Rose-Owls and Pumpkin Girls

I hate making posts like this one, so I'm just going to go ahead and get to it. Here we go:

I am not a vending machine. You can't put a quarter in me to get free stuff exactly when you want it. You can't actually put a quarter in me at all. You can give me a quarter--I like quarters--but I am not a coin-operated story dispenser. I am a people.

I give away a lot of free fiction around here, both via my website (InCryptid shorts, Toby Daye shorts) and via this blog (Velveteen stories). In the case of the website shorts, they represent a lot more than just my writing time. I commission (and pay for) the story covers. In order to make the reading experience as easy and pleasant as possible, I have to ask my friend Will to convert the text files to ePub, MOBI, and PDF (which is, by the way, why I tend to shrug when people report typos; they're free, and the conversion is done on a volunteer basis, which means I am not going to ask him to completely reformat a file unless the error is so catastrophically large as to make the story unreadable). Once the stories are prepared, all the uploading and formatting on my website is done by hand, by me.

There is a lot of invisible back-end labor involved with bringing you a free treat. That's part of why I do the tip jars: they don't just justify my making time to write the stories, even if it means I might have to pass on an anthology. They pay for the covers, and for the administrative time I have to take away from writing in order to make sure everything is working correctly.

This is not me gearing up to asking for money, by the way: there was no tip jar in October, in part because one of the stories funded by the last tip jar has not been posted yet. Because even a "prioritized" story has to fit in around all my other publications and commitments, all the release dates I have to promote, all the conventions I have to attend. Because at the end of the day, while I want to tell you these stories as much as you want to hear them, I still have to be able to tell my publishers that they will come first. They pay my bills. They keep my main series going. They have to come before the freebies.

So why am I saying all this?

Because people keep emailing me going "hey when do we get the next free story." And this makes me feel terrible. It makes me feel like a party trick, like a vending machine, like I have no value apart from what I give away for free. I released a novel in November! I had several short stories come out, in several different genres! But when is the next free story. When is the next free story. Why don't we have it yet. Why aren't you doing it.

I understand eagerness. I genuinely do. I understand wanting to know what happens next now. I used to follow Kelley Armstrong's free fiction, back when she posted it regularly on her website; I get frustrated when my favorite fanfic writers don't publish chapters on schedule. But I am so outnumbered, and when all I hear is "why aren't you giving us more," it's really demoralizing. It kills my desire to give things away for free, and it makes it harder to keep working on those stories.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for caring. But please, remember that I am a person, not a vending machine; I am not just here to give things away. And if I'm not posting something new, it's probably because I'm working my ass off at the things that keep the lights on, not because I'm lounging on a beach somewhere. Please have patience.

Thank you.

To the woman who made nasty comments about my "turning radius" when I had to move my electric scooter in front of Big Thunder Mountain; to the person who let their children sit on the ground with their hands pressed against my wheels, and scowled when I said this wasn't safe; to the people who stood on curb cuts and glared when asked, politely, if they would let me pass; to the man who snickered and murmured about lazy bitches when I drove by at Typhoon Lagoon; to everyone who sighed and rolled their eyes when a bus had to be lowered to load me on:

I do not wish you my experience. I do not wish you injury or handicap, however temporary. I do not wish you pain. I do not wish you the soul-bruising frustration of being limited by a body that refuses to listen to your commands, or the salt in the wound that is knowing you did nothing to deserve this: that you didn't injure yourself running a marathon or rock-climbing, but instead fell prey to something that can strike anyone, at any time, for any reason. I do not wish you years spent sedentary, watching your friends rush by able-bodied and healthy, and struggling not to resent them for it.

Instead, I wish you empathy.

I wish for a future where you can look at someone using an assistance device, whether it be a cane, a wheelchair, or a motorized scooter, and think "isn't it wonderful how we live in a world where this person can have the same experiences I do."

I wish for a time where you can see someone using a motorized scooter to enjoy something as large as Disney World and think "isn't that person kind, to spare their friends and family the effort of pushing a manual wheelchair around this huge place, just so that they don't have to experience the nerve-racking stress of navigating something so large and potentially dangerous through a crowd."

I wish for a society where you can listen to simple, necessary requests and hear, not an inconvenience, but a leveling out of a certain small imbalance in the world.

I wish for a place where you can see a wheelchair user sitting to watch a parade and not think "great, let's stand in front of them, that's open space," but instead "isn't it lovely how we can all get a good view."

I am not asking for special privileges. I am not asking to go to the head of the line just because my left foot doesn't work sometimes.

All I am asking is to be allowed, unjudged and unresented, to join the line at all.

Thank you.

First, and somewhat amusingly, given my last post, reply amnesty is on for this entry. I will not respond to comments. I may not even read them. I don't know yet. Please do not email me or message me privately about the contents of this entry. I really need some space.

Second, I said yesterday that I was dealing with some shit. Here is the shit.

On the morning of Wednesday, July 23rd, I was with Carrie and Doc in Southern California, having spent the night at Doc's place preparatory to heading for San Diego Comic Con around noon. I was reading comics in the front room when my phone rang. I said something foul about the phone ringing, because I did not want to get up. I got up. It was my mother, who was also my designated cat sitter.

Something was very, very wrong with Lilly.

She was having seizures, foaming at the mouth, hissing, and biting. There was blood. Mom, knowing that none of this could mean anything good, asked for my permission to take her to the vet. "She may not come home" was not said; it didn't need to be. I gave my permission. There was nothing else I could do. I was very far away, and I couldn't possibly get home in time, and Lilly deserved better than to suffer for the amount of time it would have taken for me to catch a plane. I gave my permission. And then I hung up, and sat down on the bathroom floor, and sobbed until I wanted to be sick, because I wasn't there.

My mother contacted me again roughly three hours later to tell me that Lilly had lost all kidney function; that the vet had recommended euthanasia, as the collapse had been so abrupt and so complete; and that she had given permission. A lot of people gave permission that day. I thanked her. How could I do anything else? She was there for my girl when I couldn't be. She made sure that Lilly didn't suffer more than she needed to. So I thanked her, and I sat in the back of Doc's car and cried all the way to San Diego.

I think I got through the convention mostly because it didn't seem real. Lilly couldn't be dead; she had been there when I left, and she would be there when I got home. But when I got home, Lilly wasn't there. Lilly is never going to be here again. She's never going to lick my elbows or share my ice cream or burrow under my blankets. She's not hiding, or sleeping in a sunbeam somewhere. She's gone, and I wasn't home when it happened, and the thought of her dying without me with her makes me want to crawl into bed and never get out again.

Lilly was a great cat. All she wanted was to hang out with me, and be held, and be loved. I loved her so much. I hate me in the past for all the times I didn't hold her when she asked, all the times I was too busy to cuddle with her until she was done. I miss her so bad. I am still reeling.

Alice and Thomas are well, if confused. They help to blunt the pain a little. Not enough, but a little.

I miss my girl.

I spent much of the weekend looking in horror at the news, and at Twitter, and at everything else. A man murdered seven people and injured thirteen others before killing himself, explicitly because he couldn't get women to have sex with him. That's horrifying. That's upsetting and disgusting and wrong.

And then the people started saying "we'll never know why he did it," and I sort of lost my shit and had to go away for a few days.

He actually SAYS, IN SO MANY WORDS, that this is because he hates women. Because women will not give him the sex he so clearly deserves. Because "inferior men" are getting the women he should have. Because women have too much control (IE, the ability to say "no, I do not want to have sex with you"), and so the appropriate response is killing them to death.

But we'll never know why he did it.

A lot of people have said very good, sensible, logical things. Things that point out the power imbalance and the assumptions based on his apparent whiteness (he was half-Malaysian and half-Caucasian) and the fact that if someone shoots basically any other group of people on the planet, we're damn fast to accept that they did it because of hatred, but that when a man shoots a bunch of women, we'll look for any excuse but misogyny. I have not been able to say anything good, or sensible, or logical. Maybe I'll be able to in a week or two. But right now...

Right now, I look at the mounting number of incidents where "she wouldn't have the sex with me" has been used as an excuse for murder, and I'm just tired. That's all. I'm tired of the entitlement, and I'm tired of the assumptions, and I'm tired of the "not ALL men" response whenever someone says "misogyny kills."

I'm tired. No cookies today.

(Note: The following post discusses depression and suicide, quite frankly. If you want to skip it, I will understand. Also, I am calling a preemptive comment amnesty, because I don't know that I can get through whatever comments may be left. Thank you.)

***

I have a pretty good life.

That's not bragging, really. I mean, my life has its problems—it's stressful, I'm tired a lot, I'm a woman in the age of the Internet (which is unfortunately code for "I get some really disturbing hate sent my way for the crime of being outspoken and visible while existing as a non-male"), my foot hurts almost all the time, I worry about my friends—but there's no measuring stick that doesn't put me at "pretty good." I am financially secure enough to do things like take off for Disneyland at a moment's notice, to hug a woman standing as avatar for my favorite cartoon character. I have amazing friends who love me despite myself, and I struggle every day to be worthy of them. I have incredible cats. I sleep in an orange bedroom packed with dolls and books and Disney memorabilia.

I get to write books. I get to tell stories, for a living, and have people read and enjoy them. It's everything I ever wanted my life to be...

...and I spent more than half of 2013 wanting my life to stop.

I have been suicidal, off and on, since I was nine years old. I made multiple suicide attempts when I was a pre-teen and teenager; some came closer to success than others. I have my scars. My last active attempt was made when I was in my mid-twenties, and the friend who drove me to the train station has never forgiven me for making him complicit, in any way, in the attempt to take my life. I do not blame him for this, even as I know that I didn't mean to involve him; I just needed to get to the beach, and thought "hey, I can get a ride," and never stopped to consider what that might mean when he'd found out what I'd done, or worse, if he'd found out that I had succeeded. I couldn't see that far ahead. All I could see was the need to stop, to be over, to not need to do this anymore. Any of it.

A very dear friend of mine described suicidal urges and ideations as a narrowing, and she's exactly right, at least for me. It's not selfishness, not at its heart, because when things get that bad, it's virtually impossible to see continuing as an option. It's like climbing a very high mountain, and then running out of trail. You can't fly. It's not selfish to refuse to sprout wings and try. It would be selfish to stay where you are, to block the trail, to prevent others from climbing on without you.

It seems so much easier to just jump, and get out of everybody's way. It seems like the only logical choice. Selfishness doesn't really enter into it. I sort of wish it did. It would be easier to argue with the little voices, or at least it seems like it would be easier; we're all trained from childhood not to be selfish, and that makes selfishness easier to refute than narrowness. "I won't be selfish" is an easier statement than "I will continue to exist, even though there are no options, even though it will never get better, even though I am a burden to all those around me, even though I am unworthy of love, even though I do not deserve this skin, this sky, this space that I inhabit." And easy is...easy is easy. We want easy. When everything is hard, easy becomes incredibly tempting.

Writing this down is hard.

I didn't tell most people how depressed I was, because I didn't think I deserved my own depression. I have a pretty good life! I have all the things I listed, and more, and saying "I want to die" when I have a pretty good life felt like bragging; it felt like trying to claim a sorrow I had no right to. But depression doesn't give a fuck how good your life is. Depression is a function of fucked-up brain chemistry, and brain chemistry doesn't say "Oh, hey, you made the New York Times, that's cool, I better straighten out and fly right from now on." You can be depressed no matter what is happening around you, rags or riches, perfection or putridity. That does not make you wrong. Depression is a sickness. You can catch the flu at Disney World, and you can be depressed on your wedding day. No matter how good your life is, no matter how much people say they wish they had your problems, you are allowed to be unhappy. You are allowed to seek help. You are allowed to express your needs.

I did not actively attempt suicide in 2013, but that was only because I have had a lifetime of learning how to trick myself. I begged my agent to get me new book contracts. See? Can't die! I have deadlines! I cajoled my best friend into going to Disneyland with me. See? Can't die! I have to make faces with pixies! I accepted anthology invitations and convention invitations and let a lot of television build up on my DVR. Anything to create obligations that I would feel compelled to meet, but which weren't the kind that can overwhelm me. I made a lot of lists. I check-marked and itemized myself through the worst of it, and it worked, but it...it wasn't easy. I don't think it's ever going to be easy.

I am telling you this because I want you all to understand, at least on some level, that depression is not a thing you have to earn: it is not justified by tragedy, it is not created by grief. It can happen to anyone, and everyone has a right to seek help. Everyone has a right to be cared for, and to find a way to widen their options back into something that they can live with. Everyone. Even me; even you.

I would be very sad if I were not here to share 2014 with all of you. I hope—I really, truly do—that all of you will be here to share this beautiful year with me. Even if I don't know you, even if I've never met you or never will, I hope. Selfishness is easier to refute than narrowness, and we need to be here for each other, or those walls will crush the life from us.

I hope none of you have to deal with what I dealt with this past year. If you do, please, remember that you can seek help. You deserve help.

We all do.