PicoBlog

MAID came out five years ago today. The time since then can best be described as a breathtaking ride. About six months before its release, I had photos taken of me and my two girls, coincidentally on my 40th birthday, and they are by far some of my favorites. I’ve stared at them over the years, in awe of the ease in my expressions and posture. My smile is genuine. I look, for lack of a better word, happy. It’s the last time I was able to fully come up for air.

Lately, I’ve been feeling that sense of calm again, and it’s so foreign to me that I can’t stop using the word “weird” to describe it. Halfway through my therapy appointment this morning, my therapist said “I’ve never seen you like this before.”

We went through a quick timeline of events that have happened in my life since I met her in the fall of 2018, around the same time those photos were taken. Promoting MAID was about to become my full-time job for the next several months. In six weeks or so, I would swipe right on a photo a man who would become my husband. He rather unexpectedly swept me off my feet before MAID’s success scooped me up, changed the trajectory of my life completely, and spat me out into the realm of “public figure.” Tim joined me on book tour and witnessed the chaos of the crowds, the constant interviews, and public appearances. I’m not sure if he knew how traumatic it was. To be fair, I didn’t either.

When the promotion for MAID began, my instructions were to say “yes” to everything. Could I go do an interview at my local radio station? Yes! Write this essay? Yes! Do four interviews before a book event that night? Yes! Welcome a camera crew into my home? Yes, of course!

The 4 a.m. panic attacks were normal by then. Everything that was happening was far beyond my wildest dreams, and I lived in fear of screwing it all up somehow. In the darkness of the morning, quietly hyperventilating, I went through all the worst-case scenarios in a blind effort to prepare for them. Surely someone was out there gathering evidence to present a case (to who, I have no idea) that I was a fraud. They’d say I had no place on the bestseller list, and why. They’d have a way to prove that I was not an “authority” or even an “expert” on poverty, and shouldn’t be the one to get paid to speak on it. Every social media notification, email, or hand that was raised in an audience during a Q&A held the possibility of being “found out” as an imposter.

I want to take a minute to break some kind of fourth wall and tell you that it’s hard for me to write this. I currently get breaks from anxiety. I’ll go days without feeling it, so it’s more obvious when the symptoms start up again. Writing this has caused my heart to pound a little. I have been working on this newsletter all day.

I have medication for anxiety now. I didn’t on book tour for MAID. I had meals that were paid for by my publisher, a handsome guy who was really into me, and wine. I couldn’t talk to my writing community about the panic. Whenever I tried, people practically scoffed and said I should enjoy it. This was what writers dreamed about. I was lucky. I should act like it. Friends sent mean texts out of (what boiled down to) jealousy, or feeling like I didn’t deserve the success somehow. Eventually I just isolated myself and stopped talking to everyone.

I began working on a proposal for my second book before the promotional tour for my first was over. I suddenly had a speaking agent and a production company who bought the lifetime rights to my story. My husband and I combined our families, moving in together a month before we got married. We were a suddenly a family of six and decided to try for another child together. By the start of 2020, I’d just had my first of four miscarriages in a year. The grief was so overwhelming I wanted to die. I canceled my speaking gigs lined up for that month and an entire ten-day paperback tour. I somehow sold my second book and immediately felt like I couldn’t write it. Then, well, we all know what happened next.

As an introvert, I thought the pandemic might give me space to process things. Instead, my anxiety disorder flourished while my hormones pushed me through a rollercoaster ride of pregnancy and loss. It was an all-encompassing, full-body affair. By 2021, I’d gained, lost, and gained back 30 pounds, my hair came out in clumps, and I was trying out my third or fourth antidepressant. I think it took five to figure out one that didn’t make me shake (or gain weight) uncontrollably.

Through all of this, a box would arrive in the mail containing a copy of my book that had been published in a different language. I’d receive updates on the Netflix series as it progressed through various stages of production. With everything else going on, I didn’t feel like I could give the good things the space they deserved, so they got swallowed up and disappeared.

This cycle of having something blow up in your face while you were still actively putting out another fire was familiar to me. When MAID was published, I’d only been off of food stamps for three years. My “normal” was walking a tightrope over a floor that could fall out from under me at any time. If things suddenly felt okay, I couldn’t trust it, because from experience I knew something terrible was right around the corner.

These past few weeks have been different and I have no idea why. I feel a sense of calm again. I’m able to do things. Menial tasks like updating my website, answering emails I’ve been putting off, and (obviously) learning to write a damn newsletter are suddenly possible again. I’m working on my next project with interest and genuine excitement. I have space to think about what’s next. I cannot tell you how incredible it feels to be able to write again. I feel grounded and like I have autonomy over my own life to some extent. I don’t know if it’s because I have a break from public appearances, or that I’m not actively promoting a book, or under contract to write another one by a certain time. Maybe it’s because I haven’t done an interview in a month or so. With the added layers of anxiety stripped away, I feel something that I keep using the word “lucid” to describe.

It’s not that I am without anxiety. I still live in fear of people recognizing me and coming up to talk to me in public. I still need a beta blocker to go grocery shopping. My husband and I never go out on dates. I can’t meet my oldest daughter for coffee without someone approaching us or later commenting on social media that they saw us there but didn’t have the nerve to say “Hi.” So, I am without anxiety as long as I don’t go out in public in my own town, which really sucks but I’ll take it. The respite is worth it, and it’s glorious.

“This might be the first time I’ve ever seen you with your head above water,” my therapist said this morning, and that’s exactly how it feels. But I didn’t break through the surface with a dramatic gasp for air. It was like I was suddenly floating, like when you figure out how to do that as a kid, and spend all your time on your back, staring up at the sky.

xo,

-step.

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