Sluts for Sadness

Alt title: Stuffing dollar bills in misery's g-string

We’ve all heard the phrase “misery loves company.” At least that’s how our mothers used to describe it to us. “Don’t mind Meredith,” she’d say. “She’s a miserable cunt, and misery loves company.” Maybe not verbatim, but close enough.

Nowadays, I think they call it “trauma bonding.” Something terrible happens to you and you realize it also happened to someone else and the two of you form a connection over said terrible thing. Honestly, it’s a comforting way to get to know someone.

However, it’s my firm belief that we’re all becoming a little too slutty for sadness, and here’s why.

On a personal level, this summer has been traumatic for me. I’ve suffered two (VERY) early pregnancy losses, and both have rocked me to my core. I haven’t felt sadness and despair like that in literal years; the deep kind of sadness that feels transformative. Like you may never bounce back from it.

Because I’m a writer and a chronic over-sharer, I decided to share both experiences with whoever was willing to listen and read. Some pieces I put behind a paywall; others, I didn’t. Whether or not I wanted to charge people to read my deepest darkest thoughts and feelings depended entirely on my vulnerability level that day.

But when I did charge, hundreds (yes, hundreds) of people immediately threw $5 in my virtual tip jar just to read about my misery. In the blink of an eye, I watched my paid subscriber count climb rapidly just so strangers could read about something so incredibly personal about someone they had no investment in mere minutes earlier.