Tender is the Emotional Storm

I saw pictures of a childhood friend's engagement party first thing this morning, and they poked an already tender place. That place where I am so very aware of how I'm different. They're slightly younger than me, these beautiful shining desi girls who are lawyers and doctors and married and having children. The women from our community who "did it right." And then there's me. Single in my mid-40s. Loudmouthed and profane. Recently diagnosed with ADHD and Autism. A fraught history of CSA, depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, and problem drinking. Queer as hell and only just now saying it publicly. I never really fit in with the other kids in our community, not for lacking of trying on both sides. It's just that back then, I didn't know why I didn't "fit." I was just awkward and talked too much and made no sense to anybody but myself. I didn't shine. Because all I felt was tarnished.   

Sometimes I still feel tarnished. Even though I know I am brave. God, even saying that makes me feel like a fraud. But it's true. I'm brave. I'm still here. And I got here all by myself and by the sheer force of a will that was fighting against me every step of the way. I got therapy. I got on medication. I became an entertainment writer and then a published romance author. I constantly battle those demons that come in a bottle. We have cease-fires that go for months until a skirmish breaks out. I may be single, but I am safe and content otherwise. I am no less for being different, for not fitting in.

Twenty-Eight Days Later: Not the Zombie Apocalypse

I'm a romance author who's never had a relationship. Or at least that's what I tell people—and they are almost always shocked by that assertion. It's only in recent months that I've realized it isn't strictly true. I have had one significant long-term relationship. A toxic twenty-year on-and-off affair with alcohol...that's been in tandem with my lifelong partnership with fear. I've always been so afraid. Afraid I'm terrible, unlikable, unlovable. Afraid of what I'll say and what I'll do. Afraid of not being funny. Of not being cool. Of not being pretty enough. I grappled with those fears alone through my teens and into my first few years of college. And then I realized drinking softened the edges. A glass in my hand was like Dumbo's feather. It gave me the courage to fly.

Why I'm Not Happy About My Book Deal (or anything else)

Ever since I signed a three-book contract earlier this year, I've been going through this thing. Where I tell someone about it and they exclaim, "Oh, you must be so thrilled! Congratulations!" "Thanks, I'm terrified, actually," I say, fidgeting in my seat and feeling my cheeks heat—certain the person will think me ungrateful, but unable to lie and feign joy. And then the rest of the words tumble out of me. About the anxiety, the depression, the fear that I will fail. Nothing the person asked to hear. All they want is to be happy for me and I can't allow them, or myself, that moment.

My struggles with mental illness are no secret. I was in a depressive low even before my agent emailed me in March to let me know an editor wanted this book, this series. I had commitments to write a column for Frolic.Media that I kind of just...bailed on. (Sorry, Frolic!) I was barely poking at new fiction projects. The book news just sent me deeper into the spiral. Weeks turned into months of darkness. Of staring at my Word document in despair. Of listening to that voice in my head, whispering like Iago, "You're going to fail. You're going to die before you finish this book." Pushing myself out of the house—and ostensibly out of my head—inevitably meant going to local bars...and "celebratory" cocktails quickly turned into "drink until I cry" cocktails and "black out when I get home" cocktails. 

Before people rush in with well-meaning advice...I have a therapist. We've upped from monthly to twice a month. I have a new psychiatrist scheduled. I (try to) go to an exercise class every week. No, I'm not going to try yoga. Yes, I've tried meditation. This is not about asking for help. This is an honest look at the utter clawing terror that steals joy, that inhibits creativity, that wants to ensure we don't reach our full potential. Because I know exactly what this is. I know what's causing it. I know why I push past the third-drink happies to the fourth-drink miseries. No amount of self-awareness actually helps stop it. And neither does Downward-Facing Dog, okay?

Turn Down These Voices Inside My Head

If you've ever wondered what it's like to have "crazy brain*," I wrote this blog post when I was in the grip of a depressive episode yesterday. Reading it today, when things are a little brighter, it reminds me that I'm FIGHTING to get better, to keep from sliding back to a dark place permanently.

It's okay. It's going to be okay.

*** 

I'm awful and I should die. I'm a monster. I'm terrible. No wonder people hate me. I just had this litany go through my head. Welcome to anxiety. Welcome to depression. Yeah, I know they lie. Doesn't make the lies any less like a siren's call. Doesn't make the sensation any less like bees knocking around in my rib cage and weights dragging down my wrists.

RWA15 in NYC: A Tale of Two Conferences

This year's Romance Writers of America conference in New York City was my first as an author. I've attended three past RWAs around the country as an industry professional — and it was really interesting to attend as someone the programming was ostensibly for rather than as someone just observing for the purposes of coverage. It was also really fascinating to realize that, even with only one hat on, I was basically at two conferences.

Yet Another Drinking During RWA-in-NYC Post!

So, you're headed to the Romance Writers of America conference next week in the heart of New York City's Times Square. Yes, yes, it's for professional networking and improvement and bonding with your peers...but let's get real: 2500 romance writers in one spot means at least 2000 women who need to wet their whistle! As a season whistle-wetter and 11-year resident of the Big Apple, let me suggest a few places near the Marriott Marquis Hotel where you can let your hair down and say, "Bottoms up!"

1. Bourbon Street Bar & Grille. (346 W. 46th Street, between 8th and 9th Ave) Yes, I'm suggesting a NOLA-themed bar for while you're in New York. Because I am just that perverse. Bourbon Street is a huge space with Southern-inspired dishes and Southern cocktails. Hurricanes, Abita beer, gator sausage...let those good times roll! Bonus? It's on Hell's Kitchen's "Restaurant Row," where you will find a slew of prix fixe restaurants just rarin' to nab the pre-theater crowd.

2. Gossip. (733 9th Avenue) A standard pub with a great interior, not-so standard bar bites (the appetizers really are tasty!), and Happy Hour from 4-7 Monday-Thursday.

3. Deacon Brodie's. (370 W. 46th Street, closer to 9th Ave) Dive, dive, dive! This Scottish bar no longer features my two favorite accent-y bartenders, but it DOES have a ton of whiskey, bourbon and cheap cocktails. If you want a slice of no-frills, hometown dive bar in the middle of NYC, this is the place to go. They don't have a kitchen, but they will let you order food to the bar or bring stuff in from outside.  

Depression Part Two: Electric Boogaloo

Editing to add/disclaim: This is probably a good reminder that you shouldn't angst and post. I want to assure people that I do manage my illness with daily medication and am doing better overall. This bit of navel-gazing and whinging is just another example of how depression narrows your world down to just you.


A fun (and by "fun" I mean "really not fun at all") part of living with depression involves low points when you least want them. For me, a terrible convergence of emotions happened during a particularly rough time in the romance industry's community relationship: when it turned out that Dear Author's Jane Litte was also author Jen Frederick and had been lying to her readership for years. Blame my hormones, blame my illness, but the same week the shit hit the fan, so did my paranoia. All of a sudden, I was convinced that my own community activism was poison, that what I frequently said as an advocate of diversity had made people hate me. I was DMing a fellow writer and friend frantically, worried that bestselling author and general badass Courtney Milan might be mad at me about something. What...? I have no clue. You laugh, but, dude, it's no fun. It's a guilt spiral you don't want to experience. And I made myself get off that Twitter account for a while and breathe. You know what? She might be mad at me. I say a lot of divisive, inflammatory shit. But do I need to be hyperventilating, crying, and taking Twitter breaks because of that...? Do I need to be that neurotic? No. Welcome to depression.

Phoning it in: on Living With, and Surviving, Depression

Note: I've been a depression and anxiety sufferer/survivor for more than 25 years. This is not meant to encapsulate anyone else's experience with mental illness. Only mine. Please do not read if you are triggered by talk of depression and suicide. 

There is no one, perfect way to "cure" or "help" someone with depression. All we have is our own, individual coping structures, our own paths to getting better or just getting almost there. But we can find places to share our burdens and a community to lean on.

I write this to remind myself, and others, that we're alone in this together. 

Depression, Anxiety and the Captive Audience

“I want to crawl out of my skin, jump in front of a car, and cry. All at the same time.”

“This is like trying to scale that prison wall in Dark Knight Rises.”

“This is like swimming through Jell-o. I just want to stop.”

“No writerly stirrings. It's like being cut off from one of my senses.”

“Donned bright colors to try and lift my mood. Alas, now I'm just a sad girl in a red dress.”

“Sometimes, handling depression and anxiety is like trying to leash a lynx. And a hyena. In the middle of rush hour traffic.”

There are a thousand ways to describe mental illness when you’re a writer, so many metaphors at your disposal and so many adjectives to try and capture the darkness, the hopelessness, and the exhaustion. But there’s only one real way to live it: your way. My way.

My way, as Fezzik says in The Princess Bride, is not very sportsman-like.