Erin Feid is a Rhode Island based freelance writer, soul searcher, and patriarchy smasher. She’s currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Nonfiction Writing at Bay Path University. A divorced mother of three and an avid yogi, her life philosophy is influenced by Buddhism and 90s hip hop.

Erin is a ruefully honest writer whose passion lies in removing stigmas surrounding mental health, addiction, and sexuality. You can find more of Erin’s work at StonedinSavasana.com where she shares her tragicomic memoir-in-essays and writes niche blog content for the yoga community. You can also follow her writing journey on Instagram (@erinfeid).

Might As Well Just Say ‘No’

In my fifth grade D.A.R.E. program at Oxford Elementary, I wrote an emotionally raw essay about my aunt’s struggle with addiction. I laid out all the gritty details of our family tragedy in the mid-nineties, a time when heroin addicts were dehumanized. Shortly after Christmas, my mother’s sister was found dead in her home at forty-two. In an undeniably staged coverup attempt, her wood stove had been tampered with sometime after the hot shot, and two sets of men’s boot prints led from her front door to fresh tire tracks in the snow.

The cops were quick to write it off as just another junkie overdosing. No investigation needed. My mother told people the cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning. I didn’t care what my classmates or D.A.R.E. officer thought about the truth. This was my aunt’s life story, and I refused to water it down or feel ashamed of her. It was rather heavy subject matter for a writer with Tamagotchis hanging from her Limited Too belt loops, but releasing my grief on paper felt cathartic. Earning the coveted D.A.R.E. essay award was a byproduct of my vulnerability.

At our graduation ceremony, my class performed an interpretive dance to John Lennon’s “Imagine.” A teacher then role played as the aggressive drug dealer hell-bent on unloading free product on kids in the wilderness of Maine, and we all took turns telling him to fuck off. This fever dream concluded with a lion mascot joining us on stage to sing the “Just Say No” song.  

It only took three years to break my promise that I’d remain drug-free. By fourteen, it was an enthusiastic “yes please!” anytime they were offered; or else I sought them out myself. Inspired by my favorite book, Go Ask Alice, I loved dropping acid before ninth grade art class. There were very few drugs I would decline, and I certainly didn’t learn how to just say no to boys either. In fact, twenty years later, a man told me, “My favorite thing about you is that you never say no.”

For being such a radically honest writer, it’s ironic that I’d sooner throw myself into oncoming traffic than be assertive or even consider putting my needs first. I’m a textbook people-pleaser, an over-apologizer, an insecure fawn with an anxious attachment style and daddy issues. I fiend for external validation like it’s skag.

I’ve put myself in all sorts of fucked up situations to avoid offending anyone, especially men. I’ve gotten in cars with impaired drivers, entered sketchy basement apartments in neighborhoods I don’t belong in, and even slept with men I didn’t want to- you know, to not be rude. I’d learned young how to disassociate during sex, and somehow that felt safer than pissing off a man. I wasn’t a naïve teenager anymore; I was a thirty-something divorced mother who watched plenty of true crime documentaries, and yet I continuously put myself in danger to avoid saying no.

I once had a Tinder date show up disrespectfully late to meet me, and I actually sat there waiting for him at the bar. After two glasses of wine, I inexplicably agreed to let this guy I didn’t even like follow me back to my house after I jumpstarted his car in the parking lot. All because I was afraid to say no.      

This past winter, I experienced a mental breakdown of epic proportions. I’d been dumped by my married boyfriend, totaled my car on Christmas Eve, and worst of all, people I loved were mad at me. I was on the highest dose of Lexapro and regularly attending yoga class, and yet I still wanted to stick my head in the oven like Sylvia Plath. I ended up in a partial DBT program at the psych hospital, a week of intensive outpatient therapy exclusively for women. My therapist suggested that the skills I’d acquire here would be infinitely more beneficial than crying and swallowing a handful of gummies.

Throughout my week of group sessions, I bonded with the other women and found that I loved the classes, I loved learning, and I surprisingly missed school. I actively participated, shared, and enthusiastically took notes as I gained a deeper understanding of mindfulness, distress tolerance, and emotional regulation. When the hospital’s prescribing doctor slut shamed me, I was presented with the perfect opportunity to practice my new DEAR MAN skill I’d just learned.  

Describe. Express. Assert. Reinforce, Mindful. Appear Confident. Negotiate.

For a fleeting moment, I wondered if maybe this highly inappropriate remark was supposed to be a test; if the doctor was simply roleplaying like my fifth-grade teacher, baiting me to try out an interpersonal effectiveness skill to ensure I’d been paying attention in class. I took a deep breath.

“It’s frustrating that you would prescribe me a medication that counteracts my birth control after we clearly reviewed my current prescriptions, and I was especially shocked to hear your reasoning. I was under the impression that some form of sensitivity training is required to work here. Had I known, I would’ve spent this $2,000 deductible on an ayahuasca retreat instead.”

The doctor’s eyes widened in disbelief. I’d been a blubbering mess from intake up until that moment, and now here I was advocating for myself while keeping my composure. I’d said all the things I wanted to say, eloquently and without tears. That was one of the few times I’ve ever felt proud of myself, and it became my catalyst for getting my shit together. Once the Prozac kicked in, I applied to grad school and focused on my writing. I was finally on the path toward healing.

Months later, I reconnected with a guy I used to date years ago. Now that I was equipped with serotonin and self-respect, I started noticing how rude he was. From my healthy new perspective, this man’s unwarranted sense of entitlement and blatant disregard for my time started to grate on me, but I gave it a couple more chances. I even slept with him, despite being horribly turned off by his laziness, because I hadn’t yet mastered how to just say no.

We had plans to meet for dinner one evening, and on my way to the restaurant I received a text from him: Might as well pick me up

I audibly gasped. I didn’t have time to DEAR MAN this shit, nor did I have the energy to explain to a middle-aged man the concept of basic manners.

I texted back: No I’m not doing that

No explanation. No apology. No guilt. Instead, I turned around and drove home. I ate Chipotle in bed while finishing my term paper, feeling euphorically high off the power of “no.”