Month: November 2025

woman wearing glasses getting splashed in the face with water

Turns out the Real ‘Water Weight’ is Rage Suppression

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

Water is 60 percent of my body, 70 percent of the world’s surface, and 100 percent a pain in the ass.

Look, I know we need water to, like, live and stuff. But couldn’t evolution have chosen something tastier and more readily available? Like the tears of my enemies? The fizz off a freshly poured Diet Coke? Literally anything that doesn’t betray me every single time I get near it?

Water is supposed to be good for you. At least according to the Stanley Cup girlies and people who think drinking lemon-paprika water at sunrise will cure their childhood trauma. But all I’ve ever gotten out of hydration is disappointment, inconvenience, and a friend smacking me upside the head because I peed in that Stanley Cup during a long road trip. (Honestly? No regrets.)

Pools? Athlete’s foot.

Water parks? Swimmer’s ear.

Rivers? Yeast infection.

Lakes? Diarrhea.

Oceans? Sharks, obviously. Because Nature was like: “Look at all this water! Now let’s fill it with teeth!”

Fish out of Water
And don’t even get me started on H2O in professional settings. The first time I went to the Investigative Journalists Conference, I was SO EXCITED. My professor had invited me to a luncheon with the president of the association. There I was, jaw dropped, trying to look poised and intelligent while also being young enough that I didn’t understand health insurance or why deductibles exist. (PS: I still don’t.)

We all converged on the table, and I was thrilled to be seated across from the big cheese. Following the P’s & Q’s crash course my school tried to pass off as “life skills,” I wiped my sweaty palms on my dress and stood up to shake his hand… immediately knocking an entire pitcher of Evian straight onto his pants. His khaki pants. He gave the opening keynote speech looking like he’d lost a battle with potty training.

Even the water inside my body hates me. I once choked on my own spit during a job interview. One minute I was sitting in my modest-yet-colorful blazer wondering why pantyhose were ever invented, and the next I was gasping like a Victorian child with the croup. The interviewer—already convinced I should be at home breeding—did NOT appreciate my attempt at levity: “Just checking if I can breathe my own spit. Nope! Haven’t reached that evolutionary milestone yet. Darn.”

So if water is the bringer of life… why is it always kicking me in the cojones?

Water Off a Duck’s Back
Water isn’t always soft. It floods, storms, erodes, destroys. It wipes out entire coastlines. Water is powerful, and water be giving zero fucks. And yet we talk about it like it’s a gentle hug in beverage form.

Sound familiar?

Like every woman I’ve ever met, water is expected to play nice. To soothe, not push. To cool, not rage. And when it doesn’t? Y’all are scandalized. How could something so “pure” misbehave?

I’m full of something I resent. Multiple somethings. Water, yes. But also anger.

Waterworks
My husband recently suggested I use “I statements.” So I said, “I’m angry at you.” He blinked at me like I’d slapped him with a trout. Apparently that wasn’t the right kind of I statement. Couldn’t I phrase it differently? Softer? Sweeter? More subdued?

I get it. I’ve been socialized that way, too.

When I was little, my temper tantrums were treated like public safety threats. I was told the neighbors could hear. My grandparents could hear. Santa could hear—and he was judging me. Meanwhile, my brother would scream like he was auditioning for Metallica and everyone just shrugged. Boys will be boys, after all. Girls must be quiet fountains of serenity.

Anger, like water, is unavoidable and genuinely essential, yet constantly policed.

Treading Water
I’m tired. Bone-deep tired. Anger is supposed to be the alarm bell that tells you something is wrong, and dearest, something—so many somethings—is VERY wrong.

If I keep my anger locked down, I’ll get sicker, unhappier, and die younger. But if I let even a teaspoon of it surface, I get labeled dramatic. Hysterical. PMS-ing. Difficult. And society will kick me to the curb. (Where I’ll get sicker, unhappier, and die younger.)

You can’t be angry at bosses or husbands or strangers who say “smile” like you’re a malfunctioning Barbie. You can be angry at designated Safe Targets (traffic, long lines, the weather), but not the adorable cat that shits in your backyard. Or the dude who’s breaking noise ordinances to blow leaves at 6-fucking-o’clock. And god forbid you direct your rage at anything or anyone that might actually benefit from hearing it.

Head Above Water
“Your anger is showing” is a sin worse than visible bra straps on a ‘90s school picture day. More scandalous than Godzilla with a hard-on. More shameful than, well, Godzilla with a hard-on.

And if you ladies and minority groups DO let your anger show? You’d better giggle. Apologize. Spin around thrice, knock on wood and sacrifice a small animal (just not the goddamn cat) to Polite Society.

I call BS. My anger is deep and vast, and I deserve it. I’m done pretending otherwise.

Because what would happen if women actually expressed our anger? Really, truly said what we knew to be true? Yelled, slammed doors, punched walls, let the world know we’ve had absofuckinglutely ENOUGH?

I don’t know. But I’d like to find out.

Darlings, let’s make some waves.

Image Credit: Ryan McGuire
Description: Woman wearing glasses getting splashed in the face with water

Graffiti depicting Charlie Brown holding a cigarette and a gas can on the side of a brown building.

My Doctor Told Me I’m Broken and Now I Understand Why Charles Schulz is a Genius

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

Yesterday my doctor told me I was broken, and—shockingly—that’s when I finally understood why Peanuts is funny.


Until that moment, Peanuts had always struck me as the slowest, saddest, most inexplicably beloved snoozefest this country has ever mass-distributed. Now? Oh, I get it. I get why Charlie Brown keeps trudging back to that football. I get why the adults all talk in wah-wah nonsense. I get the whole grayscale, existential doom-as-childhood-charm aesthetic. Because there I was yesterday, sitting on that crinkly paper like a grown-up Peanuts character—hair slightly frizzy, dignity slightly compromised—getting emotionally bludgeoned by someone who pretended he was offering me wisdom.

This life-changing triumph of imagination, this universe-level skill of connecting the dots, has been a long time coming.

Young Me vs. Schulz: The Original Grudge Match

In grade school, I wrote a letter to the editor of our local paper explaining why Peanuts was the worst comic in history and should be summarily banned from the funnies. I laid out the case with great research and even greater authority: the grown-ups clearly had undiagnosed speech disorders; Woodstock was a flying trauma victim; Pigpen was being neglected by every adult in a five-mile radius; Snoopy was flouting leash laws; Lucy was one bad day away from juvie; and then there was Charlie Brown and that endlessly weaponized football. This was NOT a comic. This was a goddamn American tragedy.

I was eight.

My one-kid crusade to purge existential humor from the newspaper fell on deaf ears, and Peanuts endured. (Don’t get Young Me started on Garfield.) And my hatred of the strip endured, too, for decades—until yesterday.

Enter: The Doctor Who Should’ve Been Voiced by a Trombone

My doctor walked into the room, sat down, glanced at my chart like it had personally inconvenienced him and sighed dramatically: “Doctors like me, we hate treating patients like you. You come in with your lists of symptoms and questions. You act ‘chippy’ because of all the other doctors who haven’t listened to you. You all get defensive.”

Yikes. Even Lucy would’ve paused before opening with that.

I looked down at the list in my hand. Oh. Okay. We’re skipping foreplay and going straight to emotional disembowelment. Great. Perfect. Delightful. Why not. Let’s go for the high score today.

“I mean this in the nicest way, but you’re part of the Land of Broken Toys. No offense.”

No offense? NO OFFENSE? If “no offense” were a magical get-out-of-jail-free card, every marriage counselor in America would be out of work.

And this doctor—who allegedly trained somewhere not in the Caymans—just called me defective with the tone you’d use to describe a whimsical Etsy ornament.

Reader, I’d love to say I stood up, planted my feet like Charlie Brown preparing for a righteous kick, and told him off—but I didn’t.

No, I LAUGHED when he told me I was broken. I made jokes. I kept it light. Like he hadn’t just bulldozed my dignity. Because I needed him to help me. And he wouldn’t help me if he was annoyed.

What is a doctor without a patient? On vacation.
 What is a patient without a doctor? Fucked.

“Appeasement Response” or Thanks for the Free Psychiatry, Dr. Snoopy

Then he hit me with this one:
“The way you’re talking right now? All upbeat and to-the-point, that’s called an appeasement response. You do it because of trauma.”

Wow, I’m so glad I have a cardiologist who won’t give me advice on headaches because it’s “not his area,” here to diagnose my speech mannerisms. He didn’t say it for my benefit. He said it to reassert power, to shape the narrative, to keep me compliant, to psychoanalyze me instead of treating me.

Again, I’d love to say I called him out. I’d love to say this was the first time I’ve been in this situation. But I didn’t. And it’s not.

Hello, everyone. My name is Charlie Brown, and this is my football.

The Great Pumpkin of Ableism Rises

“I won’t tell you not to get pregnant. But you feel bad now? How are you going to take care of a baby when it’s born? You can’t put them back in once they’re out, dear.”

Because nothing screams “medical expertise” like infantilizing your patient and disability-shaming.

And let’s be clear: what he said wasn’t “medical advice.” It wasn’t even doctor-adjacent. It was disability shaming with the bedside manner of a printer jam. He didn’t say, “Pregnancy could be physically demanding because of XYZ” or “We’d want to monitor you closely” or even the classic doctor favorite, “Hmm.” No. He skipped right to, “How will you take care of a baby?” as if disabled people have never once raised children in the history of humanity.

And the wild part? He made this sweeping declaration about my alleged inability to parent without even asking the most basic questions. Do I have support? Community? Accommodations? He didn’t care. He immediately filled in the rest of the story with his own eugenics-flavored Mad Libs. In his mind, parenting is done in a vacuum, and my vacuum is apparently haunted. Meanwhile, actual disabled parents all over the world are packing lunches, filling out school forms, and arguing with toddlers about why we don’t eat rocks. But sure, doctor, tell me more about how you have decided I’m unfit.

Lucy Charges Five Cents, This Man Bills My Insurance

Then:
 “The treatment that would help you is a weekly IV… but you know how hard that is to get through insurance? I’m not going to suggest it. Too much paperwork. Do you know how much paperwork us doctors have to fill out? I feel bad for us.”

So he knows what would help me. He’s just choosing not to do it. Because it’s annoying. Cool cool cool cool cool cool.

Imagine a firefighter calmly explaining that the hose would put out your house fire, but the nozzle is kind of hard to twist, so… good luck with the flames, sweetheart.

The truth is, he wasn’t evaluating my health or my capacity to parent or anything rooted in reality. He was protecting his own convenience. And when a doctor decides your existence is too inconvenient, suddenly everything about you gets recast as a flaw: your symptoms, your tone, your questions, your body, your future hypothetical baby. You become a “broken toy” and he becomes the benevolent owner who sadly just can’t fix you. It’s patronizing, it’s lazy, and it’s the medical equivalent of Lucy yanking the football away: predictable, humiliating, and somehow always your fault.

Fragile? No. Just Tired of Adult Voices Going Wah-Wah

He added, “I bet you know people in your family who are fragile like you.” I don’t consider myself fragile. And I don’t know anyone else in my family with this condition—but he didn’t ask.

What about my family history? He didn’t bother with questions. He just said not to worry about it. Or go to the ER if I felt sick.

It was at that moment—truly, spiritually—that I became Charlie Brown. Because even when you try to be polite, to be precise, to be soft enough that no one accuses you of anything… the football still gets pulled back.

Eventually, I put my lists away. Not out of defeat—out of recognition. Recognition that this wasn’t a medical appointment. It was a power ritual. And when I finally snapped, I snapped politely. LIKE A LADY. I texted my friends that he was the biggest asshole alive. (A lie. He’s not even top 20.)

Once you see it, you can’t unsee it. The injustice. The imbalance. The absurdity. The way systems shape you into silence, then punish you for being silent. The way you learn to swallow the scream, to laugh instead of cry, to stay pleasant because your survival depends on it.

And eventually you understand—really understand—why Charlie Brown keeps trying. Because the alternative is giving up entirely, becoming one of the adults who only speaks in muffled nonsense and bureaucratic vagueness. You keep running at the football because the fight to stay human requires at least the attempt at hope.

Good Grief, Healthcare

I walked out of that office, and, suddenly, Peanuts was hilarious. I understand why the strip has endured. The adults don’t understand you. They’re not going to. You get knocked down. You get dismissed. You get analyzed instead of helped. And the whole world expects you to stay grateful, cheerful, nonthreatening.

It’s not a classic because it’s traditionally funny. It’s classic because the tragedy is familiar. And if you can’t laugh at the tragedy, you’ll implode.

Oh, that Charlie Brown… when will he learn? Probably the same day my doctor does.

Image Credit: Pankaj Shah
Description: Image of graffiti. Charlie brown has a cigarette in his mouth and is holding a can of gasoline.

Woman in a floral blue blouse holding a happy face balloon over her face in front of a colorful brick wall with gratified daisies.

How to Break Up With Your Therapist (and Other Unhelpful Thoughts)

Mollie Bloudoff-Indelicato Leave a comment

Today, I officially broke up with my therapist of ten years. The real deed was done via email—because nothing says “emotional maturity” like a Dear John letter that fits neatly between a DoorDash receipt and a coupon for aromatherapy.

In my defense, I recently found out that I’m neurodivergent. This explains why 90% of my in-person social interactions do NOT go well. So before hitting “send,” I consulted both ChatGPT and my husband, to make sure I wasn’t too direct, too defensive, or too honest. A tall order for anyone, but especially someone whose internal monologue frequently sounds like a squirrel addicted to cocaine.

She suggested we have a final session for closure. I googled “closure,” and it sounded less like an emotional process and more like a subscription box for people who enjoy campfire renditions of Coldplay. I’m more of a want-to-know-why-as-soon-as-possible kind of gal. And I’ve learned that most people (potentially all mentally healthy people??) don’t analyze every decision to check for logical inconsistencies—they just have feelings and do shit based on whatever those wily fuckers suggest.

Closure, it seemed to me, was a sentimental waste of $300 that I could better spend on my latest obsession: finding the most comfortable compression socks. Or as I call them, emotional support hosiery.

But, I thought, maybe closure is one of those human things you’re supposed to try once—like ayahuasca or improv. And I did learn something. Though I’m still not quite sure what.

Me: I want to go over some key terms to make sure I can practice identifying them correctly by myself. What does your “Self” feel like?

Her: Think of it like… how it felt to move through the world before trauma.

Me: But I was told that trauma adds seasoning to life.

Her: Who told you that?

Me: My mom.

Her: When? Recently?

Me: Preschool.

Her: Sigh…

Me: How do I know which is a “Part” and which is the “Self”?

Her: It can be tricky. You need to wait for a so-called Part to say something vulnerable and true—a statement without ego. That’s probably the Self.

Me: OK…

Her: Of course, all the various Parts can also mimic the Self to manipulate you into doing things. You know some of the Parts, but there are many you haven’t yet discovered.

Me: K.

Her: And then Parts can block the Self using defenses. And sometimes you can think you’re talking to the Self, when really it’s a manipulative Part.

Me: So… I could A/B test it by writing down what I think the Self said, then get each Part’s feedback, cross-reference the overlap, and run an integrity check?

Her: I guess that’s one way you could do it. Or you could look inside yourself for the thing that feels pure and true.

Me: I think imma go with the A/B testing. Feelings are just data points with extra drama.

Her: Your greatest strength is your curiosity.

Me: Really?

Her: Yeah. You’re willing to learn hard truths and face cognitive dissonance to do right by yourself.

Me: Jeez, wow. It just feels like I have to analyze everything. Like, is this healthy? Is it projection? Is it a manipulative Part? Is it a Part being manipulated? It’s exhausting.

Her: Yeah, don’t do that.

Her: You have, like, magic.

Her (later): Our work was magic.

Her (even later): You just have this magic.

Reader, though she said “magic” the magic number of times, she did so WITHOUT summoning a rabbit, a dove, or a coherent metaphor. Why is therapy always so disappointing?

Her: You are quoting me incorrectly. I worry because this is our last session, and I don’t want you to walk away with untruths. But I can’t convince you.

Me: I’m not quoting you. You talked about this for like 30 minutes. I’m taking the essence of what you said and amalgamating it into something I can actually use. Then I file that version in my brain cabinet under “Useful” and move on until it’s applicable again.

Her: But it’s missing so much!

Me: Yes, but you talked for HALF AN HOUR. How could I possibly remember everything?

Her: You’re smart! You remember tons of facts and details.

Me: Exactly! Facts! Details! Not abstract feelings that have one answer when Mercury’s in retrograde and another when you’re burning sage. I can’t live like this.

Her: But it’s not accurate.

Me: You are NOT allowed to play the accuracy card with a neurodivergent woman.

Her: You know, I think more like you than you realize.

Me: Oh! You also wonder what you’d do with all the time you would’ve saved if you didn’t have to go to the bathroom?

Her: Oh my god, yes!

Me: And how amazing life would be without emotions?

Her: Agree to disagree.

Her: It didn’t feel good to keep matching your energy. For a long time, it was an organic connection—us enjoying each other’s company. But then it didn’t feel good for me. So I stopped.

Me: So you thought about it, weighed the pros and cons, and decided to show less affect because it wasn’t healthy for you?

Her: Hmm?

Me: Sorry, I mean… how would you handle this? Um, you meditated on it? Reflected on your innermost Self? Made a plan? Because when I decide to change, I research feasibility, estimate statistical success, internalize the goal, execute it, and only revisit it if I’m prepared to make a new analysis.

Her: No, I just felt not great about it for like five minutes and course-corrected. In retrospect, I probably should’ve talked to you about it.

Me in my head: Probably! Given this is therapy and talking is sort of your thing.
Me out loud: Oh.

Her: I didn’t feel like being so lighthearted—laughing over your life falling apart.

Me: Please explain to me why that’s not exactly the right time to laugh.

Her: I’m not afraid of discomfort. A lot of our work has been uncomfortable.

Me: Oh, really?

Her: Sure, tons of times.

Me: So what makes you uncomfortable? Because it seems like I was rewarded for big emotional displays, so it can’t be that.

Her: Curiosity is uncomfortable.

Me: Holy crap, really? I had NO idea. Curiosity always feels like a driving force to me.

Her: Yeah, like when you were a journalist writing an article and it wasn’t coming together and you didn’t know if it was going to work out.

Me: Hmm, so curiosity is kinda like anxiety?

Her: No, more like when you’re unsure if the approach you took will help your client.

Me: So curiosity feels like the fear of the unknowable?

Her: Forget I said it.

Me: Out of curiosity, how do you define hope?

Her: Hope is the feeling that something good will happen.

Me: Hmmm. I think hope is a huge flaw in human logic that leads us to make stupid mistakes. But it probably also keeps us alive. I was going to kill off all my hope, but now I’ve decided to double down on it.

Her: Well, good. Good for you.

Me in my head: Yeahhhhh, boi. Self-sabotage, but make it optimistic!
Me out loud: Thanks.

Her: The cat was making us miserable. I just thought, I have one life, why do I have to suffer? Someone else can give her a better home.

Me in my head: Huh. I see we have very different interpretations of “responsibility” and yours is wildly disappointing.
Me out loud: That’s valid.

Her: I hope you remember that I adored your quirkiness. It was refreshing, and I enjoyed our work together.

Me: You used to say I was dismissive and often offended you by being too direct.

Her: I enjoyed the majority of our work together.

Her: Having this relationship with you for so long… you’ve truly helped me become a better therapist.
Me: Oh, I know. That was the most annoying part. I didn’t even get a continuing education fee.

Her: I care about you deeply.

Me: Aww, thanks. ¡Lo mismo!

Her: Is there anything you’d like to share with me?

Me: Um, no? I think I said it all in the email.

Her: You can also say it out loud.

Me: Ugh, god, why??!! Fine!!

Me: I miss the memory of you. Like, who you were to me before you emotionally checked out. You were reliable and stable when nothing else was. You taught me a lot. It wasn’t all awful.

Her: Mmhm.

Me: Oh! You taught me emotions. That was pretty big! And I learned that love was an OK thing. And I also feel more free now that therapy is over, which is nice. Like, I could never fully be myself because I was always so worried about being misunderstood or stupid or annoying. It’s like… it’s like I was speaking French to you the whole time, and you only understood bits and pieces.

Her: I speak French.

Me: Sometimes when I talk, I can feel myself picking the wrong dialogue option.

Her: You’ll always have a special place in my heart.

Me: I don’t mean to be dense, but that reminds me of a tumor.

Her: It means you’re thought of as warm and won’t be forgotten.

Me: So exactly like a tumor. Cool, cool, cool.

Me: When I was diagnosed, you told me you were “trying hard” to learn about neurodivergence. But you wouldn’t give me specifics. Why?

Her: I figured you should just trust me.

Me: Wait. Trust? I don’t trust anyone. I don’t even trust myself. You know that. And I love specifics. I crave specifics.

Her: I thought our history would count. It seemed invasive and rude to have to list the things I was doing.

Me: Okay, so what did you do?

Her: A continuing education course, talked to many other therapists, went to a conference talk, listened to podcasts, bought books… things like that.

Me in my head: You should get your money back. Needing specificity is Neurodivergence 101, and you did NOT pass.
Me out loud: Impressive.

Her: You have been very special to me. You are just filled with so much wonder, and I see you… hmm… what’s the word?

Me: Exploding? Like a balloon? *gestures

Her: No! Mollie, no, I see you doing great things.

Me: Great things like finally writing that book on aquatic snail husbandry? I’ll put it higher on my to do list!

Her: You’ve taught me a lot.

Me: Like where to get the best period underwear?

Her: No. What? Well, actually, yes.

Her: We had so many moments of rupture and repair. We’ll always have that mutual love and care.

Me: And the mushrooms.

Her: What?

Me: We’ll always have the mushrooms.

Her: Well, I guess. Yes, that, too.

Her: Well, that’s our time.

Me: Okay! Here’s your check. So long, and thanks for all the fish.

Her: Ooooh, wish I didn’t have to bring this up. But what about the check for the session you missed?

Me: ?

Her: Several weeks ago…

Me: Oh. You mean the one session I missed because I was so sick I couldn’t sit up or talk? The first and only session I’ve missed in a decade?

Her: Yeah, hate to mention it. You’ll mail it?

Me: Ahh, yes, this must be a Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays.

It’s funny, the whole “end of an era” thing. Ten years of emotional excavation and all I got was confirmation that the line between genius and insanity is thinner than the toilet paper at a meditation retreat. I still have no idea which side I’m on — or if there even is a side.

I keep waiting for that big, cinematic swell of meaning people describe after major life transitions. You know, that slow-motion montage where you walk away in soft lighting, feeling wiser and freer. But instead, all I feel is the urge to alphabetize my feelings and delete half of them for being really fucking irritating.

Still, I learned something. Not about closure, exactly, more about the industry of therapy itself. Some things are just made for certain people. Like skincare serum commercials or cults — both offer the illusion of improvement and cost way too much. And you’re left wondering if what you got was transformation… or just really flattering lighting and a fresh layer of delusion.

So, yeah. The breakup was successful. And I unlocked the “closure” achievement. Now, to try ayahuasca!

Image Credit: Lidya Nada