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The first time I came to know myself as bipolar was through overheard whispers.It was Thanksgiving, and I was 17 years old. My parents were cleaning up in the kitchen, discussing my test results from a recent psychiatry intake in hushed voices. My mother had been seeking the comfort of a label for some time now. I was always the problem child, but the danger of a problem without a name had reached its peak. After a childhood and an early adolescence plagued with outbursts, mood swings, tantrums and threats of self-harm, the question of what exactly was wrong with me was finally answered. I had been diagnosed with bipolar 2 disorder. It is a mental condition that involves extreme moods ranging from manic highs to depressive lows. To the outside world, I’m many things. I am a daughter, a sister, a friend, a lover. I am smart, funny, creative and thoughtful. I am sarcastic, talkative, intense, occasionally negative, occasionally optimistic. But in my interior world, all I feel like is a disarray of discombobulated neurons. I don’t think a day has gone by since that Thanksgiving night that I haven’t thought about the fact that I am bipolar. This illness is my identity. So, in this age of identity and bullet-pointed personas, where we announce ourselves upon arrival from our pronouns to our political views to our dietary preferences, I don’t tell people I’m bipolar—anymore, that is. Obviously, it would be an overshare to tell a stranger I’m bipolar. So when I say “people,” I mean friends or anyone I get remotely close to. I’ve made the mistake of telling friends and loved ones too soon, and I never want to make that mistake again. I can’t afford to make that mistake again.

This illness is my identity.

I Started Telling Everyone About My Bipolar Disorder

When I officially got my label, I wanted everyone to know. That night, I formed a text to my ex-boyfriend, asking him to meet up to discuss something. We’d broken up recently. I wanted him to know so maybe he could understand. There were these moments where I’d pick a fight and get upset over something seemingly minor and he didn’t understand; I needed reassurance that he loved me that I couldn’t explain; I'd look off into space, caught up in the intense whirlwind that is my thoughts and feelings. I was heartbroken by our split, and I missed him. I thought if he knew, if I could somehow back up my behavior with a clinically diagnosed condition, it’d make up for everything. That my label would bring me love by means of empathy and understanding. I never hit send on the text because I think I knew, deep down, the love I conjured up in my head had no chance of playing out in real life. This fear was painfully reaffirmed only a couple of years later. I was in my sophomore year of college, living in a house with five of my close girlfriends. I brought everyone together. I was the glue, the center orbit, the linchpin. They all knew I was bipolar. I had told each of them about a month into meeting them. The first one who knew had been my freshman year roommate. I let it slip in one night when our neighbor was hanging out in our dorm room and told us he was bipolar. Overzealous in the presence of someone else with bipolar disorder for the first time, I jumped up and blurted out, “Me too!”She didn’t say anything that night but brought it up a couple of weeks later. She said she was cool with it. Not that I needed her permission. I got a buzz from telling people. At home, it was shrouded in darkness, but here at school, it was casual to say out loud. There’s a power in sharing your mental illness. So often, mental illness, when juxtaposed with what society accepts as far as social and emotional behavior, is shrouded in shame. Hiding it from the world felt like I was giving in. Sharing was an act of rebellion, and there's power to be found there. I became addicted to the power and felt comfortable telling loads of more people. I shared it with co-workers. I told people I’d just met when I was drunk. It was like it was my fun fact. The year I was living with those girls in that house, I experienced my first ever manic episode. It lasted several weeks and involved excess drinking, drug use (mostly cocaine and Xanax), sex with strangers and a brutal GPA drop. For a while, my housemates enjoyed the mania. I've found that many people do. They love the manic person who can light up any room. Make anyone’s day. Stay up all night for whatever you need. But it’s rare anyone wants to stick around for the consequence that follows a manic episode: extreme depression.

Being Bipolar Affected My Relationships With Friends and Significant Others

I fell deep. I stayed in bed for days at a time. Left the lights off. Cried myself to sleep. It was straight from a psych 101 textbook. And despite almost all six of us having taken psych 101, none of my housemates understood nor cared to comfort me. After a long, unfortunate, winded series of events, my relationship with all of them went cold. They ended up teaming up to turn against me. One night, I was locked out of the house, and when I finally was able to get in, I was greeted with a five-on-one confrontation. Amongst the many things that were said, one I’ll never forget. At one point, I turned to my best friend in the house, someone I’d be til death do us part with, and asked what she had to say for herself. She said to me, “I don’t know what it’s like in your head. I imagine it’s unpleasant.”The sad part is, I think she thought she was being kind. For the next three months, I lived in isolation in a house full of people. They didn’t speak to me nor did I to them. And when the opportunities arose, they made my life miserable in forms such as turning the water off while I showered or breaking my belongings and leaving them out for me to find.Later that year, a boyfriend at the time sexually assaulted me. When I tried to confront him about it, he blamed my bipolar disorder for distorting things, essentially calling it a hyperbolic emotional interpretation. These are the intimate, lived experiences of isolation and alienation. Meanwhile, the public perception of bipolar disorder is no better and possibly worse. There’s the spectacle that is Kanye West and his flaunting his unwillingness to take medication for his very severe bipolar and paranoia and writing in highlighter green across the cover of his 2018 Ye album, “I hate being bipolar it’s awesome.” And the history of women being institutionalized in this country for exhibiting even the smallest signs of depression or schizophrenia. I come from a legacy of madness. My aunt, lost to history, was violently institutionalized as a teenager and not heard from again. I also come from a culture obsessed with movies that put women into boxes and tropes—and the ones reserved for women with mental illnesses are often the antagonists.

Treating it as a fun fact like I once did is reductive of its weighty presence in my life.

Eventually, I Decided to Stop Sharing That I Was Bipolar

These things course through my mind as I try to make sense of how I fit into the confines of a rigid society. One that thinks #mentalhealthawareness will solve clinical depression and that telling me, “It’s OK to not be OK,” will rewire my brain to become neuronormative.Because of what I’ve been through and what I know of the world, I have absolutely no confidence in people treating me as they would anyone else if they know I’m bipolar. I’ve told a couple of people since my housemates, and while they didn’t torture and bully me, they never looked at me the same. If I’m getting emotional about something, they leave the room. If I want to talk about my depression, they change the subject. I’ve learned it does not make them evil, unempathetic people but rather a part of the many people who fear saying the wrong thing and lack the patience to be supportive of something they don’t care to understand.My therapist once posed the question, “You wouldn’t share your medical records with someone, so why would you share this?” This is a medical condition. It’s a debilitating illness, and treating it as a fun fact like I once did is reductive of its weighty presence in my life. As much as the opinions of the outside world make an impact, at the end of the day, this disease is internal. In a perfect, unstigmatized world, I’d still have bipolar disorder, still be unable to have full control of my own mind. Living this way is about surviving. Every day, I make the choice to fight to survive. And in the game of survival, I cannot waste my time with what others think of me. I just have to be the best bipolar me I can be.

The last time someone asked me about my biological dad, I was at a fundraiser party and holding a spicy margarita in my hand. “How is your father?” The question was simple, and anyone but me could have answered it. But in my mind, I thought: How would I know about the man who chose to leave me and not talk to me?My biological dad is still a vulnerable subject for me, even though I’ve tried to avoid it for as long as I could. There is always someone who asks about my parents, not because they purposefully want to touch on my pain but because family is always the go-to small talk subject. At that moment, I felt sad, angry and heartbroken. I hated that his memory made me emotional. It made me feel stupid to cry over something that happened so many years ago. I hated that it affected me. The word in itself —“dad”—was a constant reminder of the love I had lost. My colleague, the one who had asked me about him, worked in IT and was bad at social cues. For that reason, he couldn’t read my sadness, thereby making it easier to hold in my tears.

I remember I felt unworthy of love because the most important person in my life, who swore to protect me, broke his promise and my heart.

I Considered Suicide After My Father Never Showed Up

I excused myself with my colleague and rushed to the ladies’ room to cry in peace. I looked at myself in the mirror, and I noticed my mascara had become undone and my eyes were weary. At 25 years old, I remembered a time 19 years ago, when I was in front of a mirror with a knife close to my heart, committed to ending my suffering. I remember I felt unworthy of love because the most important person in my life, who swore to protect me, broke his promise and my heart.It was as if I was 6 years old again. As if the pain of losing my dad never left me. So I closed my eyes to remember how I almost ended my life after coming home from school. I chose to relive that painful moment because my therapist had advised me in previous sessions to not avoid my feelings. So I returned to the time when my dad had forgotten to come celebrate Father's Day at my school. It wasn’t the first time he’d promised to do something only to break his word. All the other girls had their dads right next to them eating cake, playing and taking pictures for the yearbook. I was the only one alone. I left early, hoping no one would ask me why my dad would never show up to these events. I knew if someone had asked me, I wouldn’t be able to fake it. I would start crying. I got home early before my mom arrived from work. I rushed inside the house, locked all the doors and shut all the windows, and then I sat down in front of our huge living room mirror. I meticulously looked at all the features on my face and began pointing out things that could be wrong with me and that would make my father’s absence reasonable. After a few minutes of holding the knife, I began crying, thinking about how horrible it would be for my mom to find me in a pool of blood in the living room. I sobbed, hoping no more tears would come out. I didn’t want my mom to lose me. After all, she had lost my dad, too. We had both lost him. I was so absorbed in my own pain, it became easy to overlook my mom’s. It took me a few hours to pull my emotions together.

He sent me the most painful words I have ever read.

Therapy Has Helped Me Accept My Last Name

I’ve only confessed this once, to a priest in high school. Otherwise, nobody knows about it. I began using my mom’s maiden name rather than my biological dad’s last name, which made me feel powerful and less ashamed of my history. For once, it felt like I had control over my life. Until seventh grade, when my math teacher said, “Next time you don’t add your real last name, I will give you a zero.” Being the good student that I was, this came as a bucket of cold ice. My dad’s abandonment also affected my relationships with men who were my age and those who were interested in me in a romantic way. I avoided having any relationships or allowing myself to be attracted to men. My reason lay in fear of being hurt by them. I would only let myself be with those who I knew I wouldn’t fear losing. The last time I talked to my dad was about two years ago. He sent me the most painful words I have ever read. I still keep the screenshots of the messages but I don't go back to read them. For a second, I doubted he was my dad. The last communication I have from him is an email insulting me for choosing to help his ex-partner with my two younger brothers at a difficult time. He said I was only their "nanny" working for his ex for money. He wrote I lost all values, morals and loyalty by choosing to stay at her side. To me there were no sides, I was supporting my two-half brothers. After some therapy, the fear of getting hurt and taking on my biological dad’s last name and looks became easier to digest. Avoiding the subject has always been my coping mechanism. I even postponed writing this essay several times because I didn’t want to relive the pain that comes as a result of thinking about my dad. Forgiveness is about letting go of grudges but in my case, the former also applies to people. I chose to distance myself from my biological dad. I am happier since I made the decision. I may have his nose, eyebrows and captivating smile, but I do not have his heart. I love him, but a good person wouldn’t repeatedly and intentionally hurt their loved ones. My hope and goal are to prioritize my mental health. For once, I want to stop looking at the past with tears in my eyes so that the next time someone asks me, “Which one of your parents do you resemble?” I can reply without a knot in my throat and without feeling unworthy that “I look like my biological dad.”

I’m stunned, but not surprised, as I stare back at the “YES+” blinking at me on a tiny screen. I had hoped that my breasts, which were tender in a different, distinct way, and the inexplicable episodes of rage and sadness had combined to produce a bad bout of PMS. But my body always gives away pregnancy before a test confirms it.Yes, what? I think, frozen in the bathroom, swaying slightly, staring down the test. Yes—you’ll have to go off all your bipolar medication. Yes—you’ll get preeclampsia again. Yes—you’ll have to deal with surprise medical bills when you’re barely getting by. Yes—you’ll have to write your under-contract book that’s due in between heaving up saltine crackers. Yes—you’ll have even less attention to direct toward your 4-year-old daughter. Yes—you’ll be responsible for yet another person.I begin to panic. I just came out of a major depressive episode. Before, I was barely working, grading nothing, writing nothing and my new medication combination finally had me functioning. I won’t survive pregnancy, I think. Yes, I think, snapping out of it, beginning to catalog and rearrange the weeks to come in my head—you’ll have to get your second surgical abortion. I finally begin to cry.

Memories of My First Surgical Abortion

I was 20 the first time I got a surgical abortion because, to my surprise, it was cheaper than a medical abortion, one completed at home (perhaps because it requires fewer office visits). I arrived at the clinic early, so there were just a few scattered protestors, men standing outside with bloody fetuses plastered on signs. They watched as I pulled into the clinic, parked and stayed frozen in my car; eventually, they pulled out their megaphones and placed them to their lips. I gathered up the courage to walk toward the building as their words increased in speed and volume. A security guard ushered me into the waiting room and sat me down opposite another girl from my college. We looked at each other, then looked away quickly—an unspoken understanding. There was almost an assembly line of women waiting in easy chairs. I remember wobbling up to the nurse after she called my name, doped up on Valium, struggling to get onto the table. When I felt the abrupt and violent pinch of the vacuum, I gasped and began to cry while she lazily held my hand. The male doctor never once looked me in the eye. I made it home afterwards and fell asleep, bleeding lightly onto a supersized pad. I woke up to sunshine on my face, filtered through broken blinds characteristic of the undergraduate apartment complex I lived in. Relief unknotted my chest, flowed through my body, and I got out of bed and on with my life.

I appreciate in a way I hadn’t before that my abortion was the large reason I have my life now.

My Medication Abortion Cost Much Cheaper and Proved Much Quicker

Snapping out of these memories 14 years later, I appreciate in a way I hadn’t before that my abortion was the large reason I have my life now: my current partner, my daughter, my Ph.D., my job. I don’t want to go through it all again, but I know I must march towards that relief again. So, while wishing desperately for another way, I open my computer and type “abortion near me.” My eyes scan the red dots marking clinic locations and, as I’m scrolling down, I see an advertisement for AbortionOnDemand.org. I’m curious. I press the link and read, “Physician-supported medication abortion care online. Appointments open Sunday-Friday for 20+ U.S. states. Overnight shipping and comfort treatment included.” My state is on the list. Then, I see the price: $239. My last abortion cost well over $500. It’s too good to be true, too convenient, too quick, I think. But I want to leave my body behind, and there’s no good reason to continue to feel this way for the weeks it’d take to schedule a surgical abortion, especially since I won’t change my mind. The circumstances necessitate that the abortion won’t magically dissipate.I schedule an appointment on Wednesday for the following day, knowing I can cancel if necessary. I even cancel the classes I’m scheduled to teach on Friday because I can’t stand the feeling of my clothes against the heaviness of my breasts, the telltale pinpricks. I try to take a walk, answer some emails and give my daughter extra cuddles, but I’m too depressed by what’s happening in my body—and I’m not sure Abortion on Demand will work.On Thursday afternoon, I start navigating the company’s easy online video call platform. “I’m ready when you are!” I type in the chatbox, and a slender woman in workout clothes comes into view. Her voice is calm and soothing, her medical degree displayed behind her. She’s in Seattle, she says—they have physicians all over the country. She walks me through all the steps I’ll take once I receive my package. “Some side effects include excessive bleeding, hemorrhaging, infection, but this is incredibly rare,” she says.“Do you have any questions for me?” she asks.“I suppose it’s too late for my package to go out today,” I say, only half-joking, as the clock ticks nearer to 5:30 p.m. “Yes, our pharmacies close soon,” she responds, “but you’ll be able to start the process by Saturday. Do you need me to call in a birth control prescription as well?”I start to launch into my prepared speech: “I know you aren’t judging me,” I begin, “but I have a lot of medications that interfere with hormonal birth control.”“You’re right,” she interrupts, “I’m not judging you.”I stare at her face, the myriad pixels transmitted through the screen, and am surprised to feel my eyes water, not realizing how much I needed to hear someone say that. After we sign off, I get through the next two days in a stupor, wanting so badly not to be pregnant any longer. I take hits off a THC cartridge and try to sleep the pregnancy away. I can’t, don’t, eat—eventually losing five pounds over the course of the whole process.

The Medication Abortion Gave Me a Flood of Relief

I waited weeks to get surgery, I remind myself, all but grabbing the innocuous FedEx box when it arrives on my doorstep Saturday morning. I pull the tag and pry it open to see prescription bottles, a shiny green and white pamphlet and an orange box containing the abortion pill, Mifeprex, which blocks the hormone necessary for pregnancy to continue. I swallow it with a swig of water and wait anxiously until I can take misoprostol—pills that cause the pregnancy to pass from the uterus—24 hours later.The next day, as my daughter watches her iPad in the bed beside me, I finally put two misoprostol into both cheeks and lay my head back down on the pillow. I doze in and out as the medicine dissolves. As directed, I take the ibuprofen and anti-nausea medicine at the same time and, about an hour later, get up to go to the bathroom. It feels like my insides fall out as I sit down; my forehead touches my knees in an involuntary gesture of gratitude. I flush quickly, not looking in the toilet. “I’m not pregnant anymore,” I tell my partner. I wobble back to the bed and lie down again beside my daughter, who is still enrapt with kids’ YouTube. I am flooded with relief as my head sinks into the pillow and I doze back off.

Our constitutional right to this relief—to a safe and swift abortion—is under threat.

I’m Grateful for an On-Demand Program When I Needed it the Most

Our constitutional right to this relief—to a safe and swift abortion—is under threat. The U.S. Supreme Court allowed a radical abortion bill in Texas to stand, one that bans abortion at around six weeks. Although I caught both of my pregnancies before they hit six weeks, any parent with a toddler, or any other version of a busy life, will tell you that two weeks past a missed period is like the beat of a butterfly’s wings. It took me close to two weeks just to schedule and attend my appointment for a surgical abortion. With Abortion on Demand, I found out I was pregnant Wednesday afternoon, had my appointment Thursday evening and took the first pill Saturday morning. I was bleeding by Sunday early afternoon. With all the complexity that comes with abortion legislation, lawmakers and the general population seem to be in agreement that the earlier the better when it comes to abortion. Abortion on Demand offered just that.In the days that follow my abortion, I bleed for much longer than a regular period; the discharge is thicker. My uterus cramps in ways it doesn’t usually; there’s an aching, dull feeling in my midsection. I think it’s over for a day or two, and then I feel that emptying out, the gush of fluids, over and over. I fall into a mild depression that week, mad at having to wear pads to work, mad at myself, that I allowed the pregnancy to happen, that I wasn’t more careful.During this time, however, I also find myself in awe of my daughter and that I managed to bring her into this world. I stroke her smooth cheeks, run my fingers through her hair, press my lips into the side of her neck. I look at her and feel infinite gratitude. At four weeks, a pregnancy is simply potential, potential that—yes—means the world to some parents-to-be. But the hormones that made my breasts sore, screaming at any touch, are not a child. They are the body's response, its preparation, to house this future. It’s a future that’s never guaranteed. And it’s a future that comes at great cost—to the pregnant person’s health, body, potential and to families like mine.I recently listened to Gloria Naylor’s novel Mama Day. As it approaches its climactic scene, the titular character tells another, “There are two ways anybody can go when they come to certain roads in life—ain’t about a right way or a wrong way—just two ways.” As I struggle to manage all that being a neurodivergent mother in this world means, I realize I must privilege myself as well. It’s hard to admit I did what was best for me, that I made the selfish choice. There’s no way I could’ve made that intimate journey—a fertilized egg slowly growing into a baby, connected to me through fluids and flesh. There was no way I could’ve given that of myself now. Abortion on Demand allowed me to choose the path that was best for my family, the family already here, without needs beyond the fleshy buildup of my body. And I’m so grateful for the ease it offered during a time when very little else was easy.

I scrolled through the text messages, each one more explicit than the last, as my husband played computer games in his study next door. As married teachers, we often answered each other’s phones, looking for school emails or gossip. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms again.When can you get away next?The text messages were playful, detailing sexual acts and hinting at past escapades. Cutesy nicknames popped up among allusions to trysts and inside jokes. They were exactly the kind of messages my husband and I would send each other.Except they weren’t between my husband and me. They were between my husband and an 18-year-old female student at the high school where he taught.My heart thudded to a stop as I sat on the couch, gripping my husband’s phone. After a few minutes, the distant rumble of computer game gunfire drifting from his office stopped. My husband stepped out, smiled, then reached out to touch my cheek. I swatted his hand away and glared at him. His eyes met mine, then traveled to the phone in my hand. Understanding flashed across his face, followed by anger. Before I could speak, he grabbed his car keys from the table by the door, then stalked to the garage.Two hours later, I heard the garage door open and his car pull in. The door connecting the garage to the house swung open. I waited in the bedroom, fists clenched at my side. “I know about her,” I snapped when he walked into the bedroom.“About who?”He denied it at first. But the proof blinked up at us both from the screen in my hand.“You’re not dumb. I knew you’d find out eventually,” he finally said.“But a student?!” I asked.“I knew that’s what you'd be most upset about,” he said.

Except they weren’t between my husband and me.

I Discovered the Affair While Battling a Brain Infection

My husband’s affair began eight months after I became suddenly ill with a severe brain infection. Within a month, my mind devolved to the level of a small child’s. I couldn’t walk, dress myself, read anything longer than a sentence or have simple conversations. Delusions and psychosis sprang from my broken mind, twisting reality like images in a funhouse mirror.It would be half a year before I finally shuffled to the living room couch after a month of trying every day for weeks. It would be eight months before my first solo drive to the pharmacy. It would be three years before the part of my brain that controlled memory and decision-making recovered enough to allow me to teach full-time or make life decisions. But in those first six months, I lay like a lump in bed, suspended between life and death.By the time I discovered my husband’s infidelity, I'd been sick for eight months. I'd started relearning to walk. I could read and write short articles, and some of my memories had returned. But I struggled every day with severe depression and psychosis because of chemical changes in my brain. My mind hadn’t recovered from my illness, and I was gullible like a child. It wouldn't have been difficult for someone to convince me that mermaids existed or that pigs really could fly.After I discovered the affair, my husband spoke to the girl privately. There would be no more sex, he told her. “But can I still see and talk to you?” he told me she had asked. She didn’t come from a family that supported her goals and ambitions. My husband helped her with her college applications and encouraged her to aim for a top-tier school. Years after my recovery, I would recognize his actions as “grooming,” or earning a child’s trust with the intent of abusing them. But at the time, I saw a lonely girl who needed adults who believed in her. I was determined that speaking unkind words to a teenager would not be one more unhinged behavior to remember when I healed and the psychosis subsided. The student spent the next three months in our hometown before leaving the state for college. When she asked to see my husband, I reluctantly accompanied him to restaurants or outdoor parks. The fatigue and pain of my illness confined me to bed for 12 hours or more each day and left me feeling as if I was wading through quicksand the other 12 hours. I couldn’t walk long distances without stopping to rest. “Brain burnout” left me tongue-tied and foggy after a few hours in the deafening sound and light of the world outside. Despite his promises and despite my best efforts to monitor them, my husband and his student always seemed to find opportunities to meet behind my back. I hated feeling like I was constantly babysitting a grown man.

I Felt Increasingly Unsafe With My Husband

My husband would continue texting this student suggestive messages, hooking up with her off-campus in his car and inviting her back to our house when he knew I wouldn’t be home. During this time, I frequently jerked awake in the middle of the night, picturing news crews trampling the grass on our front lawn. In nightmare after nightmare, he was fired and I lost my health insurance. When I woke up, the nightmare was still there waiting for me.I confided in a friend, who called Child Protective Services anonymously. Citing no clear evidence of abuse, CPS declined to intervene. When my friend called the local police precinct, they gave a similar answer.Over the next several months before the high school girl left for college, my husband’s behavior grew increasingly erratic and childlike. He began to come home from work with an expression I didn’t recognize on his face but grew to fear. I sat motionless on the couch as he screamed at me for “trying to control” him. He ripped the doors off the pantry, punched walls and slammed my set of weights into a wire shelf so hard that the metal twisted. On his 30th birthday, I lay in bed with a virus that my pulverized immune system couldn't fight off. My husband had caught the flu from the high school girl, then passed it on to me. Pain radiated throughout my body. I didn’t leave my bed for days, eating just a bag of figs because my husband often forgot to feed me. I genuinely thought I was going to die. My husband spent his birthday at a cafe with four of his high school students, including the girl, playing a card game called Dirty Minds. My husband didn’t argue when I demanded we go to marriage counseling. “He may not have hit you,” the marriage counselor said when I told her, “but you’re acting like a battered woman.” She suggested I pack up my things and leave—an impossible task I was not physically strong enough to do nor mentally capable of organizing. Her comments felt like a door closing between me and safety. I became even more determined to recover.

I genuinely thought I was going to die.

As an Educator, I Hate That I Was Unable to Protect This Student From My Husband

I don’t remember when I discovered my husband had used money from our joint account to purchase a plane ticket to visit the student, now a freshman at a college hundreds of miles away. I saw the excited text messages and string of emojis she sent him when he suggested the trip. I simply remember the jolt of electricity shooting through my veins, followed by the sudden realization that I would never be safe in this relationship.A year and a half after I discovered my husband’s affair, I finally grew mentally and physically strong enough to leave him. I returned to a heavier work schedule when I was well enough, then moved into an apartment.The student with whom my husband was involved, now suffering from depression, reported him to the school district. My ex was asked to resign and forfeit his teaching license. Had his victim not yet been 18, he would have gone to jail. For years after my separation from my husband, I struggled with depression and with my identity as an educator. Teachers are taught to sacrifice endlessly for our students. Almost all teachers buy classroom supplies with their own money and work far more hours than they're paid. Any teacher would step in front of a bullet for their students. I felt deep shame at not being able to protect the student my ex-husband hurt. Had I been healthy, leaving my husband and reporting him would have been a no-brainer. But trapped in a broken body and mind, even walking wasn't simple.Most people never quite return to normal after brain injury. I still have trouble remembering dates and events from my life before my brain infection. The pain of not being able to stop my husband from hurting a student will be one more thing I’ll always struggle with.

My dad is conservative and has always been opposed to abortion access. Born just before the passing of the Supreme Court's Roe v. Wade ruling, he believes, if given the chance, his mother would have aborted him. At 35, she was the breadwinner of her household and found out she was carrying her fifth child during an appointment for a tubal ligation.Her husband suffered from severe mental illness and was prone to instability. She had to struggle alone to support her family. But my dad doesn't hold any empathy for what his mother went through. He's always strongly believed that women exist to make children and that children are the source of our happiness—despite growing up in poverty, feeling firsthand neglect and the suspicion that he may have been unwanted.The current attack on women's reproductive rights has brought the issue front and center again in my family, where politics is more beloved than sports. To this day, my father attacks women's rights as unimportant, always advocating for adoption as the right answer. Eventually, it pushed me over the edge, and I let loose with a truth I had kept hidden from my family for 14 years.I had never intended to tell my family what happened.

I had ruined myself in my family's eyes.

I Refused to Have Sex, but My Ex Coerced Me

When I was just 14 years old, I started dating my 17-year-old neighbor. At the start, I was pretty determined to be what I thought was the "good girl." I said no to sex and put it off over and over again despite months of my boyfriend's persistence in asking. Soon, he began shaming and guilting me. "If you loved me, you would do it," he would say. "I'm the only person trying in this relationship." He would twist my bodily autonomy and threaten to leave me. Eventually, I caved.I had sex for the first time when I was 14. I had said no nearly a dozen times that day alone but was coerced. It was statutory rape; it was painful and unenjoyable. And the condom broke.Afterward, my ex would tell me that we shouldn't be seen together because he didn't want to get in trouble because of me. He told me I should lie to my parents and say I was raped by a stranger if I was pregnant. This way, he would be consequence-free. And at the time, I did feel like I was the burden. After all, I was the one who was probably pregnant. He could walk away with nothing different at all.My dad asked how I could never tell him or my mother any of this. "Why didn't you come to us? We could have helped you," he said. I told him that in the few lessons relating to sex I ever had, it was resoundingly clear that if I were pregnant, my life would be over. He and my brother had frequently called women slurs often saved for single mothers or girls in shorts. My brother said he would disown me for being a slut. My father had told me that if I had ever gotten pregnant, I would be expected to drop out, get a job and raise the baby.These were the things I was told in place of any sexual education. I heard these things before I was 14 or had ever had a boyfriend. Not he, nor stolen Cosmo articles, nor the late-night episodes, nor Jerry Springer had prepared me for sex. And certainly not about consent or contraceptives.

I Told My Parents About My Suicidal Thoughts

I also told my father how I had felt entirely alone and terribly ashamed. I had ruined myself in my family's eyes. I would be bullied at school until I left. I would have no chance at an education. I would have to live in poverty as a result. I told my dad how he and my ex had put me in a position where I had no one and no other options. So I did what a trapped emotional teenage girl from an unstable home does. I planned to kill myself if I missed my period. I planned to take my mother's opiates and sedatives and then I would go drown myself in a pond in the woods. My family would be sad but not ashamed. My ex would be burden-free.The only thing that kept me alive to this day was the fact that I wasn't pregnant. I got my period. I never said anything to anyone about my plan. Living with the belief that pregnancy was not a choice nearly killed me when I didn't actually want to die. I just wanted to keep going to school. I didn't want to live in poverty like my parents. I got to graduate second in my class. My dad looked shocked about his daughter almost dying. He said that he wished I would have told them and then he just kind of sat in silence afterward. I hope that my pain and openness touched him. I hope he will quit thinking of potential babies as walking, talking women and children.

I hope that my pain and openness touched him.

The Adults in My Life All Failed Me as a Kid

What I do know is that, despite never having an abortion myself, I always want that option available to other women and girls. I think of those like me that may have ended up dead. Conversations about this have revealed that I am by far not unique in making such a plan. I think of women like my mother or my paternal grandmother, who may not have been able or equipped to handle another child for any number of reasons. I hurt especially for all the sexual assault survivors. My experience with my ex wasn't my first or last experience with abuse or sexual assault. I think of all the ways the adults around me failed to teach me about consent or how to protect myself. How my public school taught us when we would have to shave but not about birth control. How we learned not to flush pads instead of learning that threatening to leave someone over sex is abusive. How I learned that girls who have sex are broken but boys who have sex are "bros."

Maybe you saw the images on forums or the YouTube clips. Some had assumptions and racial slurs. Some declared me some white nationalist ideal. The one thing I agree with was my handwriting was (and still is) sloppy.It started at a “community” event that was supposed to bridge the “division” between people after Trump’s 2016 election. My then-boyfriend wanted to go. He wore the distinct red hat because he felt alone as the only vocal Trump supporter amongst his classmates. I met Trump voters of all ethnicities and liberals and leftists of all ethnicities who spoke to each other in good faith about populist topics but who were talked over by belligerent people who wanted to cuss out/physically corner people before they could even speak. The atmosphere was tense and the people were either debaters or garden-variety artist-activists who vaguely promoted “peace and love” along with their social media links.

Posturing Was Disguised as Bridging the Political Divide

I was intrigued by the concept but extremely angry at the scenario. I felt that a majority of the people there were more concerned about self-promotion instead of actually creating discourse to heal the division (fair enough—there was a camera live-streaming the event; you had to look good). I felt so angry, it compelled me to go up to the camera and say my piece. If people really cared about America “breaking down,” why weren’t they taking direct action to create tangible, material change? Why weren’t they trying to create support systems, models or legislation to make their goals attainable? As I was saying what I had to say, a man invaded my personal space and yelled at me for insulting him.Up until that point, I was not one to get involved in discourse, given my cynicism about the politics of both sides. Immigration? There are tons of potential opportunities for human trafficking that go unnoticed sometimes. The wall? Obama wanted strict border security. Cancel culture? I knew people of all ethnic backgrounds who would make edgy jokes between their peers who were different than them. I met as many Hispanic/Latin American people who voted for Trump as I did white people who voted for Clinton. The only successful organizing I saw up until 2016 was from punk scenes that created mutual aid or alternative housing systems. I thought the two main parties were held up by stakeholders and shrouded by people who took bribes. I saw the average citizen’s vote as a participation trophy. Even though I reluctantly voted for Jill Stein, I thought what gave Trump an advantage was his no-frills dialogue about how his policies would help a “legal” citizen become self-sufficient regardless of race/gender/etc. He knew people were sick of the idealistic fluff from politicians and how people were fear-driven about material circumstances. He knew how someone could be untrusting of those who didn’t follow “the rules.”After that day of fruitless discussion with people at the event (which was slated to be ongoing), I learned that I was viewed favorably by the “MAGA/patriot” crowd online for being for “facts and logic.” I also learned that I was treated with scorn and called “arrogant” for calling the event a glorified narcissistic platform that might’ve given power to the surveillance and police state (to paraphrase). I felt that the original point of the event was destroyed by the participants and exploited by certain individuals it was meant to "create peace" between. People were seeking to go viral for self-gain without foresight into how to constructively use the opportunity.

I saw the average citizen’s vote as a participation trophy.

My Newfound Virality Connected Me to Strange Individuals

I felt empowered for sharing my opinion but annoyed my dialogue would be used in ways that I didn’t agree with. I was also frustrated by the increasing fighting and chaos at the place, so I decided the next time I was there, I would make insane signs to troll the entire event to help shut it down. I thought that I would be yelled at or talked over, so I just used a flip pad to write everything I would've said. Some of the slogans included, “This is a potential snuff film,” amongst many others. I made it on some live-streams and received comments ranging from admiration to visceral disgust. I felt my seizure disorder acting up, but I felt better knowing I tried to help add to the absurdism and farce of the entire event and distract some people from the toxicity. Much to my happiness, the event was shut down a few weeks later.I found a new world through whom I met. Most of the people I befriended were moderate Republicans, and I would still consider some to be good friends. I also met lovely people from the left who handed out cookies and were annoyed by the people who hogged the screen and only talked about themselves ad nauseam. I was invited to parties that made the news, met people who ranged from celebrities to some (now) on government watchlists and quite a few controversial conservative internet media personalities. I was hidden in plain sight, but the people who met me can confirm that I held some staunch opinions different from theirs.I learned how divisive and spiteful a lot of media narratives were and how the most moderate of people (of all ethnic and religious backgrounds) who just said, “Yeah, I hung out with these people a few times,” had their lives ruined because of being civil and not trying to “speak up enough.” They were smeared for pointing out how some people’s views aren’t just black and white and how the shades of gray have been painted over.For all the nice people I met, there were a few snakes who would shed their moderate Republican skins and try hard to convert me and others to their extreme ethnonationalist factions and harass those who they thought were their “enemies” or “Republicucks.” While this was going on, my mixed-race ex (who isn’t an “ethnically pure” white person by alt-right standards) was becoming radicalized behind my back; he was spreading propaganda online and starting fights for “the movement.” He was becoming more involved with white nationalist and Nazi (using the definition from the 1930s) peers. During one occasion of his “activism,” he was doxxed with my name attached to his, despite me having not been at the protest he attended. I changed my name’s spelling on all social media and hid as much as possible. During this time, he was growing abusive, isolated me from friends and also threatened to hurt me; though he never laid a finger on me, he invaded my space and came close to it (as someone with a seizure disorder, I can’t handle a physical fight). It took a year to escape and break up with him.

I changed my name’s spelling on all social media and hid as much as possible.

Going Viral Can Be Extremely Damaging to Your Life

I was afraid that speaking out about the entirety of my experience, the people who I've met and everything that went down behind the scenes would hurt not only me but put my (apolitical) family at risk. I was trapped in limbo from speaking my truth, sharing my experiences, not “taking a side” and for being a “bad liberal” for thinking doxxing was unethical. People refused to believe my account of events and cut me off because I was “problematic” or an “active agitator.”Coinciding with these previously mentioned events, I was graduating from college and applying for entry-level jobs. For the whole year after going viral, I was underemployed and almost all my emails weren’t responded to. Even though the doxxing link was deleted, were recruiters using Internet Archive? Were people using AI tools to reverse image search to find my face or similar things with my face in them? Were people taking anonymously created and hearsay memes as the truth?I never set out to create a media brand or be a figurehead; I was just a fed-up citizen. How will the average person get their redemption arc without a big platform? What is the average person’s hypothetical apology tour if I wasn’t ever in complete control or able to communicate my narrative without fear of harm? How much of our futures will be at the mercy of algorithms and simple snapshots from our pasts that may or may not be out of context?

I never had a chance. No one did. Every nurse around me had about as much of a chance at a good day as their patient did of surviving.I walk into the COVID floor of our hospital. It’s 7 a.m., and despite the fluorescent lights above, there’s a gloom seeping into the ICU. Ventilators and monitors beep with a tone that is embedded in my nerves like an early morning alarm clock. I’m caught between the droning monitors in a tug of war between doing everything I can and the bare minimum. Someone’s oxygen is dangerously low. They’re already on maximum support—the only thing left is to “throw the kitchen sink at them,” as they say, and hope something sticks. It’s all we have left when the machines can’t pull the patient back.Ten minutes past seven and I am hearing the plethora of struggles the night nurse was up against. Another unvaccinated COVID patient. The same story—they can't breathe on their own. She’s inundated with medications, ventilators and other life-saving devices, but it isn’t enough. Her lungs are scarred; fibrosis has set in; and she has enough sedation and paralytics on board to take down a whale. Healthcare’s a 24-hour job, but it’s still hard knowing someone will die during your shift.I wish this wasn’t so routine. If it has to be so routine, then I wish it didn’t feel like such a rut. I try to focus on my rounds to avoid thinking about the odds of my two surviving patients. I try not to think about what caring for one means for the other. I want to stay dedicated to my routine, to stay present for the sake of my patients and ward off the doubt.They’re dead though. Even if they’re just technically dying, they’re dead. The machines replaced their diaphragm and preserve what is left of their brain. They aren’t there. Maybe I should use more tact. Maybe I shouldn’t let myself feel this way. How can’t I when all I’m ever doing is prolonging the inevitable? I think I should care more. Am I truly doing enough? At this point, though, caring any more than I already do would be the death of me.

How can I say I care when I've gone numb?

I've Gotten Used to People Taking Their Final Breaths Around Me

I'm an ICU nurse in my second consecutive year working on the COVID floor. It's September of 2021 and the Delta variant is causing a spike of infections as the world's apathy toward the virus is ramping up. I can feel myself burning out. I can see the fire fizzling out of my colleagues' eyes as we all go numb, losing patient after patient each week. That's when I really start to wonder: How can I say I care when I've gone numb?I can’t stop thinking about the odds that the patients and their families are up against. None of this seems fair. I’m sawing my mind in half just to make my two patients comfortable. I’m juggling two patients teetering on the brink of death. This fear never leaves; it just pulls tighter, no matter how much I try to remain present. As I advocate for one patient, I wonder if I'm doing enough for the other. Nothing I do feels good enough. Her eyes are glossy. Her worn-out body looks ready to slide away, only for monitors to pull her back to us.She’s comfortable, though, my patient. She doesn't track the doctor or me as we approach her bedside. At times, I think she drifts away toward a bright light at the end of a dark tunnel, only to have a machine pull her back to the routine beep of a monitor. She’s fading. I’m listening to the absence of life creep in between her heartbeats. The machines are losing their grip.Stop. Don’t think about that now. I’m making my way to my second patient, across the ICU floor that feels more like a tightrope. I’m preparing to enter his room, and I can hear his heart rate dipping. His pulse keeps dropping one beat every second to one every other. I pump him full of what I can only describe as jet fuel to get him going. Only he’s so acidic that his body won’t budge. I have to balance out his acid levels, and we mix the jet fuel with more chemicals. With any amount of luck, this may allow the medicine to work. We’ll consider the chemical aftermath if he survives.I listen to him breathe. Each breath is like gentle waves tugging a boat against a gravel shore, shallow and difficult. I’ve gotten so used to the sound of ventilators that having a patient breathe on their own feels like a win. From the door, though, it doesn’t look like one. The man’s body is just as beaten down as my other patient. I’m checking his vitals when his heart lulls between a beat. Even while breathing on his own, his pulse has continued to lag. His blood isn’t moving, and his brain has begun to starve. His mind’s malfunctioning, each brain cell short-circuiting. I picture the air leave his body as his organs deflate. Soon, he reaches the depths of multisystem organ failure.Yet, this is as stable as his condition will allow him to be. The routine has become demoralizing, and the best I can do is skate by, waiting for the slack I’ve been given to be pulled tight. I have to leave his room and go back to my first patient. I can hear his breathing while stepping out of the room. The boats are still scraping against the shore, and all I can hope for is that they will still be there when I return. There’s a gnawing sense pressurizing me into second-guessing myself. I'm afraid that even if I’m doing everything I can, Mother Nature will undo everything in one climactic moment.

Every nurse around me had about as much of a chance at a good day as their patient did of surviving.

Trying to Explain Science to Family Members Is Often a Lost Cause

I’m preparing to enter my first patient’s room, half-listening to the monitors in her room and half-listening to the doctor talking to the patient's family. He's telling them what my patient is up against, explaining her low chances of survival. The patient’s daughter doesn’t want to hear it. She doesn’t want to believe there’s nothing more to do. She’s getting angry; her voice is croaking; and her head is shaking. Her chin is twisting, trying to remain in control. I don’t blame her, and I won’t blame her if she loses control.No one wants to listen to a doctor foreshadow their loved one’s death. No one wants to hear how much of healthcare is just straining out into the dark and hoping you catch light. Both the patients and their families want to believe that medicine is made up of hard and fast rules, but it's almost never like that. Especially when we’re up against an unknown virus like COVID, everything is troubleshooting. There are more solid answers to an engine knocking than to a human heart failing.Between my training and the doctor’s degree, families expect us to have those answers. But we don’t, and I want them more than I can explain. I know some answer feels better than no answer. This is also part of the routine that sends family members spiraling down healthcare rabbit holes looking for YouTube therapies and solutions. I don’t blame them. If I truly thought the answers were there, I'd also scroll endlessly for some sort of resolution. We all want answers. We all want someone, somewhere, to shed light on this pandemic, to be the beacon we all need. In the meantime, we keep pumping drugs into them, hoping something will spark in the middle of the night. But after almost two years of the pandemic, it’s starting to feel like there is no light.As I check her vitals, I can still hear the doctor’s muffled conversation through the window. The family is spitballing Google hypotheses. They’re grasping for something concrete in a world obscured by the internet. That’s what makes this hard. Especially when the doctor can’t sugarcoat it. “It’s the variant," he says. "It destroys the lungs and cuts off oxygen to the rest of the body. Eventually, her organs will fail.”That’s not what they want to hear. The family members duck their heads back into their phones. But there are only so many ways the doctor can say it. There are only so many ways you can tell a family their loved one never had a chance. I move to the woman’s other side to see the doctor’s eyes focused on the daughters. His head is shaking back like he doesn’t want to say it out loud, but he does.“The only chance she had was to be vaccinated," he says. "Maybe then, it could’ve lessened the severity.”Anger floods the daughter’s eyes as she paces frantically. She won’t have it. Her skin flushes, marked by tears running along a confused face. It’s the most frustrating part of the routine. The daughter’s voice is cracking as she hurls a whirlwind of compartmentalization toward the doctor. The daughter explains what her mother was really up against. In her mind, her mother isn’t up against an unknown virus. She’s being martyred by the globalist elite because her family won’t comply with protection from a Fauci-funded virus. Her mother is dying for refusing to be tracked by Bill Gates’ vaccine.That’s why we can’t save her—because we aren’t trying. They all swear that we’re propagating lies and inciting fear. That’s when I stop listening.

I'm Responsible for Ending My Patient's Life

A mother is dying, and her daughters don't believe we’re doing everything we can to save her. How could they with so many conspiracies in their head? When they can confirm their paranoia with generalizations and betrayals? There’s a foundation of distrust beneath everything they’re saying. I know it must look like we’re not doing anything. I know it feels like a cop-out by explaining the vaccine’s saving power. I know it must feel like betrayal, but I swear I’m trying. I don’t want anyone to die. I just don’t know how to convince them that I’m trying. I don’t think anyone does, and it all just keeps making the light at the end of the tunnel that much harder to see.We give the family 15 minutes to watch their mother through the windowpane, just as she begins to crash. I look to the doctor for a solution, but I know he can’t get prepped and be in the patient’s room in time to do anything. There’s nothing anyone can do. No one has the answers. The woman’s failing, and she’s so infectious that no one besides me can be next to her. I’m alone with a woman’s body that has all but given up. I know what I have to do. It’s what I knew would be coming when I started my shift.I push a large dose of fentanyl through her IV. Its clear liquid slides down the tubes, stopping abruptly at her arm before sinking into her bloodstream. I’m killing her. I don’t want to believe that, but I know it’s true. I don’t know how other nurses feel about this. I don’t know how I feel, and I’m too afraid to ask. I’m sure some nurses believe they’re just doing their job and making the patient comfortable. I don’t know if I feel the same way. I don’t think I feel the same way. I don’t want to believe I’m killing someone. I want to believe I’m doing my best. I don’t want to believe I’m just making them comfortable. I don’t know what to believe because everything feels like a failure.The machines grow quiet as my patient slides into a fentanyl-induced abyss. Her glossy eyes dilate and her eyelids get heavy until they gently flutter to a rest, as if she’s just settled beneath the surface of a warm bath. Her heart begins a rhythm only I and the doctor know are not compatible with life before she flatlines. The ventilator is shut off, and her shallow breaths no longer raise her white sheets. I hold my breath until her body eases. I notice the muffled cries from behind the windowpane. She’s gone. I phone the transplant center, hoping some good can come from this, but her organs have been eviscerated by COVID. There’s nothing left to transplant. I hang up the phone and watch the doctor enter data into the patient’s chart. I can’t stop thinking about her cause of death.

She never had a chance, or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

I'm Not Sure How I Can Continue Watching Unvaccinated Patients Die

Being unvaccinated and a lifetime smoker had left the virus unchecked to wage a one-sided war against her body from the inside out. Her lungs were doomed to fail. She never had a chance, or at least that’s what I keep telling myself. That’s the truth though. The only way I know how to see it. She never had a chance. She was always going to die. Always. And I was always going to be the one there beside her to make her comfortable. I was always going to be the one beside her as her family watched her go. There weren’t any other options. This was the way it was always going to be.What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to feel? No one understands anything. We don’t understand this virus. The family doesn’t understand that we’re doing everything we’re capable of. No one understands how demoralizing this routine is. No one understands how this keeps happening and how it keeps withering everyone so far down that everything we do feels like a rut. More than that, it all feels wrong. It feels whiny. How can I complain about how I feel when someone else has just lost their loved one? It’s selfish to complain when someone else has just lost their world.But they’re angry at me. They can’t understand how a politicized disease killed their family member. They can’t understand the contradictions in what they believe is happening around them. And I can’t understand why they wouldn’t just get two fucking shots. That’s it, and it pisses me off to no end because if they had just done that—if they had just been vaccinated—then maybe I would have a chance to save them. But even with their loved one gone, they won’t. The rumors, lies and misinformation have scared them away from doing the one thing that would have given me the chance to save their life. What other fucking options do I have besides making them comfortable?I’m sick of leaving a dead patient to care for a dying one. I keep trying to flip the switch. I try to find the light in the darkness. I don’t want to think about the old woman and her family. I want my other patient with the dipping heart rate to have every bit of my attention. At least now, I can give him that. I’m going to check his vitals, and if everything is going well, then maybe I can eat lunch, but I still won’t be able to turn it off. The whole time, I’ll wonder if I’ll lose him or if I could have done anything more for him. I step into his room, and the monitor's alarms are blaring. His heart rate is plummeting. His lungs are failing, and just like that, I’m back to where I started.

As someone who was born and raised in Africa and has been surrounded by people of the same or similar ethnicity and race my entire life, I have struggled to understand what people of color face in other parts of the world. But truth is, I have never experienced it firsthand. However, the race issue still affects us. Why? The question lingers. Being Black on a majority-Black continent, one might expect that the race card would not have such an impact as it currently does. Africans have learned to be biased toward people whom we do not see as fitting to our ideal color. Who said Blacks cannot be racist? The thing is, over the years, we have learned to be discriminatory to ourselves in terms of our skin color, and a good number of people are struggling with self-conflict and severe self-esteem issues based on this.In some countries, having a darker skin tone has long been associated with being poor, uneducated and less attractive. The demand for skin-whitening products in Africa is massive.

Who said Blacks cannot be racist?

We Are Taught to Be Prejudiced Against Darker Skin

As a kid, I had a couple of friends from different ethnicities and also a couple of mixed friends. I can honestly say I did not know the difference at the time—they were just a different color from me, and that was it. The issues of our different skin colors were never an issue, The only time we ever mentioned our different colors was when we had to pick nicknames for a game (which were always “Brown,” “Milky” and “Ash”—children’s humor, I say!) or when painting our nails and picking what color suited our skin best. One of my fondest memories is when my mixed friend wanted a traditional African braid, which just goes to show that the issue of color is not programmed from birth, as many people tend to believe, but rather programming we acquire from our social circle, family and the media.The media plays a crucial part in our racial construct. It remains the world's biggest influencer; people worldwide are glued to their screens, whether it’s phones, gadgets or television. Could this be where our color issues originated from? When I was growing up in the 1990s and early 2000s, the leading roles in TV shows were hardly ever given to people of color. I could hardly, if ever, identify as any of the characters I watched. Until recently, most toys were modeled after Caucasian kids and barely ever modeled after kids of color. The skin-whitening market in Africa first arose in the 1950s, but it was not until the early 1980s that the market started to grow into what it is now today. Now attractiveness, marriageability, career opportunities and socioeconomic status directly correlate with one's skin color.The world has placed societal standards that hold a lighter skin shade as being the epitome of beauty. The idea of light skin as the pinnacle of beauty affects self-esteem for women of color around the world. Centuries ago, noble elites made use of harmful skin substances such as arsenic powders that lead to a pale look. This was, back then, held as the epitome of beauty in the elite world. Not much has changed since then, seeing as skin color is still a social benchmark that is often used by people of color and whites alike.

I’ve Experimented With Skin Lightening

Growing up, I knew of the skin color disparity happening but was barely conscious of how bad it was until it impacted me directly. When I got to college, I noticed a change. Most of the friends I knew from high school got lighter skin tones within the first year of arriving in college. My most unforgettable memory from this was being advised, by an older cousin I always looked up to, against using my regular skincare products and to go for more expensive whitening ones. “These products are cheap and not effective,” she said of the products I had been using. “You’re a beautiful girl. If only you could get some organic products to brighten your skin tone, you would be one of the hottest girls around, and men wouldn't be able to resist.”For a while, I could not get past the down feeling that came with this criticism of my skin tone. Aside from the usual breakouts during my teenage years, I had never been in a position where I doubted my skin before. I had a complete turnaround when friends kept saying I looked stressed. “You were lighter than this,” my female friends would say. “What happened? Try to get your complexion in check.” “You look different,” my male friends would say, trying to be subtle about criticizing my skin color.I began exploring different skin-whitening products. They did not come cheap. Three months into getting them, I noticed so many changes in my appearance. I suffered from terrible breakouts, where before I had clear, smooth skin. I had early signs of stretch marks, which I never had to worry about before. On the other hand, I could see how people responded to me differently. I had more guys interested in going on dates, and my female friends wanted to hang out more.

I could see how people responded to me differently. I had more guys interested in going on dates, and my female friends wanted to hang out more.

The Skin-Lightening Industry Seems Unstoppable

In Africa, a new type of whitening product is taking over the market. These products claim to be made from 100 percent natural ingredients, but in reality, they are made from a mixture of really harsh, unfriendly chemicals. But they get the job done in a couple of weeks, and their effectiveness makes them a go-to choice for many. The downsides far outweigh the good, though. How safe are these products? Not very. The owners of these organic brands are often untrained. Many of them start their brands from watching YouTube channels. A high number of users of these products end up with burns, scars and acne.The belief that lighter skin is better stems from the colonial era, where white foreigners exacted a kind of superior authority by enforcing their religion and way of life. In my opinion, this has in turn created an internal rift that has messed with the mindset and self-esteem of our people. This prejudice got passed down as a belief that Westerners are more godlike in appearance than other races. But as much as we might want to play the blame game and put the responsibility for colorism in Africa on a common enemy, it falls to us to take pride and joy in being ourselves instead of trying to change to fit someone else’s idea of perfection. This social construct of skin color needs to be canceled, and there’s no better place to start than here, with the people it affects most.

“What do you think? Is she naughty or nice? Prude or a freak?” I overheard someone whisper behind me. I lay my head down on the desk, unbothered by the conversation. It was my junior year of high school, and upon further investigation, I learned that some boys had started a bet about my sex life. At that time, my parents were divorcing and my best friend had just died. Those days, I was so numb that I didn’t react, but the question would haunt me for years to come. Was I a prude? In truth, the question had never crossed my mind. At a minimum, I was well-informed. Growing up with immigrant parents, sex was taught to me through encyclopedia articles, and I had deemed it a utilitarian pastime. Because of this, I wore my modesty like a badge. Sex never crossed my mind when I saw someone attractive, and it made me blush when discussed at a party. My only interest in sex was with someone I loved and nothing beyond that, but I also held no judgment toward others.The trouble is, I’ve always had boys and men commenting on my body, as most young girls have to endure. But when you are 10 and older boys are already slapping your ass, what do you know about creating safe personal boundaries? They will always tell you that you wanted it.

When you are 10 and older boys are already slapping your ass, what do you know about creating safe personal boundaries?

I Fell in Lust With a Man at My University

My first two boyfriends were nerdy romantics. Neither one had the best body nor social skills, but they never failed to lavish me with gifts, poems, roses, letters and support. I was loved beyond measure, but this healthy relationship trope was one that I didn’t recognize. I mean, I had only seen my parents kiss once. I found sex with these men enjoyable, but it was perfunctory. It was part of the relationship program, and I could take it or leave it. Even so, we shared genuine moments of lovemaking, connection and exploration, not just sex. Being respected felt so strange that I wondered what was wrong with them, and I quickly let go of each relationship. It seemed the only way to understand the value of what I had lost was to experience the extreme opposite.One month after my 20th birthday, I rode on a bus back to my university in Ithaca, New York. I was minding my own business when suddenly I saw him. His name was Colton—he was tan, with white teeth and had the body of a god. It was the first time in my life that I was in lust, and as our eyes locked, he could tell from a mile away. Clearly not his first prey, he took my number, and that is when his training began. To say Colton had a high libido would be an understatement. He wanted to have sex all the time and everywhere. I was very naive, and he began to expose me to his hedonistic lifestyle of drugs and sex. Although I had some clear limits (I was mostly a bystander to his antics), in terms of my desire for him, he knew that he had me wrapped around his finger when no one else was in the room.

My Identity Became Wrapped up in How He Saw Me

One night, while visiting his hometown in Oregon, he began to test his control. He threatened to kick me out of a moving car when I was friendly to men. He said he would break up with me every time I challenged his behavior. Some nights, he refused to let me sleep in the bed like an animal until I was begging in tears, after which he would reward me to be in his arms again. He would ask me to send him videos of myself performing sexual acts and even filmed us having sex one night when we were drunk.It got to the point that even when we were off again, I would send him smut to keep him engaged. I would do anything he asked me to—anal, sex in the woods, you name it. Instead of flowers in my mailbox, I received sex toys he wanted to use on me; instead of sweet nothings, I was asked to rank women’s bodies in the street; and instead of jewelry, I received a dog collar. This relationship created a paradigm shift. It tested my sense of self, existence and reason for living. Was I simply a tool to please Colton, to discard whenever he wished? I fell into a deep depression. I couldn’t see who I was beyond him or my shame, and each time he discarded me, my world began to fall apart more and more. My mind was sick, and I needed to mend. It was the excuse Colton used to dump me for good, having little use with someone broken.

I would do anything he asked me to.

I Began a Cycle of One-Night Stands

I was hanging by a thread in my studies, so I took medical leave. After surviving a long year of abuse, the effects took hold of my self-perception. I was objectified not only by others, but now myself. Colton had taught me to act in desperation to seek attention and the behavior remained. I had finally turned 21, and I needed the validation. The best place to find it? Dating apps. Instead of much-needed therapy, I gave a different stranger my address each weekend. They would come in, say hello and kiss me without even taking their shoes off. They would ask to go up to my room, and after they left, I would sit on my living room floor and cry until I could not breathe. This was the routine. Today, these moments are erased from my memory, but the one night that still stands out was when my assistant track-and-field coach came to my door. I don’t remember how he got in touch with me. I had known him for two years, and I thought surely it would be different if I invited him over. He will care about how I am doing. He will want to make sure I am OK, not just have sex with me. But like everyone else, he put his hand around my waist, pulled me close and asked me where my bedroom was. Knowing I was on med-leave, he didn’t have to worry about bumping into me at practice. I went through the motions, but it was then that I knew I was worth nothing. I was a body made of holes.

My Hypersexuality Saved Me From an Overdose

I couldn’t take the pain anymore of being a rotating object. I had been conditioned to ask for sex in place of love and respect, so I carved some scissors down my wrist and washed down a bottle of oxycodone with vodka. I left a video for my family on my computer, apologizing for ending it this way. Surprisingly, my hypersexual ways are what saved me. Wasted during the overdose, I had called my crush, offering to give myself to him, saying nothing mattered anymore. Knowing something was wrong, he reached out and my friends called an ambulance. I would spend the following two months recovering in the hospital—still an innocent girl to the outside world but suffering inside from social pressure to please a man. Almost 10 years later, I rarely have sex, and I am still learning about self-worth, but I believe in a reality where I will find a partner who only feeds off mutual growth, not his hard-on for control.

“If I go to Alcoholics Anonymous, do I have to believe in God to stay sober?”“Yes,” the straight, white doctor answered bluntly.As I was being discharged from rehab, I felt no hope because the one thing I did know was I will never believe in a deity. I’ve witnessed and been subjected to too much pain in my life to believe in God. But I listened to the physician and went to AA regardless because I was out of options.I found queer meetings right away. If I was going to do this, I might as well do it with people I felt safe around. Plus, maybe there would be some atheists or agnostics that could help me along the way.The queer meetings were OK, and I met some eccentric, fun people, but most everyone in these rooms was out of their minds. And it’s not their fault. They’re following literature that states you have to believe in a straight, white God in order to stay sober day after day after day. Coupled with their past/present PTSD, borderline personality disorder, anxiety, mania, suicidal thoughts, bipolar disorder and whatever other mental illness they have that’s undiagnosed, which is most likely the reason they drank and used drugs in the first place.

I’ve witnessed and been subjected to too much pain in my life to believe in God.

I Wanted to Believe in Myself and Not a Mythical Creature

Now, when you tell the devotees in AA that you don’t believe in God, their collective automatic response is, “Yes, but we call God your higher power, and your higher power can be anything you want.”A doorknob.Cher.The chair you’re sitting in.You can borrow my higher power until you find yours.It can be Donald Trump.It can be the Christian God.It can be Buddha.It can be any kind of god you want.“But your higher power can never be you or someone else. If it is you or the person you cling to, you will drink and die.” This is verbatim what they are all trained to say.They tell you this while meanwhile, you must stand up, hold hands with people you don’t know and pray a Christian prayer at the end of most meetings you go to. And on the wall of every AA room you will enter, there are these steps:Step 1. We admitted that we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable. Step 2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.Step 3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of “God” as we understood “Him.”And…I’m out. So you’re telling me it can be a doorknob, it can be Cher, if you want it, but when you’re doing step three, they want you to stop calling it a higher power and they also want you to refer to this god as “Him”? So god can start out a doorknob and turn into Trump but it can never be yourself or someone you love? That’s fucking asinine to me.

My Sponsor Was Supposed to Be My Guide, but He Ended up Being My Suppressor

You're told right when you belly flop in the program that you need a sponsor. A sponsor is someone who has been through all the steps and can “guide” you through them. They have no medical training in mental illness. They have no medical background in drug and alcohol abuse, unless they are, in fact, in the medical field (which rarely any of them are). And all their education is from a book that is outdated by almost a century, paired with their experience through drinking and using drugs and AA.“Has AA ever personally victimized you?”I can tell you that I was touched inappropriately on several occasions in meetings by men who had 20 to 30 plus years of sobriety. I was also told I was “a piece of shit” by the first man (who was a gay, white man) who sponsored me in AA. I dated a guy in AA who was so beautiful, tall and had a wonderful job. Jackpot! He later told me that he fantasized about killing me and eating me. I introduced him to my dad, and after that, he broke up with me for being “too clingy.”I had another old man put his hand on my ass during the closing prayer (which is usually the Our Father) and kept it there throughout. I did have the wherewithal that day to reprimand him in front of the group, but half of them didn’t even believe me.These are just three different experiences out of countless that I and others have had to endure if you are weak when you enter the rooms of AA.If you’re reading this and nodding your head yes, know that you are not alone. Know that you are loved and adored by me and countless others who have survived Alcoholics Anonymous.

Know that you are loved and adored by me and countless others who have survived Alcoholics Anonymous.

I Do Believe in a Higher Power—Myself

I am sober now, despite the trauma that this cult has put me through. It may not have you drink the Kool-Aid at the end, but it does beat you into submission at the lowest point in your life just to attempt to build you up with its outdated ideologies.My suggestion for anyone seeking help for alcohol and drug dependency? Find out what your underlying issues are with a trusted physician or therapist. If the first or second or third physician doesn't work, keep looking! Find people who are also attempting to get sober to trek with. Start loving yourself regardless of your character defects and you will gain the will to stay sober. Maybe not all the time, but once you start getting one day, then the next, then the next, it does get easier. At least for me, it did.Find time to meditate every day. I know, I know, every day? Well, if you are like I was, you drink and use drugs every day, so you can find 10 fucking minutes to sit and be silent with your thoughts.Once I started realizing that my higher power is, in fact, me and knowing what my triggers are and knowing how to deal with them in everyday life, I started living a fulfilling life. Not at first, but day after day, I did. I know myself today, and I don’t pick up because I have too much respect for the number one person in my life: ME!Do I have shit-ass days still? Of course. But I don't pick up because my self-esteem is higher than ever by doing daily affirmations, telling people around me how I’m feeling and meditation. And you know what? If I do pick up again, I will do my best to attempt to get sober again and not to beat myself up because nothing is permanent. Including sobriety.AA did almost kill me. And it has killed people decade after decade after decade by its refusal to evolve. How can any of these clown fuckers who got sober in the ’80s, ’90s and early 2000s know how to help anyone who is getting sober these days? What worked for them will not work for us, yet they boast it will if you “keep coming back.” There are different drugs. Different disorders. A pandemic. Social media, for fuck’s sake! (And yes, social media is a drug.) These fools didn’t get sober with all these new drugs and disorders. And one last thing—just because someone toots that they are sober for an amount of time doesn’t mean they’re telling you the truth. Pride is a tricky thing, and if I had to guess, half of those who say they are sober in the rooms of AA are not actually sober. I’m sure most of the men who sexually harassed me or gaslit me in the rooms secretly go home to a bottle of booze, opioids and bareback porn to cry themselves to sleep. Fingers crossed.

I consider myself fortunate to have entered a long-term relationship before Grindr really took off. I wasn’t forced to stare at a relentless stream of dick pics or answer stupid questions about the color of my body hair just to get laid by somebody who wasn’t a complete twat. But that’s part of the fun though, isn’t it? Even if we don’t intend on actually hooking up with anyone IRL, just having a conveyor belt of man meat at your fingertips sometimes does the trick fine. It’s like porn but with people who actually exist—you know what I mean. Over the last 20 years—since I properly started using it at age 15—the internet has undergone a phenomenal and consequential shift. Hook-up apps like Grindr are significantly retuning the way we think about sex, human connection and our own and others’ bodies.

I’ve Been Sexting Since Before There Was a Word for It

Apps didn’t invent anonymous horny chats with complete strangers. Back when I discovered it, the internet was dial-up, and I’d get shouted at by my parents when they picked up a screeching phone mid-session. Soon after discovering this new, thrilling world, I discovered chat rooms. Back in the pre-Grindr days, spaces like this were text-only and didn't let you upload images. I would talk to older men, with just their words for confirmation of who they were.That didn't put me off, though. I was a horny teenager who thought he might be gay and desperately wanted his first sexual experience. I copied and pasted the profound conversation starter, “Hi, how u?” into the cybersex dens of multiple men. I talked to heavy breathers on the phone (they often sounded very old, despite claiming otherwise). Since I had zero idea what these men looked like, my chances of being catfished were seriously high. And unlike now, when you can carry your sexy talk around with you in your pocket—and are able to engage with it while you’re in line at the supermarket—I had to frantically arrange dates on the family’s humongous computer in the very slim window of opportunity after my parents had gone to bed. Before long, I started to meet up with some of these men. They’d pick me up near my home and drive me away to the middle of nowhere to “fool around.” The fact that I was underage—and looked it—didn’t seem to discourage them.The night I lost my virginity was a bit of a blur. He was 26 and lived on a farm, with no neighbors for miles. I followed him to the front door, with no light to lead the way. If this were a film and I was watching it now, I’d be screaming at the screen, telling this kid to not under any circumstances go into that house. But what was the alternative? Run into the middle of nowhere, miles away from anything? He was probably done for.Soon after entering this stranger’s house, I was given an alcoholic beverage the color of blood, or at least the corn-syrup blood in those cult ’80s horror movies I could so easily have been Victim Number One in. I was then stripped, the glass in my shaking hand almost knocked to the frayed, carpeted floor, its contents splashed against the dark, dank wall.

The night I lost my virginity was a bit of a blur.

I Wanted Excitement, but I Wound up in Danger

I thought I wanted this, but talking through a computer in the comfort of my own home was a bubble I wasn’t ready to leave. It felt nice to be desirable, to be accepted for finally being me—gay. Maybe that’s all I wanted, really. As he kissed me—my first—and touched my body, I felt nothing. The excitement I felt chatting to him and the others was gone. I enjoyed the thought of sex, but the reality was something else entirely.When I think back to these experiences now, I feel sick. These men could have driven me away and raped me or even worse, murdered me and dumped the body. How lucky I was. When I was a bit older and still meeting men this way, I did encounter some potentially dangerous situations. I ended up spending a couple of days with a hookup, watching horror movies, our dry senses of humor matched perfectly, but on what would be the final night, I realized he wasn’t capable of just casual drinking after he flew into a drunken rage. I quickly escaped. I once lost the keys to my home on a night out and thought it would be a great idea to visit someone who I’d only exchanged one message with, hoping to just have a bed for the night. Unfortunately, he wanted sex and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Again, I left quickly, lucky to do so without him attacking me. Flirting on apps like Grindr or in the chat rooms I frequented all those years ago is a lot of fun and can take away a lot of the awkwardness that can plague those initial moments of meeting someone new. They can help people who don’t feel confident going out make connections. And they can be successful: I met my husband on a gay dating site. But they do fuck up the way we think about sex and our bodies, at least in my case they did. The way I formed my identity as a sexual being was almost as an avatar, playing a role at the other end of a computer, and I still feel detached when I have sex. I still like to have sex via screen—I prefer watching porn over actual sex, which feels like a chore to me.

I enjoyed the thought of sex, but the reality was something else entirely.

What’s Going to Happen to the Next Generation?

Perhaps there’s an element of trauma that I’ve never even considered, never mind overcome or spoken about. How healthy can it be for a child to experience something so distinctly adult, something that requires far more maturity than I was capable of? As a 15-year-old, I hadn’t learned anything about my body or how to respect it, yet here I was giving it away to a stranger. Perhaps the way I feel about my body still is locked up in my memories. How does it tie in with those hours I spent in the chat rooms? They allowed me to access sex way before I was ready. Sure, I had my own mind but hey, I was a randy cat and curiosity sure as hell came close to killing me. With kids now going online as young as they are, it’s chilling to think about what their relationship with sex and their bodies will be like. It’s not just these apps or chat rooms. Porn is extremely overwhelming to experience, when you consider sexual violence that too often coincides with it. Young people are going to access these things, however hard their parents try to stop them. I did, and now I’m paying the price.

My new podcast co-host was struggling for weeks. She had been trying to write an email to a potential sponsorship partner who couldn’t afford us, and when she mentioned it to me, I was shocked. Our new recovery podcast was growing fast, and the client had originally agreed to our rate per episode. But then he turned around and tried to lowball us.To me, it was simple. He couldn't afford us, and on top of that, he was being a dick about it, falsely believing we needed him more than he needed us. She felt bad about saying no and was so concerned about the feelings of someone who tried to screw us over. In the coming weeks, a lot of my friends would come to me with similar situations. Someone would ask them for something ridiculous and they were worried about how to say no.But I excel in these situations. I'm a sex worker, and I have to be able to determine quickly whether or not a client is worth talking to, taking on, dealing with. The stakes are higher than in a regular job—I could get robbed, raped, arrested or even murdered. Never underestimate the power of your life being on the line to find out that "Hey, I can do this."A common refrain among women I know is that they “feel bad” saying no or otherwise setting a boundary. These beliefs are taught to us by a society that doesn’t want us to have our own backs. The next time you are thinking of a potential client's needs as more important than your own, remember that they aren’t thinking the same way. They have their best interests at heart, and you have to have yours. Nobody else will ever have them for you in the business world. The best you can hope for is that your needs intersect with theirs. Here are a few tips I've learned over the years.

Oh, you didn’t cum? Not my job, not my problem. You have bought time. It’s run out.

1. Be Fiercely Protective of Your Time

Most customers do not turn into sales. In sex work, we call lookie-loos “fantasy bookers.” They exist everywhere. They want to think of themselves as the person who will buy goods or services, but they don’t intend on actually purchasing anything. I give them five minutes. I’m here to help if you’re lonely but not for free. At the end of five minutes, if they haven’t made any motion to actually book, I ask them if they’d like to. Then, I let them know that I’d be happy to continue the conversation if they Venmo me.They never do, but now my line is free for someone who might.My sessions start the minute the second person walks into the room and end when my timer goes off. Oh, you didn’t cum? Not my job, not my problem. You have bought time. It’s run out. If a project (making them cum, writing a grant, whatever) takes more time than what they paid for, just politely let them know that the funds have been used, and if they’d like more work, here’s how much more money they need to give you. As for clients who can’t afford you? Keep it moving. They will find someone they can afford, and someone who can afford you will find you.

2. Don’t Take on Too Much

When we think about the kind of workload to handle, we typically look at how much time we have and how much we can squeeze into it. We live in a society that teaches us that we are what we do, so more doing is how we combat the inner "not enough-ness" that comes from believing that. We also need to consider energy. As a sex worker, I cannot see more than two clients in a day and be OK emotionally the next day. It’s not a time thing—last week, I had a massage client and then worked an overnight. Technically, that’s a 13-hour day. But it felt the same as two one-hour sessions.Each client has a different energy that requires a different character from me. When you look at a project and plan your deadlines, consider how much emotional energy that project may take. How demanding is the client? How important is it that everything be just right? Is there anything you will have to learn or that’s a bit out of your depth or may be triggering to you or may be something that's too far down your list of tasks to enjoy? These are all considerations when you look at how each client, each gig, each project fits into your overall world. If you burn yourself out, you’ll have to stop completely. Just like it’s better to clean your house a little every day than once a month, it’s important to regulate the in-and-out flow of your limited energetic reserves.

I had decided that my desire to make money was more important than my gut instincts, and I paid the price.

3. Trust Your Gut, and Don't Make Decisions Out of Desperation

In the summer of 2020, I went to Arizona to feature at a comedy club. The gig was paying crap, but I’d just had COVID and wanted to use my immunity to do my favorite thing. I figured I could work there, get a nice hotel, etc. Where I live in Los Angeles was pretty much locked down, and I’d barely had any sex work outside of the rare QAnon client. I decided that I would make a certain amount of money while I was there. I didn’t. All my calls either couldn’t afford me or refused to screen or were drunk. This wore my resolve down and trampled the trust in my gut. The last day, I got a call from someone who I normally would have not taken. Something didn’t feel right. He was coming on too strong for a guy about to show up to a sure thing. When he was late, a thought reoccurred—I need to cancel. But I didn’t. He sent his LinkedIn profile as a screenshot, but I barely glanced at it. I had decided that I was going to make that money that day—I had a Botox appointment in the morning, and this appointment was how I was going to pay for it. Eventually, he would rob me. The companies on his profile didn’t exist and hadn’t existed for years. I knew when he made me download some investment app, in which he claimed to deposit 10 times my asking price—always a huge red flag, especially when someone will just tip you extra instead of asking for credit and consideration for it—that I was never going to see that money. But now I had a large man in my hotel room, where my dog and my wallet and my laptop were. I had to do what I had to do to keep myself safe in that moment and that was give him what he came for. That day, I had decided that my desire to make money was more important than my gut instincts, and I paid the price.Someone once told me that the things that are meant for you can’t miss you and that you can't do anything about the things that aren't meant for you. They told me this about dating, but it’s true in business, as well. It’s easy to get into a scarcity mindset when we work for ourselves. For marginalized people, specifically, we are taught that our policies and voices don’t matter. But if you can’t have your own back in your business dealings, nobody else will. And I guarantee the person on the other end of the email is not going to be hurt that you said no. They are just going to move along to the next person who may say yes.

“We are taking a side,” my journalism professor told me. “Get over it.”Nearly a decade into my journalism career, at 30 years old, I had circled back with the man who taught me to be a reporter. We had a discussion about some things I learned, and his words were as refreshing as they were direct. “Get over it” was more of a freeing, marching order for me than a statement directed at me, and, frankly, it was more of a clarifying confirmation than it was convincing.While I’d spent most of my career in sports, by the summer of 2020, I was considering a career swerve into politics and had real concerns about how journalism had contributed to where we were as a country: hurting and divided, where truth itself was up for debate.On its most basic level, journalism is merely the collection and editing of news for presentation through the media (as defined by Miriam-Webster). However, the true definition of journalism has a much higher meaning. It’s built on truth and accuracy. It’s performed by people who are diligent and even, at times, brave. Journalism, my professor told me, is a form of activism that has a point of view. It allows people to participate in democracy and any other number of social entities, from discussions of sports and entertainment to medicine and public safety.This fact wasn’t something my professor had come up with, but something instituted by the founding fathers themselves. Freedom of the press was solidified first so that democracy could grow. Establishing that journalism not only can, but should have a point of view is imperative. It allows for journalists to be fair and factual around contentious issues that might appear “biased.” As is taught in every journalism school in the world, if one person says it’s raining and another says it’s not, the reporter’s job is not to tell everyone what each person said. It’s to go outside and find out.

Police Reporting Must Go Deeper Than a Department’s Version of Events

Our conversation started with a discussion about policing.When I was in school, we were taught that the first step of reporting on anything that included the police was to touch base with the Public Information Officer of the given department. They would give you what you needed to know, and you could build your reporting around that information.However, by the summer of 2020, it was beyond clear that trusting the police’s version of events was a good way to not report the truth. Especially if the events in question more directly involved the police themselves. To quote another folksy saying from J-school, “if your mom tells you she loves you, you better double check.” And if we have to check mom, we damn sure better be checking the police. Today, the process of teaching reporting has shifted significantly. My professor has embraced the idea that journalism exists to speak truth to power—that it’s a form of activism. When reporting on crime and/or policing, public information officers are still a part of collecting the entire story, but there is a significantly larger emphasis being put on talking to everyone else involved.That was always a part of the process, but weighing various versions of events has taken on real urgency.

Journalism exists to speak truth to power—that it’s a form of activism.

Republicans Have Disproportionate Control Over Legislatures

As our conversation shifted from police reporting to politics, we lamented that far too much political reporting had turned into scorekeeping, not substance. Sentences often begin with “Democrats say this” and “Republicans say that,” and while establishing where each partisan position lies is important, it’s the job of journalists to suss out who is telling the truth.If journalism is activism, the act it’s performing is informing all of its citizens about how their lives will be affected. Nearly five months before Donald Trump lied about an election he lost, and eight months before the insurrection on the Capitol, my professor wondered why journalists weren’t upholding that standard when it came to democracy itself. By last summer, Republicans were deep into trying to manipulate the Census for more favorable voting outcomes, had instituted voter ID laws that disproportionately affected traditionally Democratic voters and were working on other measures to retain their power in what would unquestionably be undemocratic, minority rule.While that last sentence may seem harsh, biased and partisan, it is simply a fact. Republicans have won one national popular vote since 1992. They have implemented a number of policies across the country to gerrymander districts in their favor, as have Democrats, although to a lesser degree. Republicans in states all across the country have created disproportionate control over state legislatures when compared to total vote counts, and progressive policies consistently poll much better on nearly all issues in the United States than conservative ones. The amount of representation for Republicans is outsized compared to Democrats.Pointing that out is not “taking a side” or expressing bias. It’s reporting facts and reporting on widely accumulated data. So long that they are not manipulating the data or context, reporters need not worry about facts that reflect poorly on a person or group. That’s not their job. Remember, some people think minority rule or having politicians pick voters instead of voters picking politicians is a good thing. Consider: Vladimir Putin.

Journalism Should Never Protect People From the Truth

Looking for a non-political example? In 2015, the media pointed out that all 20 acting nominees for the Academy Awards were white, which, thanks to activist April Reign, incited a social media campaign branded #OscarsSoWhite. The all-white nominations don't have to explicitly be called bad, unfair, unequal or even racist. That’s an opinion easily formed on its own. But shining a light on that standalone fact allowed for a larger discussion about inclusion, structural barriers and discrimination in entertainment.Simply put, as journalists, it’s not our job to protect people from the truth. While it’s easy to say that on principle, it can be hard and uncomfortable in practice. We’ve all had to report unflattering things about people we like. In my time as a sports reporter, I’ve had to tell the truth about everything from poor play to much more serious off-court or off-field transgressions regarding athletes I not only respected, but with whom I had developed good, working relationships over the years. It doesn’t feel good when you know the athlete, politician or celebrity as a human being, but human beings make mistakes. I reported what I had to anyway.

Simply put, as journalists, it’s not our job to protect people from the truth.

The Side of Journalism Is the Side of Truth

The key word is “professional,” and it’s our job to report the truth no matter what. If that reflects poorly on someone—no matter how nice they’ve been to you and no matter how much information they’ve given you on any number of occasions—then the unflattering truth is ultimately their problem. That has to include reporting on ourselves. The change that can be spurred from exposing that truth, especially in areas as vital as democracy itself, is how journalism serves the public.Journalism is a form of social activism. It exists to inform and to allow people to make the best decisions possible about everything from self-governance to how to spend their time and money. It’s journalism’s job to take a side: the side of the truth, and thus, the side of all of us, the people.

I used to love my privacy. When I traveled the world, I was cloaked in foreigner anonymity. I could just be the girl next door anywhere I went. Harmless, coy. And then I started posting on Instagram. I was what you’d call an “early adopter.” I never really tried to build a following. I had a job directing the wellness programs at the largest retreat center in the world. Thousands saw me in the limelight and they wanted to stay in touch after they left their tropical holiday. So I posted. I shared. They connected. Over the years, I resisted it and pulled my following back when others wanted to grow it for profit. I never wanted to throw myself into it fully, knowing that that road wouldn’t lead anywhere pretty. I never sold ads or made partnerships. I was just sharing content about the relationship with ourselves and how to be a better human in body, mind and spirit. From lettuce leaves to embodied practices, to talking about sex, I was honest. But I resisted getting wrapped up into it all too much. I’d seen what dopamine mining could do. I understood the danger of social media.

I can’t live life without a stutter in my step, a second thought to pull out the camera.

Instagram Made Me Feel Like I Needed to Share Everything Happening in My Life

But what I hadn’t researched—and what I swear I felt chemically in my brain—was the guilt, the “should”-laced fomo of not just being able to live my life. On trips and outings, I would often think to myself: “This is nice, but I should be sharing it with my audience.” I don’t know exactly what stew of neurotransmitters that cooks up, but it’s definitely not something I want to order again. It’s not only the doing and the posting—it’s all the times where life is genuinely awesome, and you can’t genuinely enjoy it—because it should be posted, right?! Life itself becomes your best content. And, thus, life itself becomes commodified.It was never easy. I was in the spotlight; everyone saw me, judged me, projected their own understandings of my complex life onto me without knowing me. No matter how much I explain, my followers are incapable of understanding the entirety of my existence. This isn’t a real relationship. It’s not one-on-one. It’s one-on-thousands.

The personal repercussions were high.

I Rejected Ad Partnerships and Got Lost in the Influencer Crowd

A few years ago, when I was ramping up my entrepreneurial career, using social media as fuel, I took live-streaming to the edge of comfort. I used to talk to followers about my crushes, my intimate relationships, obscene happenings with family or anything else that would shock people. Done in the style of consciousness and deep self-awareness, I was still playing to the algorithm, getting numbers up at my own expense. I didn’t know who I was talking to or who would see it in the future. It was free content for no consent. The personal repercussions were high—men stalked me and said they masturbated to my videos. It feels a bit raw, really. Still too fresh to fully talk about. I never felt comfortable going “full influencer” with partnerships or promoting sales. It felt disingenuous. I was just there to be honest with people and help them get healthier. I would share inspiring dance videos, my own recipes, reminders on how to live better or photos of baby animals to inspire joy and reconnection to nature. Somehow, my mission-less-ness to have an audience eventually drowned under a tidal wave of income-backed influencers who were strapped in, ready to give everything they had, at all hours, in order to grow their following. They put all the guns in on this one, had all the hooks, all the clickbait and all the wide-open-eyed-emojis to keep you looking back. I couldn’t compete with that algorithm. I didn’t want to. That’s not what I was there for. But that didn’t make the guilt go away.In the end, I don’t make it out of the millions on top, and yet I still drink the poison of self-inflicted “‘should.” I can’t live life without a stutter in my step, a second thought to pull out the camera, or a lament in my soul that this rainbow, that beautiful sunset or this food should be shared.The audience will never know. But I’ll likely be feeling these repercussions for a while.

Amazon is one of the largest multinational corporations in the entire world. With dozens of contracts with the federal government and with intelligence agencies, it could be looked at as the future of the workplace and tech itself. Growing up, I considered myself to be more of a free-market Reaganist and had a positive view of large corporations. I held the belief that large corporations generally practiced business in good faith and helped benefit the economy by providing jobs. Whenever I would hear labor unions and essential workers talk about how they weren’t being treated well, I thought they were being too demanding and putting themselves over the company collectively. However, by stepping into their shoes, I was able to learn about their perspective.

The drivers with the lowest scores would be sent home.

Driving for Amazon Seemed Like a Great Position on the Surface

When the COVID-19 pandemic began in the spring of 2020, I was a college student left with no place to go. The campus was closed and the baseball umpiring job I had in previous years was shuttered along with the sports season. With an economy decimated by the pandemic, job openings were few and far between. However, there was one job opening that caught my eye: a delivery service partner (DSP) with Amazon, who was hiring for a delivery driver. The role was advertised as a flexible, high-paying seasonal position, where you could pick which days you could work and training would be provided. When interviewing for the job, the HR manager made the position seem as attractive as the description, where if you came to work on time and worked hard every single day, you would be successful and have opportunities for advancement on the job. Drivers would be scheduled to work five days a week for 10-hour shifts. They would typically assign drivers 140-160 stops each shift, with Amazon expecting that drivers complete deliveries at a rate of 20 stops per hour. Most drivers were able to complete their routes before the end of their scheduled shift, while still being paid for the entirety of their scheduled shift, and if they didn’t finish their routes before the end of their shift, a supervisor would recall the driver to the station to return the packages they were unable to deliver.After accepting the job, I attended a three-day job training seminar, which was followed by a hands-on training session, where an Amazon job trainer would follow you around. As I began my experience as a delivery driver, it wouldn’t take a long time for me to realize that the job would be a lot more challenging and significant than I had previously thought.After completing my training and beginning my time as a driver, the job felt great. I was assigned smaller-sized routes, was completing my routes early and was earning high driving scores. As I continued delivering packages, my route size gradually increased until they reached full-size routes. While I was able to perform well with more residential stops with winding roads, routes with tighter roads and apartments were a lot more challenging. Some days required delivering through hazardous conditions, such as excessive heat, thunderstorms and torrential rainfall. One day when there were intermittent thunderstorms, I was assigned to a route with over 200 stops and even delivering at an above-average rate in ideal conditions would be almost impossible to complete before the end of the scheduled shift. I couldn’t take the required 30-minute break and still couldn’t complete the route before the end of my scheduled shift. In this situation, drivers are left with the choice of taking a break or completing their route on time.

The Algorithms Amazon Used to Monitor Drivers Weren’t Always Accurate

Amazon was able to utilize pandemic protocols to implement lasting changes in the workforce. Pre-shift meetings where all the drivers would typically gather were moved to Zoom, while cutting back on ride-along training sessions, which took a lot away from the personalization of the workplace. The elimination of the personalization made the job made it feel as if it was managed by algorithms, and made it feel as if they didn’t want us to interact with other drivers so that they could have more control over drivers.Before proceeding to their assigned route, drivers are provided a company smartphone, where they are required to sign in to two different apps. The first app was the Amazon Flex app, which serves as a tracking and navigation app. Whenever a driver completes a delivery, they are required to scan a QR code on the package and take a picture of where the package was delivered. It also determines the order of deliveries and can track how fast an employee is completing deliveries and whether they are completing deliveries in the correct order. The second app is the Mentor app, which evaluates how safely a driver is driving. Drivers receive daily scores ranging from 500 being dangerous to 800 being elite. If the app detects a driver driving over the speed limit, breaking or turning hard, not wearing a seatbelt or using the phone while driving, you will lose points. A lot of times, these algorithms can be inaccurate. An article in Bloomberg reported that these apps can deduct drivers' scores for offenses they did not commit. Even though it is widely known by drivers and supervisors, this app is used to evaluate driver safety. For example, while I would have high scores on residential routes, my score would be reduced for sharp turns and aggressive acceleration and braking because of the grid layout in urban areas. As if they didn’t surveil drivers enough, since I left Amazon, they have added algorithmic surveillance cameras to each van to detect whether a driver is distracted.Meanwhile, a member of dispatch is stationed at the delivery center to oversee delivery routes. At any time, dispatch members can track a driver’s location and how far along their route they are. A dispatch member will call a driver when they want them to pick up packages from another driver, check on a driver that is behind on their route or to call a driver back to the station if they don’t finish their route by the end of their shift.Each week, the two apps will calculate the safety, efficiency and accuracy of a driver into a score ranging from 300 to 800. Each driver will then be ranked from best to worst based on their score. Each day, the Amazon DSP would be provided with 40 routes for drivers, and if more than 40 drivers were scheduled to work on a given day, the drivers with the lowest scores would be sent home. If a driver struggled to keep their score above 660, they could be fired automatically. Even though a human supervisor would probably evaluate drivers differently than the algorithms, the algorithms are treated as if they are perfectly accurate.During one of the company meetings, I remember something that was stunning to me. One of the toughest parts of the job is delivering packages to places like apartments, where a driver needs a password or customer permission to enter the facility where they are supposed to deliver the package directly to the customer or their room. If the driver can’t enter the facility, the driver will leave the package in a doorway or lobby so they can complete the delivery, while being able to continue onto their route, even though it is against company policy. However, to enforce this policy, Amazon began using the Flex app’s algorithms to detect whether a package was delivered to the correct location. If the algorithms detected a driver delivering to the wrong place, they would be shut out of the Amazon apps and fired automatically. The concept of digital firing was an idea that I thought was crazy and unheard of.

The craziest part about working at Amazon is how they view employees more as a part of a system than as human beings.

Being a Delivery Driver Has Given Me a Wider Perspective

The craziest part about working at Amazon is how they view employees more as a part of a system than as human beings. Employees are assigned 40-60 hours of physically demanding work weekly. If an employee makes a handful of mistakes or isn’t able to handle the long hours and follow every command, they can easily be replaced. If an Amazon worker expresses concern for workplace safety conditions, they face the threat of retaliation from their supervisor. A recent example would be from Edwardsville, Illinois, where supervisors were allegedly threatening to fire employees who left an Amazon warehouse to seek shelter ahead of a tornado that later leveled the warehouse and left six people dead.A year after working as a delivery driver for Amazon, I worked as a driver helper for UPS. While they had challenging, competitive jobs, UPS takes care of their drivers better than Amazon does. While Amazon has more seasonal drivers, with less delivery experience, UPS has more experienced full-time delivery drivers. UPS drivers are also unionized, where the union is able to negotiate for manageable workloads and bargain for higher wages, an option the drivers at Amazon don’t have. With employment and job stability going through a union, drivers have a lot more certainty that they will be treated fairly by their employer. Prior to working for Amazon, I was a free-market absolutist, but this work experience definitely provided me with a more blue-collar perspective. While profits are important, an employer should always prioritize the well-being of their workers. There are a lot of exploited blue-collar workers throughout the country, and their voices should be heard and should be protected from exploitation.

When someone talks about a library career, one often conjures up the usual stereotype of constant shushing, geeky staff with Coke-bottle glasses and miles upon miles of books. Well, I am here to dissuade you of those images. While employed in a library system in the Southeastern United States, I have seen it all. In 1998, I started my career in the circulation department at a local library in Florida and was promoted to the position of graduate intern—essentially a librarian in training—in July 2000. After attaining my master’s degree in library and information sciences, I moved up to become a librarian, and then, in 2008, an assistant branch manager. In 2015, I received an opportunity to manage a small library, which is my current position. Working behind the scenes at a library is the most rewarding career ever, since it lets me make a difference in the lives of others. Ever since I worked summer jobs at supermarkets, I developed a love for assisting and schmoozing with customers. I derive great joy simply from smiling and wishing the multitudes of customers of all backgrounds and ages a simple, “Have a nice day!” Along with my love of books—on history, politics and science, along with some fiction—my love of people made the field of professional librarianship a natural fit.

The enchanted land of librarianship can be full of surprises.

Helping People Is My Favorite Part of the Job

There have been many instances of where I felt empowered from making a positive difference in people’s lives, ranging from simple interactions to much more complicated situations. During the Great Recession, I often assisted a customer who, like many, had become unemployed due to the near-implosion of our financial markets. He was a middle-aged man with a professional background in architecture. I personally assisted him on the computer to research available architect positions and let him work past our usual one-hour time limit, with his blueprints and assorted documents laid out on one of the study tables. This continued for weeks upon weeks until I noticed that he was no longer frequenting the library. Then one day, out of nowhere, he strode into the library towards the reference desk with his hand outstretched. He greeted me in the warmest manner and thanked me for my assistance and patience, which had ultimately landed him a six-figure job as an architect. Another frequent patron is an elderly Jewish man from Brooklyn, New York, who I met at the library I currently manage. I.S. is a retired freelance writer with a passionate interest in politics and history. He and I quickly bonded over our shared interests and his delightfully corny sense of humor (much like mine). Sadly, I.S. only had a few friends and no family in the local area. Since I enjoyed I.S.’s company, we became friends. We had long talks about politics, history, life, and shared a few laughs. Twice a month, he and I would dine at the local Subway. The enchanted land of librarianship can be full of surprises. Back at the beginning of my library career, while discharging (i.e. checking in) a paperback fiction book, a sheaf of photos fell out. When I picked them up, to my shock, I found myself looking at photos of a scantily clad teenager in fancy underwear. My jaw dropped. I showed them to another female colleague sitting near me. “Oh my God,” I exclaimed. “Look what I found!” Laughing, she told me that she had found a variety of other strange items in discharged books, such as a used tube of toothpaste. We had a good laugh, and I threw away the provocative photos.

Life in a Library Is Full of Surprises

Almost 15 years later, I moved to a library in an inner-city area and encountered challenges that I never envisioned a librarian facing. It turned out to be perhaps the most positive experience in my 21-year career. It allowed me to grow as a leader, improved my confidence to engage in potentially confrontational situations and exposed me to a tight-knit and generous community. My co-workers and my manager were a fun, supportive group who became a family away from my actual family. Having that kind of atmosphere in a library is especially helpful whenever a crisis flares up. The combination of a cohesive workplace, with the presence of a community-friendly police officer, translates into increased safety for other customers and staff. On one occasion, I attempted to correct a customer when they were talking very loudly, and he—who was substantially taller than this vertically challenged librarian—stepped into my personal space and pumped his fists. Fortunately, the police officer on duty and I de-escalated the situation, and the customer eventually left the library under threat of arrest. This incident was not the first occasion where I dealt with customers who were insulting or threatening. On multiple occasions, I was called a “white cracker motherfucker” and other assorted epithets. However, I learned that the best method of dealing with such verbal assaults is to let them slide off my shoulders and calmly tell the customer to leave. Once you argue with the unruly customer, you open yourself up to the potential of violent conflict. While many librarians may run away from working at a library fraught with these kinds of challenges, I embraced it as an excellent opportunity. It benefitted me immensely, since this work experience allowed me to address conflict with increased confidence in my personal life as well as in the workplace. Once, a teen customer mouthed off to me while I attempted to correct his misbehavior. Years later, he visited the library and talked with the staff in a most respectful manner. He had matured and was already enrolled in college. Cases paralleling this example were not unknown or infrequent and proved to be most encouraging. It is incredibly empowering to see youth maturing away from rowdy behavior to a more settled, responsible lifestyle. It is one of the innumerable rewards of my career. There have only been a very few occasions where I was witness to violent crime in the library. Over a decade ago, a man stumbled into the front entrance of the library. He was covered in blood from multiple stab wounds. Luckily, a police officer was on duty, and he quickly called the paramedics and backup law enforcement personnel. Sadly, but not unexpectedly, the victim succumbed to his wounds and died. It was a truly traumatic experience that further taught me to truly appreciate life.

Librarianship has allowed me to escape my shell of shyness and lack of confidence.

Being a Librarian Has Helped Me Grow as a Person

Librarianship has allowed me to escape my shell of shyness and lack of confidence. When I was in school, I was simply terrified of public speaking. However, my fears were forced to take a backseat in 2004, when I started a new position at a combined public and academic library. One of the duties my new position entailed was teaching computer classes to 20 or 30 students at a time. After watching my supervisor teaching these classes, I decided the best way to offset my anxiety was to crack corny jokes and to simply be my patient and soft-spoken self. Who would have expected—I fell in love with public speaking. Many of the students responded favorably to my approach. After that, I grabbed every opportunity I could to conduct book and movie discussions and college student orientations, which covered library reference materials and research databases. In due time, I found that my biggest challenge was not being able to shut up about the subject material. Public speaking allowed me the opportunity to channel my passion for informing customers of the research tools that were available. (After all, I was a beneficiary of the availability of these tools since I am a history and politics enthusiast and a self-published author). I also became involved with the development and facilitation of cultural programs. This allowed me to plan events by soliciting businesses for funds and food donations, which in turn provided me the experience of tasting cuisine from other countries such as India, Haiti, Argentina and Trinidad and Tobago. I became hooked on foods from all over the world. Haitian griot, a fried pork dish, became one of my all-time favorites. If you’ve read this piece and are now wondering, “Should I work as a librarian or library manager?” my answer would be a resounding “yes!” My experience as a librarian and a manager has helped me conquer old fears, affect peoples’ lives in a profound way and has taught me how to transform lemons into lemonade.

It is no secret these days that public trust in priests is not what it once was. I often wonder what sort of ideas the priesthood draws up in someone's mind. Do they recall a beloved pastor singing beautiful alleluias, always with a ready ear? Do they remember a time when a priest spoke words of tenderness and grace in a moment of suffering? Or instead are they repulsed by thoughts of abuse and perversion? Do they associate priests with alcoholism and other vices? In their mind, is the priest an instant saint or a lecherous bastard?I am a Catholic seminarian. This identity has grown on me after six years studying in a seminary, but sometimes, it still feels awkward to share with strangers. Sometimes, while getting a haircut or ordering dinner, I am asked, “Where do you go to school?” Often, I’ll pause for a moment before I mention the seminary. “What do you study?” Theology, mostly. “What do you plan to do with that?” Well, in a few years, I plan to be a Catholic priest.

In a few years, I plan to be a Catholic priest.

What Makes Somebody Want to Be a Priest?

The most common question people ask is what made me want to be a priest. Grade schoolers and adults alike are curious to know. Fortunately, it’s a question I love to answer.The basis of my conviction for the priesthood is ultimately my relationship with God. That relationship is not strictly limited to church but permeates all aspects of my life. I grew up in a moderately large family and a Catholic home. As a kid, I had the normal desire to be like my dad and one day get married and have my own kids. But later, in high school, the thought began to creep in that maybe I would be a good priest. A friend's mom would say it, or a lady at church. At first, it was easy enough to brush off, but when I went to private prayer, the thought persisted. I realized that this desire was rooted within me and that I needed to answer it in some way. So I continued to take it to prayer and ask God to show me what he wanted of me.In my senior year, I went on a weekend trip to visit the seminary where I now study. When I prayed here, I was struck by a great sense of peace. I had a deep feeling that I was meant to be here and that despite all my hesitation, I wanted to. This practice of paying attention to one's interior senses and judging how to follow them is called discernment, and it is central to the life of a seminarian.Even with a spiritual basis, there are other considerations to justify. I still had questions from my parents, my friends and myself: What was I giving up? What was in the priesthood for me? Would I be happy as a priest? These questions were not answered right away. Even today, my journey is not yet over. Without a doubt, though, I have been led down this path with grace beyond my understanding.

Celibacy Is a Challenge, but It’s Rewarding

What do I give up? The most common objection people raise is against the priest's life of celibacy. Even many faithful Catholics have a derogatory or imperfect idea of celibacy. The lack of human companionship can be very difficult and indeed has led to many problems among men. Yet the life of celibacy rises above and beyond mere difficulty. Faithful priests recognize the twofold nature of celibacy. On one side, it is a sacrifice; on the other, a gift.For me, I have found both of these aspects to be true already. The natural desire for a family did not disappear when I entered seminary. Celibacy means giving up more than just sex. It was a sacrifice to accept that I was giving up dating, marriage and the joy of raising children. Yet I have come to realize how this sacrifice leads me to a greater desire for God's companionship. I have experienced the reality of great joy and consolation in prayer. By accepting the difficulties of celibacy and turning them into an acceptable sacrifice, the Lord offers his priests—and in fact, all people—an intimacy beyond sexuality, encompassing a deep integration between body and soul. It’s a supernatural gift.In addition to a great spiritual intimacy with God, I have found so much to answer the second question: What’s in it for me? I can hardly capture the scope of experiences that I have had as a seminarian. I have visited people in hospitals, nursing homes, soup kitchens, food pantries, and countless churches and other places of worship. I have met bishops, cardinals, homeless people, immigrants, nuns, parishioners, pilgrims, retreatants, sinners and saints. I have seen great beauty and great ugliness, joy and suffering. And through it all, I have found opportunities to witness God's grace, no less in the homeless drug user than in the millionaire parishioner. In the image of the priest—and by association, the seminarian—exists something which breaks down barriers into the vulnerable places in people's hearts. Something supernatural, like the finger of God, touches wounds and offers to heal. I have witnessed this grace, and I am captivated by it.Finally, how do I answer the question about my own happiness? How do I know that I will be happy as a priest for the rest of my life? The very short answer is I know I won’t be happy at every moment, but I will be happy. A man going to his wedding must know that he will experience times of unhappiness in marriage, yet he still goes to the altar. The same is true of the priesthood. I have realized that there is great joy for me in this life. Even when tempered by trials and suffering, I believe that the grace of Christ's priesthood will sustain me.

It’s a supernatural gift.

I Can’t Let Bad Priests Keep Me From Trying to Be a Good One

Certainly, it is distressing to see the many failings of other priests, present and past. Many men who began well enough have slipped into sinful vices which make headlines and drive people away from God. The antagonistic thought lingers: Others before me have failed, and I, too, can fail just as badly. I cannot deny the seriousness of this possibility, but I can overcome it through the conviction to live rightly and learn from the failings of others. I cannot rely on my own abilities. I must depend on the grace of God and the support of others.While the crimes of evil men deserve to be seen in the light of justice, even more numerous are the works of good men which remain unsung. Their lives give me hope that overcomes my negative thoughts. Among the hundreds of seminarians and priests I have met in my time, there prevails a desire to be truly good, to counteract the evil actions of the past and to support one another in holiness.The Catholic priesthood, of course, cannot merely be summarized in terms of good earthly works and nice feelings. The supreme reality of the priesthood is the relationship with Jesus Christ and his church. The priest is not limited to spiritual social work. Rather, he is tasked with the care of souls. Not only does he listen to people's hurts, but he also forgives their sins. Not only does he visit the hospital, but he also anoints their wounds. Not only does he read about theology, but he also teaches the people to personally know God. Not only does he organize the parish food pantry, but he also feeds the faithful with the body of Christ. The labor of the priest is truly supernatural and no small thing. I am humbled to be pursuing this identity. Though I know that I cannot do it all on my own, placing my life in the hands of God, I know with confidence that I will not be disappointed.

I often used to feel guilty about needing to heal from traumatic experiences in my childhood because some of my basic human needs, like food and shelter, were stable. Years of therapy taught me how to extract myself from family members with toxic behaviors and create enough space to look at what happened to me like an archaeologist at a dig site. Ah yes, this PTSD relic is from a time when my father sexually abused me. This one here is from when I started writing daily letters to my mother to confirm whether she loved me. Indeed, I have discovered many types of this artifact, indicating prolonged emotional abuse from my mother. Therapy helps me curate my artifacts in an internal museum and piece together a story of my childhood with mentally unwell parents that my adult brain can understand. It applies a logical and psychologically informed framework to my deepest wounded material at the bargain rate of $200/hour and keeps me alive. After a decade of meticulous curation, the grand opening of my internal museum was held in 2019 when my niece was born and air finally met my vocal cords in the ears of a social services intake person, and eventually a detective, with my sincerest hope of keeping my niece safe from my father. I sat alone at a conference table at work one afternoon in July when a detective told me over the phone that I could pursue my case in court, but that without external evidence or anyone to corroborate my experiences, it would be a lot of wasted energy, time and money. In his words, I could hear the training he received about what to say to people like me. As our short conversation wore on, his heart and tone broke for me in between his sturdy template of sentences, and I am forever grateful that a human was on the other side of that phone call.

This circle provides the stability and wellness needed to visit the parts of my life where stability and safety were absent and work toward healing them.

Learning and Healing Through My Shamanism Circle

So there I was, living in the depths of what it means when the truth sets you free, with my tidy museum and logical framework carrying me forward. A trusted friend recommended an introductory workshop on shamanism to me as a means for spiritual healing and understanding human relationships to the natural and spirit worlds. Shamanism is a spiritual practice that can be found cross-culturally as far back as human records of time. This workshop led to me entering a three-year shamanic practitioner training, which utilizes a heal-the-healer method wherein we learn how to facilitate healing for others by practicing shamanic healing methods with the other learners in the program and on ourselves. This circle provides the stability and wellness needed to visit the parts of my life where stability and safety were absent and work toward healing them. I am a fierce protector of my spirit, and this program offers the safety I need to learn and heal in two key ways: learning how to achieve a trance state with drumming and rattling (rather than psychedelic drugs), and having a core foundation of personal sovereignty. As one example, in my circle of 60 learning shamanic practitioners, there are as many faiths and cosmologies as there are practitioners, and we coexist and honor one another’s experience of spirit because they are all vastly different and true at the same time. While we learn how to facilitate shamanic healing techniques with the help of our trusted spirits (also referred to as helping spirits), the cosmological explanations of the universe and why/how it functions are purposefully left up to each individual practitioner, in living practice of our sovereignties. This program provides a curriculum of healing techniques that has served as a map through my internal museum for me to use to explore all of the ways in which my spirit has been wounded and work with trusted spirits and shamanic practitioners to compassionately acknowledge what has happened to me and heal. The following are a few examples of my experiences with shamanic healing specifically related to my experiences of childhood sexual abuse. This narrative speaks to my personal experience and only represents a small fraction of shamanic healing techniques and possibilities.

Utilizing drumming to achieve a shamanic trance state allows me to leave a journey at any time and return to it later.

Shamanism Helps Me Connect to Myself and My Memories in a Way That Feels Safe

With the guidance of a highly skilled and fully trained shamanic practitioner and a few of my helping spirits, I recently entered into a trance state as the sovereign adult that I am now and visited one of my most traumatic memory artifacts with my father. The adult me was vibrant and full of my own self-knowledge and personal power. In the shamanic journey to this memory, I took my child self’s hand and she understood that she is safe with me now and we left the memory together. Visiting this memory as my highest self allowed a transformation of the memory to occur wherein the focus became my connection to my child self and her connection and focus on adult me, rather than the trauma that was occurring. It is a vastly different experience when compared to thinking about this memory in a non-shamanic state or talking about this memory in therapy. And when I think of this memory now, my association is with bringing my child self to safety and her trust in me, whereas before, I could never see or feel anything beyond what my father had done to me. The shamanic healing technique mentioned here is called transmutation, wherein a memory of an experience is transformed from one state (highly traumatic) to another state (filled with spiritual light). This is something that I would not have thought possible without experiencing it myself at my own pace. This is the kind of memory artifact in my museum that was so traumatic that visiting this while using a psychedelic drug to achieve the same healing end could have been too much for me to handle. Utilizing drumming to achieve a shamanic trance state allows me to leave a journey at any time and return to it later, thus enabling me to be sovereign in relation to my own healing pace. I have also learned the value of working with a team of spirits who are always with me, as well as with another shamanic practitioner when working on complex inquiries. I recently asked a trusted spirit how I can open my heart to be able to receive more love. A member of the team of helping spirits that I work with explained that my child self learned to direct all of my emotions, especially anger, towards myself because I had no other options or resources as a child to cope with the tremendous trauma happening to me. This spirit showed me how directing anger towards myself keeps me from having a deeper connection to my body, receiving love fully and being able to care for my whole self. Now that I have a better understanding of these underlying dynamics, I am working with my helping spirits and my therapist to develop new practices and patterns of routing anger outside of my body and away from myself. This is making space for a new relationship with love, care and my body, including my relationship to exercise and food. In this case, the spiritual healing I received was being able to name what has been happening to me so that I can understand it and grow more supportive and loving ways of being in relationship to myself. Going forward, I can undertake additional journeys when I get stuck in old patterns or dynamics, or visit other artifacts and memories, in order to keep building my capacity to absorb the love my partner offers to me, eat nourishing food or move my body.

I’m Becoming a Shamanic Healer to Help Others on Their Paths to Healing

It is difficult to explain the resounding impact that these journeys have had on healing my spirit. With every journey and healing, I have a greater sense of the magnitude and potential of the fullness of my life and myself, a deeper connection to my body and presence to the world around me. I have learned that journeying is a tool for my own healing and a process wherein I take an active role in that healing with the help of an incredible group of compassionate spirits with unwavering constancy. I have been witness to my own transformative process of transmuting my painful experiences into storied artifacts that have new meanings and no longer hold me back. My museum is filled with the same artifacts that feel completely different to me. And by training to be a shamanic practitioner, I am now able to help clients on their sovereign, evolutionary healing paths with their own artifacts to heal. The path of the shamanic healer is a new mantle that I feel so fortunate to hold.As a final note, it is important to mention that shamanic healing may not have been as effective for me if I had not pursued therapy first and in conjunction with shamanic healing. I often work with my therapist to become current and in congruence mentally and emotionally with the spiritual healing that occurs during a shamanic healing session. Shamanic healing is not a substitute for therapy. I have found that healing from trauma and maintaining wellness results from working regularly with a team, including a psychotherapist for mental and emotional health, shamanic healers and my helping spirits for spiritual health, an acupuncturist for energetic health, a primary care physician for physical health and others as needed for different aspects of my well-being. In doing so, I have experienced deep, interconnected layers of healing that I never would have thought possible and discovered that I am worthy of being healed.

It’s March of 2018. The sun breaks through my blackout curtains to hit me in the face. The light hurts my eyes as I lay in my sheetless bed, sitting directly above a floor covered in spoiled food, dirty clothes, empty bottles of booze, full bottles of urine and empty bags, which once contained drugs or chips. My stomach lurches. My bowels are fucked. There’s another mess I need to ignore for later. Who cares? It’s not like it's the first time I’ve slept in a bed covered in shit.I stumble to the bathroom down the hall. I lay down on the dirty linoleum floor. It’s a cold morning here in Pittsburgh, and the floor is just perfect to cool my body down and ease the delirium tremens. I decided last night that today would be day one of sobriety—take 450. As I shower, my hands shake uncontrollably, so much that the shampoo bottle falls out of my hand onto the floor. I go to pick it up and slip. Nothing out of the ordinary. I don’t hit my head; I just land flat on my ass. As I get ready for my shift behind the bar at a fancy downtown hotel, I decide that today isn’t the right day to start my recovery. I head into the other room and make myself a triple Negroni—no ice, no orange, just booze. As I get ready, my hands shake less, my mind begins to clear, my stomach feels loads better. I’ve known I had a problem for a while. I look through the clothes on the floor, trying to find a pair of pants that aren’t soaked in—or smell like—piss. Easier said than done. Once I find a clean pair, I reach in to put my cigarettes in the left front pocket and find a half an eight ball of coke that I thought I lost the night before. Today isn’t the day I quit that either. How the fuck would I survive my shift without it?

As I shower, my hands shake uncontrollably, so much that the shampoo bottle falls out of my hand onto the floor. I go to pick it up and slip. Nothing out of the ordinary.

My Saturday Night Starts With Too Many Shots

Months later, I have a new job. I walk into the dive cocktail bar in New York City’s Lower East Side for my shift, and the first thing I smell is stale beer. We didn't clean the bar well last night. It’s still early, about 7:30 p.m.; the sun is still out. I pop a piece of gum in my mouth to hopefully cover up the smell of the two classic daiquiris and three shots of Fernet that I took with the bartender around the corner.It’s the start of any other Saturday night. I set up the bar downstairs, go on break, maybe eat, definitely have more drinks and run to the bathroom every 20 minutes to do another line. As I walk back down the block to officially start my shift, I realize that I may have had a shot or two too many. Another bump does the trick. Hours later, my manager comes downstairs to inform me that I can go home early from my shift, that I’m clearly “too tired” to work. I think to myself, “Shit…five potential firings in a row…fuck it.”The 6 a.m. sunrise hits me dead in the face, the normal depressed and anxiety-ridden feeling of dread lays on top of me like a weighted blanket. I’m sweating, shaking uncontrollably on the deflated air mattress that’s laying on my best friend’s living room floor in Jersey City. “Thank god he’s in California; I can’t let him see me like this again,” I think. The remnant, foggy thoughts of the previous night hit me like a Peterbilt. “Fuck! Did I get fired?! How can I show up today?! Wait, he didn't fire me…he just sent me home. I have to be at the bar at 3 p.m., and there’s no way I'm going to get there on time; there’s no way that I’ll able to work today feeling like this. I'll drink a little now to stop the shaking, but then…God forbid John is there. I smell like a distillery. Fuck. FUCK.”

All My Vices Failed, and I Became Desperate

I grab a bottle of WhistlePig 12 and start drinking, then start crying. My life is falling apart all around me. I call out of work, despite the pleas from my GM to come in. I continue to spiral. I’m going in and out of a blackout. I snorted all my coke, smoked all of my weed and I’m halfway through the freshly opened bottle of whiskey—to Grindr I go. I blackout and come back to being naked with this handsome man. I’m crying again. To this day, I have zero recollection of what I said. He’s reluctant to leave. He sees how bad off I am. He sees how scared I am. With much convincing that I’m going to be OK, that I’m just having a day, he leaves.Alone, scared, hopeless, full of self-pity and desperation, I think to myself that today is the day. All of my vices failed. Drugs, booze, sex—none of them worked. As I’m smoking a cigarette out the living room window, I overlook the entire West Side skyline. I can see everything from the George Washington Bridge to the Statue of Liberty. I look down five stories to a flat, hard, concrete landing and I think, “This is how I'm gonna do it.” I’m overcome by pain, sadness and just debilitating everything. But that light at the end of the tunnel is within view; it’s five stories directly under me. Relief, peace, nothing. I position myself, legs out the window, cigarette lit and almost empty bottle in hand. I inch closer, slowly making my way to the end of the window sill. I come out of a blackout, on his living room floor, sobbing. Crying like I’ve never cried before. Confused on how I'm on the floor, frustrated that this was failed attempt number three and absolutely hopeless. I allegedly made several phone calls—I’ll find out about those in a couple of months. One of them was to my mom; a few hours after, I get a text saying, “What’s going on? Have you found somewhere that you can go? Call me.”

Everyone Says a Relapse Is Inevitable

It’s February of 2019, and it’s my final day in my intensive outpatient program. I’ve graduated. I haven’t graduated anything since high school, and even that was a stretch. I did this. I put my mind to it; I took it a day at a time. I found solace in the rooms of AA, and I have a really good foundation for sobriety. Three months of a live-in rehab, just over three and a half months in IOP and I'm moving on to start my journey in sobriety. All around, I have people telling me that going back to working in a restaurant, especially being a bartender, is playing with fire. I hear people telling me that if I go back to restaurant work, a relapse is inevitable.I think back to a conversation I had a few weeks prior with this gentleman I met at an AA meeting in my old neck of the woods, in Essex County, New Jersey. This detail is important. He looks and sounds like Tony Soprano, dressed in a suit and built like a brick shithouse. Intimidating, to say the least. He shares something about working in hospitality during the meeting and I think, “This is the guy to talk to.” For the sake of anonymity, we’ll call him Tony. I introduce and explain myself to Tony. I’ve worked in restaurants since I was 14. I went to culinary school. I need to move out of my parents’ house! I’m 27 years old for fuck’s sake!Tony gives me this piece of information that I still quote to this day. “You got bleach in your house, right? But you don't drink it, right?” I respond with a snotty, “No, no, I don't drink the bleach.” Hearing my irritated tone, he continues, “Well why? Why don’t you drink the bleach?!” In unison, we say, “Cuz it’ll fucking kill ya.” “BAM! Because it’ll kill us! But it still has a purpose. You clean with it; you wash your clothes with it.”“What are you getting at man?” I said, defeated.“Alcohol is the same fucking thing. You use it; it has a purpose. It’ll get you out of your parents' house, pay your rent, put food on the table. But I ask you, do you drink it? No! Why?”In unison, “Because it’ll fucking kill me!”

I found solace in the rooms of AA, and I have a really good foundation for sobriety.

I’ve Survived Disasters and Still Bartend

Something so simple changed my life. Now, three-plus years later, I’m still bartending. I survived cancer, a pandemic, got engaged, broke the engagement, had countless other medical issues, watched friends die from the addiction we share, watched family pass on, went through times of financial stability and being broke as fuck. I’ve competed in a handful of cocktail competitions. I’ve won a couple of them. I’ve excelled at work, created drinks, been accountable and honest in all of my actions and generally have become as positive as I can be. I like it better here. Thanks to my 12-step family, proper medication and straight-up hard work, I’ve been able to process a lot of my past traumas—physical, sexual, emotional, medical. I’m at peace. For the most part.I live a normal life. I still go to punk shows, still go to restaurants, still sit at bars. I’ve accepted a head bartender position at a speakeasy in Midtown. I have a dog. I'm happy. I’m almost $8,000 in debt to my landlord, and I'm OK. Every day, I wake up, do the best I can and things seem to work out just like they’re supposed to. I’m grateful.

I want to caveat what I am about to share with both a disclaimer and a trigger warning. I will be discussing birth trauma and medical injury, holes in the FDA’s blood transfusion safety in testing requirements and how the consent for treatment forms you sign at intake for a surgical procedure can, and likely will, mitigate any legal recourse afforded you when the doctors screw up. When I survived a brain tumor at 21, I assumed my medical death-defying miracles were past me, but when I gave birth to my twins in 2015, a botched C-section and subsequently needed blood transfusion almost killed me and permanently disabled me. After a healthy, low-risk twin pregnancy under the care of the top high-risk OB-GYN at a major cutting edge hospital system, I trusted that my scheduled C-section was going to be a beautiful close to my final pregnancy (they were my third and fourth babies). Unfortunately though, my surgeon failed to close my uterus correctly, and I bled internally for two days before my HCG levels tanked and a blood transfusion was needed. I was reassured that this was a common procedure and "very safe." I thought, “Two quick bags of blood and then I can finally get released and take my babies home.”

What they got out of it was that I was a one in five million case.

I Was Put on Life Support

Unfortunately, that second transfusion bag was teeming with a flesh-eating bacteria called pseudomonas fluorescens. All it took was 15 minutes hooked up to that transfusion to send my body crashing into a septic freefall. I would go on to lose my entire abdominal wall, muscle and flesh and all of the tissue down to the bone on my left wrist where my IV had been. I survived burn sepsis, multisystem organ failure and a subsequent 30+ surgeries over a two-year period trying to put as much of me back together as possible. I had to relearn everything—how to swallow, how to cough, sit up, stand, walk, shower, even how to get on and off the toilet. The process was arduous. While I was in the ICU, I was not yet aware enough of my surroundings to rightly process what was going on, so all I knew was that the respiratory therapists wouldn’t let me have a drink of water, and in my mental state, my husband and parents were in on it. I lashed out at everyone who tried to help.As more time went on and the right medication was added to address my ICU-delirium-induced hallucinations, I gained my perspective and fought harder with myself than others. Once I figured out how to cough without abdominal muscle, I stopped choking on my own spit—“OK, progress.” Once I successfully used my throat muscles to swallow a sip of ice water—“Great, after weeks, you get some relief to the dryness in your mouth and throat.” Sitting up was a whole other beast. Pull one leg up, grip the underside of your thigh with your hands, rock forward and use the momentum and your quad muscle to sit up. Each step in regaining your functional abilities with a severely weakened and altered body after weeks of life support destroys you because immobility knocks you out in a kind of exhaustion that is hard to describe to anyone who hasn’t lived it. But for me, every step forward put me closer to what I wanted—no, needed: to see my babies, all four of them. When there were whispers of sending me to a rehabilitation center to continue the recovery longer term, something in me exploded. Not. A. Chance. I knew that I had survived for my family, and I was not going to spend another minute stuck in a hospital bed away from them. I told my family and the hospital staff that they needed to work to get me stable enough to complete my rehab at home. I knew it would be harder and more of a strain on our support network, but I also knew I needed my children near me to keep going. A few days before Halloween, I made it home. I’m convinced to this day that I recovered at a pace only a mother of small children can.

I Discovered Support Groups and Found I Wasn’t the Only Case

The cascading effect of my injury has been eye-opening. When one gets hurt in a sudden and traumatic way, you spend an ungodly amount of time researching, hunting for answers, chasing down a community of others who have experienced it. You ask yourself why? Why me? How? How did this happen? Representatives from the CDC and the hospital’s infectious disease department met with my husband and immediate family members while I was on life support to try to understand. What they got out of it was that I was a one in five million case. That may have been accurate. It is totally possible that I was the only 30-year-old, white mother of twins to contract this specific strain of flesh-eating bacteria from a blood transfusion. But I am not such an oddity. To cope with the resultant post-traumatic stress disorder, I did what any reeling mom stuck in bed, trying to connect the dots does: I Googled medical articles, and I hit support groups on social media. I searched hashtags and keywords and found there is a much larger population of people injured by bacterial infections from blood transfusions in the United States than is reported. When I signed my consent for that medical product, I assumed because they test every bag for hepatitis C, HIV and various other commonly known infectious diseases, that they also watch for bacteria, especially those strains that cause such devastating injury to medically vulnerable patients. So WHY. DON’T. THEY? Advances have been made since 2015, including something known as pathogen reduction technology that gets added to some, but not all, blood products to stop the growth of bacteria during long-term storage. Not all. People ask, “Wow, how much money did you get from the hospital?” If only it was that simple. We tried. We hired a firm to file a malpractice claim against the hospital and the blood bank that supplied the tainted product. After a year and a half of back and forth with lawyers, depositions and discovery, we were informed that because I signed the consent for treatment paperwork for my C-section and the injury was incurred during the same hospital stay, the liability argument would likely not factor in. Since our chances of success were low, we were given two options: drop the lawsuit altogether, or shell out tens of thousands of dollars we didn’t have to take it to a jury with the risk that nothing would come of it. Since we had already lost our savings making handicapable changes to our home and paying for countless medical treatments and equipment not covered by insurance, we had no choice. We withdrew the lawsuit and cut our losses. We sold my dream home and moved 100 miles away from what was left of our support network in order to pay for my ongoing medical expenses.

I felt like I was dying inside while on the outside trying to keep it together for them.

I Am Working to Rebuild for Myself and My Family

On the back end of this six years later, having processed through the severe trauma triggers and recovered enough of myself to enjoy life again, I am getting into a space of thankfulness. It took one bag of blood to destroy me physically and at times mentally, but it also took, ironically, hundreds of blood products to rescue me from my medical crisis. I existed for a long time in this agonizing purgatory where my former life, body and mental capabilities were gone, but I also wasn’t ready to be in this new body that felt foreign to me. I developed obsessive-compulsive disorder with intrusive thoughts about bacteria, so I can’t explain what it did to me to know my entire blood volume was no longer mine after an experience like this. I started showering and scrubbing my functional hand raw with bleach. I’m glad those around me held space while I worked through the unknown. I struggled to cope with my own mental illness and be a good mother to four children who were also forever changed by these events outside of their ability to understand. It devastated me to not be able to lift my babies or have them pummel me in the stomach as they had always been able to do. Fearing the germs on their hands, not being able to comfort them when they got sick because of multiple infections in my wound vacs put me back in the hospital and surgical ICU. Not being able to be intimate with my husband for months at a time because of drain tubes that pull and hurt, high-dose opiates which kill your drive anyway and wondering if we would ever share such a crucial part of marriage again. There were months of sleepless nights (PTSD-induced hypervigilance is a bitch) where I contemplated suicide. I felt like I was dying inside while on the outside trying to keep it together for them. I tried turning to the social media groups for victims of necrotizing fasciitis and/or blood transfusion injury, which helped initially. It was nice to be able to discuss my injury with others who shared a common experience, but I quickly found myself holding others within this online community at bay because in our collective trauma, I noticed there was a competitive spirit of sorts. There existed in this space a complicated dynamic wherein we were all seeking emotional validation but also comparing photos and horror stories to see who suffered the most as a result of their injury. My crisis therapist called this trauma porn. We try to desensitize the massive impact of the event on our senses by inundating them with graphic imagery and storylines that make our situation feel like it wasn’t actually all that bad. What it did for me was meet adrenaline surge with adrenaline wave, and I found it made my anxiety and flashbacks much worse.The lesser-known side of PTSD involves this unending, sometimes deafening voice in your head that tells you your family would have been better off if you hadn’t survived. That you’re a burden and everyone hates you but is too polite to say it to your face. It makes everything seem so hopeless. There are incredible medications out there if one is able to raise the white flag and admit that they’re struggling to the right person. I was seeing a psychiatrist, but it wasn’t until I saw a pain management doctor who had extensive experience working with wounded war veterans that I found hope. Ironically, he was the one who found the right medication used commonly for nerve pain, and it was like someone flipped off a light switch to those voices and I could see the sunlight again. There was and still is a lot of work to do. I’ve also fought my way back from an opiate addiction developed after years of pain doctors throwing pills at me telling me, “This is just how it’ll be the rest of your life.” As a result, I am learning how to cope with the challenges of living every moment in level 8-10 pain without opiate medication. My new fight is for my sobriety, which has taken the forefront of my medical recovery, and I am working hard to rebuild a sense of normalcy for myself, the kids and my husband. Many afflicted with transfusion infections are not as lucky as I was. At least I lived, right?