Anne Thériault
A short list of things that I love: my son, the dude I am married to, books, summer dresses, shiny hair, banjo music, ...
Latest Posts
This Is How To Talk To Your Son About His Body
Teach your son to be kind to himself. Teach him to be kind to other people. Teach your son that his body is good for all kinds of things.
Being A Girl: A Brief Personal History Of Violence
I don’t tell anyone right away because I feel like it is my fault – my fault for being too loud, too outspoken, too obviously a parent.
What I Wish Everyone Knew About Sylvia Plath
I write a lot about mental health, and I think a lot of people assume that I love Sylvia because we’re both part of the Depressed Ladiez club.
What It Feels Like When Negative Self-Talk Creeps In
I know what it must sound like to you whenever those ugly words start pouring out of me.
Love Is Not Inherently Good: A Warning For Anyone Who Thinks It Will Be Easy
The love that you put out into the world will not last forever, ricocheting between atoms, shifting shape as needed. A thoughtless heart can stop your love cold.
“I Knew That Shit Was Poison”: 12 People Describe What Paxil Did To Them As Teens And Young Adults
Late last week the New York Times published an article titled Antidepressant Paxil Is Unsafe for Teenagers, New Analysis Says. After reading it through twice, I sent the link to my friend.
An Open Letter To My Son
You. Sometimes I wonder about you. I wonder, for instance, where you came from. I understand the dry facts, of course, the complex mechanics of ovulation and ejaculation.
The Phrase ‘Life Goes On’ Is Garbage
The main problem with life is that it goes on. And on. And on. People say that like it’s supposed to comfort you.
Read This If You’ve Ever Wanted To Be A Writer (But Didn’t Know If You Were Good Enough)
Don’t listen to people who want to peddle some kind of elite ideal of what it means to write; don’t buy into the idea that you can only refer to yourself as a writer if you’ve been published in the New Yorker or you have a stack of rejection letters a foot deep or you frequently stay up all night weeping softly into a glass of scotch because you can’t arrange exactly the right words in exactly the right order to say exactly whatever it is you want to stay.
