Cults, ice cream, and anaphylactic shock
Welcome back to Memoir Monday—a weekly newsletter and monthly reading series, brought to you by Narratively, The Rumpus, Catapult, Longreads, Tin House, Granta, and Guernica. Each essay in this newsletter has been selected by the editors at the above publications as the best of the week, delivered to you all in one place. It may be the start of a new work week, but at least we have this great new writing to get us through it.
I Escaped the Cult. But I Couldn't Escape the Cult Mentality.
by Daniella Young (art by Jackie Ferrentino)
I knew that the leaders were debating my fate. I could tell by all the young, “cool” 20-year-old cult officers that they were sending to our commune to counsel me. While excommunicating a “problem teenager” was the usual course of action, my parents were famous members and I was the oldest third-generation member still around. They feared a domino effect should word get out that I had left the Family.
The Emperor of Ice Cream
by Rebecca Tamás
On the bus, following the hum of the engine, eating with friends, underneath the clanking of wine glasses, vibrating with the thrum of my partner’s heart as I lay my head on their chest – ‘Let be be the finale of seem. / The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.’ The line permeated those foggy days of grief with a strange ecstatic lightness, and an odd hysteria of the kind that makes you want to laugh out loud in a silent lecture theatre.
Anaphylaxis of the Mind
by Alyson Pomerantz
About 12 years ago, at my law firm’s holiday lunch, something strange happened when I took a bite of the crab appetizer. There was a tickling sensation in my throat. I say tickle, which makes it sound playful, but it was uncomfortable. I tried to clear it with a sip of wine, but the tickle stayed put. I went to the bathroom because the privacy of a small toilet seemed a better place for me to investigate what was wrong, despite the fact that it was poorly lit and I couldn’t open the door without it hitting the sink.
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Heart Work
by Sharon K. Sobotta (art by Leah Wells)
I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders, along with the weights of my four- and seven-year-old daughters sprawled across my chest and my eleven-pound calico cat Annie in the crux of my arm, on Sunday morning. I wiggle my way out from under my sleeping children and my moody cat and tiptoe to the living room, where I’m greeted by a half-constructed puzzle, a Barbie suitcase, blankets, jackets, and an overflowing garbage can.
Wearing Wigs Gave Me Freedom From the Shame of Mental Illness
by Patricia Grisafi
After I was hospitalized, I started wearing wigs regularly: Louise Brooks bobs, electric blue corkscrews, and long, crimson waves. I vaulted out of my comfort zone and dressed like Lady Gaga, Betty Draper, and Bettie Page—sometimes all three at once. I wore latex bodysuits, sequined jackets, ruffled skirts, wiggle dresses, and platform shoes encrusted with metallic studs. I had already been institutionalized, so wearing flashy clothes, which I had always secretly wanted to do, didn’t feel like too much of a risk anymore. After a lifetime of trying to fit in and avoid making mistakes, I finally felt like I could fuck up and survive.
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