I wanted to die, and now I don't

5/26/22

My heart is sick with the loss of life at Uvalde Elementary School this week. In working with clients and speaking with friends, many of us feel lost. Many of us feel we belong to a broken society, one we can neither tolerate nor change. The psychologist in me fears the siren song of suicide will be calling for some.

And that's what finally steeled me enough to post this. Please, if you're on the fence about taking your life, read on. There is hope.

–Allison

**

Content warning: suicidal ideation

1/22/2022

I promised myself I would write this post if I made it to 1/1/2022. And then the day came. Grateful as I was, I no longer wanted to keep my promise. It was too hard. Too much. Maybe unnecessary, given how far I’d come.

On the morning of 1/2/2022, I logged into Instagram this was the post I opened to.

(poem by Sean Thomas Dougherty)

The Universe is forever calling me out. I’m heeding the call, even if it did take me twenty more days to build my moxie. I expect it will take me even more to get the courage to post, if I ever do.

So…(deep breath)...here we go. 

In the Fall of 2020, just sixteen-ish short months ago, I wanted to die. And I strongly considered making that happen. This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever admitted, especially publicly, but even to myself. 

If you are family, friend, or client reading this, I want you to know: none of this was your fault. Please keep trusting me with your lives and hurts in the ways you do. Please also honor that I can be a person who struggles but who still has room to care for others. 

It is important for you to know that I don’t want to die anymore. But I want to explain to you how it all came to be and how it came to pass.

Some context about the state of my life in the beginning of 2020: I was married to someone who loved me just the way I was and tried really hard to take care of me and our family. I had two kids who I genuinely thought were amazing human beings. I had a job that helped others, and I was pretty good at it. I had loving family and friends. You can see how this does not sound like the recipe for someone who ends up in serious suicidal ideation. Here’s your first important lesson: Depression does not operate on logical channels. You can throw your best, most compelling evidence in the face of depression, and it will say, “Fuck you, I’ll do what I want, thanks.”

Here’s the rest of the story: Well, it was 2020. On March 10 my life was operating normally, and by March 20 it was completely upside-down. In a weekend I moved my entire private counseling practice to telehealth, essentially saying goodbye to the routines and structure that had been as reliable to me as the sun coming up in the morning. All the while, my colleagues and I battled to be compensated for provision of therapy via telehealth.

And I was providing more services than ever before, as the need for mental health services swelled in the wake of our world’s crisis. I opened my schedule to longer hours and more clients, because the need was so great. My people were hurting. Everyone was scared. And while I was happy to be a helper and to feel some agency in an out-of-control time, being immersed in my own fears many hours a day (because my clients and I were living the same trauma and having similar responses), was really, really hard.

I also however felt that I didn’t have a choice but to work my ass off because at any minute, I could get COVID and then everything would fall apart. I needed to save enough money to make sure my family would be okay if I got sick, or in the worst case, died. My head was a constant push-and-pull. “You need to rest.” “You can’t rest.”

At the same this was happening, my entire social structure shifted. Since I was working from home, I no longer regularly saw my office colleagues—who I love. No weekly volleyball league. No weekend visits to my parents’. No Sunday dinners with my husband’s family. My connection to both my hometown friends and my neighborhood friends was severed. I didn’t see many of these folks standing on the same side of history I was very firmly on, both in terms of pandemic response and other historical events we were living, such as the Black Lives Matter movement and the 2020 election. In hindsight, the cracks in my connections with those communities were always there, it’s just that 2020 blasted them wide open.

My social media demonstrated to me that as an immunosuppressed person living in a life-threatening time, my needs for safety came in as a very late second to the Personal Freedom of the healthy.

I have never felt so unwanted in my life, as I did that Fall. I felt like a throwaway human being.

But I kept going. I got into a new routine. Work, document, write. Drink too much coffee. Take long walks. Eat what we started calling “supper with weird vibes” with my husband and kids. Cry and miss my family like crazy and wonder if anything was ever going to get better. Was everyone going to die? Was I going to die? Rinse and repeat.        

In August of 2020 I got the ultimate kick in the teeth and was diagnosed with a latent tuberculosis infection. (No, I have no idea how/where I contracted it.) This wouldn’t have been a big deal, if not for the fact that the treatment for TB interfered with my antidepressant medication, which at that point was already my lifeline. I started the TB meds in early October and almost immediately felt the downward shift in my mood. But the tricky thing about depression, which is your second important lesson: Depression can become ego-syntonic, which means that it doesn’t feel like something happening to you, it feels like it IS you. So, I knew I felt like shit, but I also was convinced that I simply was shit.

The Crohn’s Disease that I always have but only periodically battle also kicked into high gear. I couldn’t keep food in me, when I had an appetite at all. My joints seared almost constantly. I was on and off of steroids like most people are on and off of health kicks.

All the time—all of the time—I feared getting COVID. I had no idea what it would do to me, on top of what I already had going on with my body. Being around people scared me. Everything and everyone became a threat. And this, from someone who absolutely loves people, so much so that I have committed my life to being a helper.

By late October I was a mess. Nightly, I’d take long walks in which all I could do was cry. Cry, until I couldn’t breathe anymore. Cry outside, because I sure as hell didn’t want my kids seeing or hearing me. I already felt intensely guilty for making their lives even harder than they needed to be. They gave up all social contact outside of our home, largely due to me being at-risk. So, hell no to letting them see me suffer. Hell no to making them hurt any more than I’d already hurt them.

It was around this time that I started thinking maybe I should die--on my own terms. There was sick appeal in just taking the bull by the horns and doing it myself, rather than waiting for COVID to kill me first. I think I craved control over my life in a time in which I had very little.

There was a part of me that knew that death was not what I really wanted. After all, this whole thing had started with me being scared to die and leave my family behind. But I was also in such pain, both physical and emotional, and I didn’t know how to make it stop. I felt like I’d tried everything: I was taking meds, I was in therapy and physical therapy, I tried to utilize the small support network I had left. And nothing helped. Here is your third lesson: Suicide is rarely about wanting to die. It is very much about wanting pain to stop.

I poignantly remember the sunset on October 28, 2020. My birthday. It was a fire in the sky; oranges, pinks, purples and blues. I cried because it was so beautiful. And I cried because I wanted to stick around to see more like it, but I worried I wouldn’t be able to muster the strength to keep fighting through the pain.

By mid-November I had myself convinced my death could ultimately could be easier on the people around me than if I stayed. Rationally, I knew it would really damage my family, friends, and clients if I killed myself, but in a throwback to your first lesson: Depression gives zero shits about what is rational. Depression blew right past rationality and told me I was a burden, and they’d all be better off without me. Depression is a whisperer of the worst kinds of lies.

One night while on one of my many November walks, I couldn’t get my brain to slow down. Everything hurt: my knees, my hips, my stomach. Sadness, it also hurts—do you know the feeling? That ache in your chest, the one that grabs your sternum and squeezes until you can hardly breathe? That one. My brain was scrambling, frantic, grasping for anything, anything I could do to help. I came up empty at every turn. Again, I started thinking about ending my life, but this time it was new. Previously I’d thought about ways to die as if they were all on a Rolodex. I’d look at one briefly, and my brain would dismiss it for whatever reason, and then we’d flip to another idea until finally we’d dismissed them all. But on this night, the Rolodex stopped on one specific thing and I really thought about it. It seemed somewhat reasonable. I could picture it. And also, I could imagine the end of pain.

And I knew this wasn’t good.

Though it was incredibly difficult, I told the four people who really needed to know: my therapist, the doctor who handles my depression meds, my husband, and my best friend. I did not give specifics. I simply said, “I landed on a plan for killing myself and that scares me.” Each of them, in their own way, helped me to move through that. Ultimately the healing was up to me, but telling them was one of the better choices I made. Fourth lesson: Depression flourishes in the dark, like black mold. Shining a light on it and letting others see is the first step to sending it into retreat.

My therapist convinced me to ask people around me for affirmation that they love me, which is something I had (and continue to have) a hard time doing. My husband was great at this. So was my best friend. By this point in my downward spiral I had myself convinced that my parents didn’t like me. I thought I’d driven even them away, by virtue of being me. One night I texted, “Mom, do you like me? I know you and Dad love me, but do you like me?” She was taken aback that I’d asked, but she confirmed that she and dad like and love me and are proud of me. This helped immeasurably in terms of separating out “depression thoughts” from “helpful thoughts” and I only wish I’d have talked to my parents sooner. I ended up letting a few other family members in on how bad my depression was. I’m not good at asking for care, but being cared for was exactly what I needed.

I wish I could tell you there was a breakthrough, or some moment, where things just got better with all of this. It wasn’t quite like that. It was more like: I held on. Every day, one day at a time, I chose to stick around. I chose to have hope that someday I would really want to live again. I chose to believe that the pain would end. My support system helped, and also, so did my work. Even in my depths of despair and hopelessness, engaging with my clients brought me meaning and a purpose beyond myself for getting up in the morning.

I also started doing what I call the One Good Thing intervention. I’d plan one good thing to look forward to for every single day. I’m not going to lie: a lot of times, it was coffee-related. But there were also things like: I will drive across town just to listen to music in the car, I will sit with my friend on her porch, I will let myself quickly walk into my favorite coffee shop for a to-go latte, I will give myself two hours to write fiction, I will take Evie out for carryout bagels, I will eat pizza and watch a Marvel show with my family. One good thing per day helped more than I could have imagined it would.

Here is a list of other things that helped, some of which were in my control and some not: therapy, increasing the dosage of my antidepressant, getting vaccinated for COVID-19 (which decreased my constant sense of fear and gave back some access to my communities), allowing myself to see fewer clients per week, physical therapy (which played a role in decreasing physical pain), acupuncture, and completing TB treatment, which cleared the way for my medications to work better again. I understand that immense privilege in my life is part of what helped me to heal, because I have access to services that many don’t.

Now it’s January 2022, and so many things have changed. My health has dramatically improved due to a new Crohn’s Disease medication. It is stunning how much less depressed a person can feel when they’re not in chronic pain and when they’re getting proper nutrition. I think I’ve hit a better work-life balance (a perpetual struggle). I feel somewhat more connected to people and communities, though I also feel the acute lack of this as compared to my pre-pandemic life. There is a big, big good thing that’s going to happen for me in 2023 that I still can’t share with the world, but soon I’ll be talking about it so much you’ll wish I’d shut up. In sum, I’m in the headspace of realizing I have a lot to look forward to, and many reasons to stay alive. There are so many things I still want to see and experience and be before I go. There is joy in living. So much joy. 

And yet. It’s likely depression may come for me again, somewhere down the road. Fifth and final lesson: Depression can be chronic—and mine is. With proper treatment, environmental fixes and self-care I will have periods of remission, and I hope as hell some of them are long remissions. But just as with Crohn’s disease, depression is likely to flare on me again someday. I accept that these are my odds.

Equally, however, I embrace my present, in which I want to live.

And the present is all we ever get.

This is my plea to anyone on the fence about suicide who managed to make it all the way to end of this long, long post: consider hanging on. Consider that you do not know how your life is going to turn out, and maybe you could stick around and see. Consider that the pain won’t always be as bad as it is today. I can only ask that you consider. I’m very, very grateful that I did.

**

If you are considering suicide, there are people who can help. https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/ is a great place to start—there are online chat and phone options available to you.

Here is a place to search for a therapist: https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/therapists

**

Addendum, 5/26/22

This is my second plea. Recent current events may have left you reeling and despairing, maybe hopeless. I know. Me too. But if you are among those who care enough about people and society to be bothered, please stick around. Fight with me. We need your voice. 

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has. - Margaret Mead

And the Second Shot Was Hope

2/19/2021

Today I had the privilege of receiving my second dose of the COVID-19 vaccine. As such, I arrived at Lincoln’s Pinnacle Bank Arena masked up, cheerful, and a little overwhelmed. I’m not used to being in big groups of people anymore. Being an immune-suppressed person living through a pandemic has changed both how I live and who I am.  

Short lines, long lines. Organization and disorganization. “Moderna or Pfizer?” again and again. Checklists on sanitized clipboards. A flash of cold on my deltoid, and a poke, and then a band-aid. My vaccination card--who knew a tiny piece of paper could be so precious?--handed back to me.

During my post-vaccine wait time, I sat on a metal chair in the back, the seat nearest the windows. My fifteen minutes passed. I stood and walked through the rows of chairs, eyes straight ahead. In the before times, I used to make eye contact with others. I used to smile and make small talk. I don’t do that these days. I was aware of how very alone I felt, even amongst so many people.

Someone caught the sleeve of my coat. I admittedly flinched and jerked back, on instinct. Because we don’t touch each other anymore, you see.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said an old man in a dark green jacket. His scant hair was as white as the N-95 mask strapped across his face. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay.” My hyperactivated body said it wasn’t, but my heart said it was. His brown eyes, all I could see on his face, were kind.

“I just wanted to tell you—you look so much like my wife.”

“Oh.” I paused. In the before times, I would’ve instinctively known how to be, how to act. How to make this person feel comfortable, even though he was the one to reach out to me. That’s just what I do.

Did. That’s what I did, before.

“Thank you,” I finally went with.

“She had big brown eyes and dark hair, like yours. I know I can’t see the rest of you—the damn masks—but you are like her. A beauty.”

“That’s very kind of you to say.”

Here, his eyes crinkled. Not a happy crinkle. “She died last year.”

And my own eyes must have given something away—did they dart back to the shot clinic?

“Oh, no, it wasn’t the virus. It was just her time. We’re old,” he said.

“I’m sorry about your wife,” I said. “You must miss her.”

“I do.” He shifted in his seat, pulling his baggy pant legs down further on his thin legs. “Anyway, I just couldn’t let you go without saying hello.”

“Well, hello,” I said, smiling under my mask. I might have reached out to shake his hand, if we did those things now.

“You have a good day, miss.”

And I opened my mouth to say, “you too,” but he wasn’t finished. And I’m glad he wasn’t finished.

“I hope you get to grow old, like my wife did. Maybe this shot will help you.”

It’s funny—when I think about times I’ve been very moved, I think about hour-long client sessions, entire books, meaningful conversations with friends. And now, I will always think about how these two sentences managed to melt my heart, one so long frozen with fear and isolation. 

For nearly a year, I’ve felt like I’ve been fighting for my right to live. As I’ve watched many people around me making no adjustments to their daily lives, I realized they didn’t care whether I lived or got sick or died—or, they may say they did, but were unwilling to make the sacrifices that backed up that statement. I’ve stopped feeling like other humans are inherently good. I’m not the self I was in the before, the self who believed in the power of others and who thought love would always, always win. I’ll probably never be her again.

And yet, when the stranger said to me, “I hope you live,” I cracked a little, and felt some of my old self seeping in through those jagged breaks. There was something special, something transformative, about this other human saying in real time, right to my face: I want life for you.

Maybe I’ll never be as hopeful or as willing to count on others as I was in the before. But maybe, also, there is still goodness in the world.

With tears in my eyes I said, “Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me,” and me and the man said our goodbyes.

I showed up today for a COVID-19 vaccination, a serum that will reprogram my immune system to act differently in the face of the virus.

And I left with a different kind of instillation. Love and restored belief in serendipity and the most powerful, the most dangerous of the things, hope – those flow in my veins now, too.

I wonder which shot will help me more.

The Pandemic Pull

It’s a confusing time to be alive, amiright? I honest-to-God feel like I’m living in some kind of macabre TV show, a Groundhog Day/The Good Place/The Walking Dead mashup.

Every day brings a new challenge, usually in the form of an ethical or moral conundrum. We don’t want the economy to collapse, so we want to open up—but if we open up too soon, we may amp the spread of virus and overwhelm our healthcare systems. We yearn to see our family and friends, but wouldn’t be able to live with ourselves if we unknowingly carried COVID-19 to anyone we love. We want to support our local food places by ordering take-out, but are we bringing virus home on the food containers?

The very hardest thing for me lately, though, has been the polarity of my emotional responses. They are, in layman’s terms, “all over the fucking place.” Those who know me well know I’ve never exactly been a “medium emotion” kind of gal—I tend to have big feels. But this? The reactions that are coming with this pandemic bullshit? I’ve never felt so drawn and quartered, so pulled in very different emotional directions all at once:

I am in love with humanity for the sacrifices many have made to protect people at risk. I am disgusted with the many who continue to act in ways that puts their entitlement, shortsightedness, and lack of empathy on display. I am so grateful to be able to work: for the sense of agency and usefulness, the structure, the income. I am exhausted with the weight of others’ despair, anxiety, and grief. I want to be as connected as I can to my family and my world. I want to be alone as much as possible. I want to swallow the news cycle whole. I want to never hear the words “uncertain times” again. I am doing enough. I am never enough.

(I honestly get tired just reading that paragraph.)

If I were my client, I'd say to me, “You don’t have to choose. You don’t have to be either happy or sad, you can be both. People are neither entirely good nor bad, they’re both. Let it all in. Make room—I know you can. Let all the feelings make you bigger, so that you have more space in you the next time something is hard.”

And yet. Suggesting to anyone that they can hold all of these pandemic feels at once—the rage and the compassion, and sorrow and the hope, the restlessness and the acceptance—it’s a big ask. It’s so much holding. It’s exhausting. And I’m feeling it.

And I wonder if you are, too. 

Annals of a therapist during COVID-19: Day 1

3/26/2020

I’d intended, since I went into social isolation about twelve days ago, to write a few blog posts. Funny, uplifting stories and perspectives was the goal, because I think now more than ever, we need the ability to find joy and laughter.

And I might still do that. All bets are off.

But I haven’t yet been able to access that part of me that can pop off a funny anecdote like it’s nothing. The inside of my head is usually a ticker tape parade, colorful and chaotic and overwhelming, and often joyous. Now, though, it’s more like a funeral procession. My brain mechanics feel rusty and worn, slow and heavy, like maybe one of the gears fell out altogether and the others are having to compensate, but aren’t quite up to snuff. Like maybe the whole machine is about to go kaput.

The era of COVID-19 isn’t easy for anyone, so I’m not trying to say my mental distress is special. It’s not. I’m floundering in a completely foreign situation just like everyone around me is. Problem is, I’ve got people looking to me for help, too. I’m still a therapist, even if the world is upside down and inside out. Especially because the world is upside down and inside out.

It’s been a weird road, these past two weeks. The week leading up to Friday the 13^th of March, I was still in a state of heavy denial. The virus was just another flu. I was going to Jamaica on March 21, as planned for over a year. Over that week, I started the process of acknowledging and grieving what my losses were shaping up to be. And on Saturday the 14^th, I woke up and was like “waiiiit holy shit, hold the phone, what are you doing?” It was a strange experience, like all of these new and very real thoughts had infiltrated me and I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t been there all along. I accepted the reality and gravity of Coronavirus in a new way, and grasped my responsibility in flattening the curve. I cancelled my vacation. I got a telehealth platform set up for my practice. I emailed every client to tell them there would be changes in my service delivery. I created consent documentation and consulted consulted consulted. Between Saturday and Monday, I transformed my practice completely. It was exhausting, but exhilarating. I love learning, and I had to—and fast.

Fueled by caffeine, novelty, and optimism, I marched into last week. I saw twenty clients over telehealth, and the process went beautifully. No tech issues, and the whole videoconferencing thing felt a lot less interpersonally weird than I thought it might be. It felt empowering to be able to offer hope and guidance in bleak times. I ended the week with a sense of relief that I could still be a steady presence for my clients, put some good into the world, and also bring in some income for my family.

Enter this week. Now, I was supposed to be on vacation this week, so I opted to keep my caseload light. I scheduled nine people. I had hoped for a restorative week, filled with mostly reading and junk TV and personal stay-at-home projects. It has turned out to be a week of battling with insurance companies, intense client stress, and coming to grips with the mortality of my world. It has turned out to be a week of increasingly horrifying news, a week where I had conflict with family and friends about what “social distance” means in terms of how to enact it successfully, a week of fear and frustration and almost constant anger and anxiety. I’m trudging into Friday feeling like I’ve been steamrolled.

Today I held the sadness of a senior who will likely not celebrate the end of her high school career elbow-to-elbow with her friends. I held the desperation of a refugee who is running out of food with no apparent means of getting more, and whose children have fallen ill, possibly with Coronavirus. I held the anxiety of a pregnant mother who is unsure her partner will get to be in the delivery room with her when she labors. I witnessed the fear of my colleagues as we wonder if and how we will be reimbursed fairly for the important services we provide to others, in the age of telehealth, and I went to bat with and for them in the ways that I could.

Today I had my first panic attack in years.

Because the trauma of my clients is different than mine, but the same. I hold for them the very things I fear myself. Scarcity, financial ruin, loss, and death.

I assume tomorrow, if operating on a better night’s sleep, I will wake with a sunnier disposition. Optimism is my default, to the extent to which clients have described sessions with me as “hope infusions.”

But euthymic mood notwithstanding, I have no delusions of the next few weeks being easy. On me, on anyone. I think we’re in for some real shit, people.

And I guess until my funny bone kicks back in, I’m going to document it.

Kringle and Credit: To the woman who came before us

Every year, I make the Kringle, and I think of the woman who made it before me.

A woman I never met, but wish I had. Her name was Paula Haar, and she was my husband’s grandmother. A mother of five, a piano teacher, a talented organist, a lover of people, these things I know she was. I know these things through the stories her family still tells. Though she’s been gone for many years, she remains woven into the tapestry of people she brought into creation.

Every year, I think of her as I work the soft dough with butter-greasy hands, and I think: am I doing this right? Did her dough crack, too, just there, if she rolled it too thin? Did she, too, wonder if that was enough pecans in the filling, or too much?

Every year, I consider her legacy. Without Paula Haar, there’d have been no Margaret, my beloved mother-in-law. There’d have been no Jeb, and no story between he and I. There’d have been no Evie, no Jonah. Paula was responsible for the making not just of Kringle at Christmastime, but for an entire collection of some of my favorite people in this world.

How do you express gratitude to someone, simply for having lived?

I guess this is my way. I bake the Kringle, thinking of her rolling the dough, filling the pastries, years before I was even conceived.

Thank you and Merry Christmas, Grandma Haar

On being bad at birthdays

I’m going have a moment of honesty, here: I’m bad at birthdays. Really bad. I’m not at all an “I’m growing older with grace and appreciation” kind of gal. I’m more of a duck-and-cover, avoid the truth, “point me to your best anti-wrinkle cream” kind of gal. Though I’m certainly invested in developing the poise and gratitude toward aging that others around me seem to embody, I’m not there yet. I’ve never, ever been a natural at accepting myself as I am.   

And yet. When I stop to pause, when I look beyond the number and the achy joints and the new-and-already-deep eleven lines between my eyes, some of the changes that these past years have brought, I would not give back, not for anything. One point of development has been finding better ways to balance empathy with self-respect and assertiveness; in other words, I’m less likely to sacrifice my beliefs or needs to stay in others’ good graces; more likely to stick to my principles and have a dialogue or conflict about them if needed. Simultaneously, I’m more invested than ever in making the world better and kinder, one small action at a time. 

Maybe most importantly, I’m starting to own and honor what I am and accept what I’m not. I am moody. I am caring. I can be flaky and inconsistent despite having good intentions. My working memory isn’t good, so I will tell you the same story that I told you yesterday—but hopefully, it still makes you laugh. I am not a great hostess, but I am an okay bearer of random gifts and food. I have limits, physically and emotionally, and some of them are new. And finally, finally, I am accepting that I am not everyone’s type, and this is utterly okay, and in fact good. Being selective with who I pour my effort into is adaptive, both for me and for others—yet importantly, I can be kind and gracious to people even if we aren’t destined to be BFF. 

I am a writer. I am an activist. 

I am human. 

I’m 36. 

And if the price of the knowledge I now have at 36 was growing another year older, then so be it. Slowly, slowly I will learn to make peace with this process.

But I probably won’t be there by 37.

Penning privilege: What I learned from SCBWI 2018

When I attend conferences, my goal is to learn and retain one important thing. Just one, because at conferences, we take in data with indiscriminate abandon, and even with pages upon pages of notes and hours of excited post-lecture discourse with bright peers, who can keep more than one big takeaway? The conference I just attended (SCBWI, LA, 2018) was focused on writing kidlit, so I figured I leave with something to do with craft, or sales, or networking.

I did learn writing things. They’re in my notes.

What I will retain, however, is an expanded sense of my privilege, as a writer, and as a person.

As a counseling psychologist I’ve spent years in the study of it, in the awareness-building of it, in the talking to my clients and peers about it. And still, there are those life moments where I see the world through a different lens and come into contact with the extent of what I don't know. This weekend was one of those times. 

I became aware of my class privilege, as well as my lack of it, while chatting with conference colleagues about travel. We swapped thoughts on places we’d been and where we want to go. One woman shared which European destinations worked best for her young family, during their yearly summer two-week vacations.  Another shared which hotel pillows she preferred, and which beds, and which had the best toilet paper. I was swapping info and learning info, because my family can afford to travel a modest amount, but at the same time I was thinking about how neither of my parents had even been on an airplane until they were in their thirties. Our family vacations growing up were spending three days in nearby Kansas City or Des Moines, baseball games and museums and Dairy Queens, a far cry from the Isle of Capri or Edinburgh. 

My mom is as much a bookworm as I and had always spoken of writing a book, but in looking back, when would she have had time to pen the next American classic? Between 12-hour shifts working the floor at the county hospital? Or maybe in the one-hour time slot between suppertime and running off to my sporting events?  My mother would not have had the privilege of writing, not like I do, with my career and my spouse’s career and the way my life is set up. I’m so aware that there are many people in the world like my mother, those who have words inside of them that could be beautiful novels, but who do not the privileges of time and resources for writing. And yet, while I can afford time to write, and I can take my kids on trips in a way my parents couldn’t, and I had the means to come to this conference this year, I do not have the privilege of this conference fee and travel expense being a drop in the bucket, a one-off, something I can count on doing every year, as it seemed to be to so many people I talked to.

I became more aware of my racial privilege, in a city with far more racial and ethnic diversity than what is typically seen in my home city of Lincoln, Nebraska. It was unlikely anyone was going to doubt my motives because of the color of my skin. I was aware that, as a writer, I do and will come under less scrutiny than my peers of color. As Malinda Lo, one of the conference presenters, spoke of, the difficulty level I start with as a White woman is relatively easy, especially compared with those from marginalized groups, whose default might be "medium" or even "hard." I also thought more about my writing and became increasingly invested in the idea of not letting my manuscripts reflect “default race” as White.

And then there was this new-old thing going on, that has to do with both privilege and oppression. I was aware of the slide of eyes down the bends and curves of my body; men, in a way that made no pretense of hiding sexual interest; women, in barely-veiled disapproval of something hard to pinpoint: my body, my clothes, the way I carry myself? I must note here, too, that this didn’t happen with every person I encountered by any means, not even most. But when it did, I felt it, right in the scarred-over places of my patchwork heart. As an overweight, overachieving, straight-A straight laced teen I would have reveled in the appraisal, even the “bad” attention, because it was still attention. Even ten years ago, when I was still adjusting to a new type of body and a new type of interaction with the world, I had loud internal monologue when out in public, one that screamed, “I have a body! I am not just a brain on legs! Please, please, do you see me?”

And now it’s different. Though sometimes I still feel like girl who at age ten wore women’s size 18 clothing pulled off the racks of Wal-Mart because that’s what fit and that’s what we could afford, I’m more adjusted to this size 8 self, used to the way my body feels, the way the world treats me. By the third day of this conference, though, I started feeling when someone’s eyes crawled over my body. I felt sad. What hurt is that the dip between my breasts and the cleft between my legs was apparently a much bigger deal than the space between my ears.

I had the urge to run up to my room and change clothes, put something “more modest” on. Something that would make me invisible, or at least, no longer an object. But the feminist within me rallied, pushed back, “But why?” I was wearing my favorite dress, the one I call “my happy frock,” because I wore it when I went to Hamilton and the fabric is woven with all of my favorite colors, and it is breathable and cool and L.A. is hot. Why would I swap out my happiest clothing for less-comfortable camouflage?

I left the dress on, but I stopped looking people in the eye. Carefully, carefully I kept my eyes facing forward, or at the ground, or on my phone. Even though I didn’t let myself go incognito, shame still led me to shrink down, back down, not be myself, the self that would look people on the street in the eye and smile.

In this body of gained and lost weight I have gained and lost privilege, yet overall, the objectification of me has merely shifted. As an overweight youth, I was a funny, maybe tragic aberration, and now, I’m a sexual commodity.  

As I sit here in the Los Angeles International Airport, at a charging station in my simple black peasant midi dress that I purchased for $25 at Old Navy, I think of the privilege that brought me here. I have the means and support to be across the country from home, taking time away from work and my family. I have a laptop that I’m plunking away on. I sip on a Dunkin Donuts iced latte and snack on M&Ms, because I could buy these things and because no one will judge someone my size for putting junk in my body. People do not clutch their purses closer when I come near, because I’m White and not seen as inherently criminal.

And the man sitting across the table from me cannot stop looking at my chest. I’ve got my eyes dropped to my laptop, because I need to need to need to need to need to finish this post, but also, I don’t want to look at his bushy eyebrows, red-alcoholic nose, frizzled hair. I don’t want to see him. But I know he’s there. Maybe before I leave, I’ll get brave and shoot him a return look, one that lets him know that I disapprove. A look worthy of Minerva McGonagall herself. But maybe I won’t, because I’m here alone and he’s bigger than me and I am, after all, a woman.

I’m coming home from this conference with more than I thought I’d leave with. A suitcase of new books, a notebook full of plot ideas, a bulleted list of things to discuss with my agent, a handful of writerly contacts to keep in touch with, a deepened understanding and relationship with my dear critique partner, and this, my one big takeaway thought, the one I’ll retain without help or review: I have privilege. I lack privilege.

And my fervent hope is that this post helps you to think more holistically about your own.