathers sleeveless dress, rough brown linen with a modest bateau neckline and a back that dips almost as low as the skirt is high. Both men and women tend to comment — women express their appreciation verbally; men with their eyes and a brief, distracted pause in conversation.

“I love it,” enthuses a friend. “It’s so earthy.”

She means it as praise. But still, my heart does its old, familiar sag.

Personal EssaysHeather L. HughesSeptember 8, 2015New York City, Maine, Style, Family

Never Read the Comments

With Jack, the excitement was having sex. Finally, sex. Sex at 29, after a prolonged virginity that wasn’t the result of religious beliefs or a commitment to not having sex until marriage or extreme undesirability. My extended virginity seemed to have just happened, or rather, sex just hadn’t happened. But now, finally, I was having sex, on my futon sofa, the kitchen countertop, the dining room table, the streaky Saltillo-tile living room floor, the blanket spread on the rough carpet of an empty apartment belonging to a former lover of his, the hotel bed with its limp, worn coverlet and sheets.

Personal EssaysHeather L. HughesNovember 10, 2014Sex, Relationships, Love