​There is something magical about hanging out on top of a mountain, eating cherries, and laughing with your friends over life’s odd moments. 

I find it easier to talk when the world - with all it’s distractions of pings, clicks, likes, advertisements, shoulds/buy me/pay attention to what I’m saying because if you don’t you won’t be accepted/wanted/valued - is far below you. 

Even better when your cell service is listed not as 5G but as SOS…(which I define as shizzle out of service).

​“Hi my name is Tink and I’m a (something something) year old woman who is starting to date.”

I had been sitting with my partner having a bite to eat and telling him how I wanted to give myself grace as this whole “dating” thing is new to me. When he looked a bit suss at my statement, the words above popped through my head.

I smiled sheepishly. “It’s true’, I insisted, ‘I don’t have a lot of dating experience!”

Now anyone who knows me, would probably ALSO give me the side eye on this proclamation. After all, the relationship I’m in currently is not my first one by a LOOOOONG shot. And if you’re feeling a bit lost right now, let me get you up to speed on the silly wonderful fabulous situation I call “my norm”.

For those new to me, my name really IS Tink, and I am a polyamorous, bisexual, full time adult entertainer, and currently a software engineering student. My partner and I recently moved in together and BOTH of us date…separately. 

I don’t want to move from this spot on the chair. Curled up in a small ball, I’m afraid I might unravel if I stretch my limbs and move. So I stay still, and wonder… 

Feeling frayed and worn out, would pieces of me begin to loosen and fall into scattered piles? Or would I try and pull the strings taut again into a smile - my usual armor to face the world?

Fighting depression is an exercise in holding onto a tenuous link to joy. One moment I’m giggling. The next it’s as though a tsunami of sadness dropped from the sky and left me drowning in tears. 

Or it can sneak up stealthily, like a spy trying to infiltrate a castle in a land of abundance. Because when life feels so damn good, who would ever expect depression to invade?

“I’m sorry. But can I make a reservation?”

I’m sitting on a train to Boston. The seats are wide and comfortable. For the most part, things are quiet, other than the occasional murmur of a conversation. 

A few stations ago, a group of young women got on the train. They were trying to sit near each other. I cleared the seat next to me for one of them, and went back to reading my book.

“I’m sorry to bother you but…”

It was her friend’s voice across the aisle that broke into my concentration. None of them were loud, but it was the “I’m sorry” that kept me re-reading the same paragraph.

In the space of a less than two minute conversation, the girl had said it SIX times. 

Last night I attended my first group therapy session. I’m on a waiting list to be matched with an affordable professional for my individual journey. Hopefully one versed in dealing with anxiety and eating disorders.

But in the meantime, it was suggested that I try out the motivation drop in group that meets online weekly. I was told it might help simply to feel supported, or to listen to what others are saying about challenges they are facing.

It was only recently that I began speaking out publicly about these issues that affect my daily life. In the past, I felt I had to put on a brave face, smile at the world, and never let on that inside was a constant battle. That a relentless conversation went on in my head about whether it was okay to eat, did I earn the right to eat, was I going to be worthy of eating, was it really necessary to eat.

And like the proverbial snake that swallows its own tail, my anxiety - an entity completely separate and stemming from traumatic experiences in my past - fed the eating disorder. While the eating disorder - an issue with roots in my childhood - increased my anxiety.