No Longer Silent

I’ve hinted in multiple social media posts that I have an anxiety disorder. I’ve posted pithy phrases and click-worthy internet articles that talk about how people who suffer from anxiety see and view the world, but it’s all been at a safe distance.

Let me tell you my story.

I attended graduate school shortly after getting married. I was teaching ten contact hours (Organic Chemistry Lecture plus two labs), taking nine hours of graduate courses (full time for a grad student in Chemistry), and researching as much as possible for a brand new advisor. (Translation: out to make a name for herself and demanding high outputs of research/publishable work.)

I was on a trip to Oklahoma with my ex, when I suddenly felt as though I was having a heart attack. I couldn’t breathe. My heart was pounding. I had flop sweats. I had Sarah rush me to the nearest doc-in-a-box, and they transported me to a hospital. Heart disease runs on both sides of my family, so even though I was just twenty-five, it was reasonable to assume I might be having an issue.

After a tense night in the hospital where I was telemetered like a space shuttle, they found nothing wrong. Quite the opposite, in fact–I was extremely healthy. The ER doc gave me a diagnosis of “panic attack” and suggested I seek counseling and pharmaceutical help.

For nearly a year after that, I refused. I thought it was all in my head. I worried about the stigma that came with it. I worried that I would lose my “edge” and that medication would dull me or change my personality.

I finally sought help when I sat in my research lab (computational chemistry) and went nearly catatonic after completing an exam. I couldn’t move. It was like I had completely locked up–the biological equivalent of a blue screen of death. I finally managed to pull myself together and schedule an appointment with a family physician who dealt with issues similar to mine in his practice.

I started with a low dose of Lexapro, an SSRI, and after I acclimated to the medicine, it did seem to help. My lows weren’t as low. I was never “high” or manic; I was constantly in a state of fight-or-flight until my brain had enough and shut down. I had consistent break-through anxiety, even with the treatment.

I did this for years, wearing a mask of inauthenticity. At times, my anxiety and the corresponding depression would come out, and it would be ugly. I was so full of bile and self-hatred that it hurt those around me to hear it.  Nothing I did was right; nothing I did could ever meet this false standard of perfection to which I held myself. Facts didn’t matter though; I told myself I was a failure because I had to chemically modify my brain chemistry to function at an acceptable level.

I tried counseling with a wonderful therapist for a couple of years. I got somewhat better, but I never really learned to be comfortable with me. You see, I have this nagging train of thought. Because thoughts for me can’t exist without context, sometimes they sound like my mom; sometimes they sound like my ex-wife. Sometimes they sound like a friend, and sometimes I can’t tell who it sounds like. Regardless, this voice continually tells me how inadequate I am. It tells me that people don’t really want to be with me, and that I have nothing to offer anyone.

Fear builds when you’re constantly having this in your head.

I thought I had finally defeated this thought life, but what I found is that it had grown more insidious. Where I used to swear at myself and call myself names, where I used to internalize all the bullying and slights that I endured as a child/teenager, I found myself replacing it with fear-based decision making.

I resumed my counseling (with the same therapist), and began to really work on me. It’s funny, for a while, I still worked on the wrong things. I had a recipe for a wonderful cake, and I spent all my time on the frosting. I still was working on the outside–honing my skills at wearing a new mask, because my other one had failed so spectacularly.

I feared an outcome, so I made decisions to avoid the outcome. I was feeding this monster that I had built for myself with every bad decision. Each new decision made the monster grow into greater and greater kaiju-sized proportions. I finally couldn’t deal with it anymore. I had been lying to myself for so long that I didn’t know how to deal authentically with myself, but I knew I had to try.

I’m still trying. I’ve added another medicine to my regimen. I exercise (not as well lately) like a fiend, I eat fairly well, my weight is under control. I meditate some and should do more.

It’s taken me thirteen years of managing this disease to learn that I can’t afford to lie to myself. “That’s obvious,” you might say. Yeah. It is. And yet, when you’re in fight-or-flight all the time, you make shit up to get through it. You plan for contingencies; you expect the worst. If it comes true, well then you were justified in your planning. And the one time out of ten that the worst actually does come to pass eclipses the nine times that it did not.

It’s also taken me thirteen years to realize the impact that this disease has on the people around me. You can’t constantly ask people to defend themselves against irrational fears without it taking a toll on them. You can’t continually demand/plead for authentic affirmation–if it’s coerced, then its not real. Doing these things to assuage the moment-to-moment  fear and depression is like a band-aid for a concussion. Yeah, the band-aid is vaguely a medical intervention, but it isn’t really going to help in the long term. You have to put in the work on yourself to justify someone’s investment in you. I hate to put it in those terms, but I’ve learned that most people consider relationships to be transactional. It’s the human experience.

Let’s talk some specifics about the people around us. When a person suffers from anxiety and depression, people in their circle need to realize a couple of critical things:

  • You can’t just use a magic switch and change your thought life. In my case, those thoughts are driven by experience, personal trauma, and years of self-teaching. Telling someone that they SHOULDN’T feel that way doesn’t help.  I know I shouldn’t feel that way…and yet I do.
  • Even those who have done the work of intense therapy and remain steadfast in their commitment to medical treatment will still have days, episodes, and triggers. I’m not talking about the hipster-politically-correct idea of a “trigger word.” I’m talking about situations and circumstances that break through the thin shell of control and pharmacopeia that an anxiety sufferer has managed to establish. These triggers can be inconsistent–a trigger one day, not the next. They can actually be (and often are) unrelated to the stress immediately in front of them. I used to get really nervous as a passenger in cars. I would be with a perfectly capable driver and have a feeling of unrealistic dread.
  • Pushing loved ones who suffer from anxiety and depression to fix themselves can do more harm than good. You know something? People who suffer from anxiety and depression don’t want to hurt those they love; they don’t want to be the ones who bring everyone down. They don’t want to have to ask people to defend themselves against irrational fears about the future or the past. They do, in fact, wish that those fears didn’t occur at all!
  • I used to think that I could set a timetable to be better. I could meet this goal, this milestone, and at the end, I would have a ribbon cutting ceremony on the new me. That’s bullshit. Fixing yourself takes the time it takes; it moves in fits and starts, and calling attention to the failures and the flaws only makes it worse. (This goes doubly for self-blame.) Corollary: the people around you don’t get to determine the time table, either. If they box you in, demand something that you’re not ready to do, then you need to set your boundaries and hope they realize their error.
  • I don’t want to control anyone. What I do want to do is KNOW how things are going to go. What’s the plan? When is the project due? When are we hanging out? What day are we leaving? When is that meeting? Does that meeting have a well-defined agenda? I’m comfortable and secure when I know what the plan is. I don’t have to determine it. I don’t necessarily have to have a say in it. When people refuse to commit to plans, or when they change plans on a whim and offer no apology or excuse, that can ramp up the anxiety in a hurry. And if this is done by someone you love and who should know it as a trigger? It makes it ten times worse.
  • Judging and labelling those with anxiety and depression is the quickest way to make them regress. I’ve talked to a couple of people I know and trust who are fighting this disease, and we all agree. Calling behaviors stupid or irrational just tells us something we already know. Respecting our feelings, free of judgement or label, allows us to deal with them. You wouldn’t call a child with a learning disability stupid, would you? You wouldn’t call attention to someone’s prosthetic arm, would you? Hard truth: It’s the same thing. If we feel stupid, if we feel irrational, and if that is affirmed by those around us, it just feeds the voice inside. You justify all the negative things that I’ve been saying to myself for years.
  • We know that when we ask a boss or a parent or a lover to affirm us that we shouldn’t need it. We know that we should be able to provide that for ourselves. Imagine it this way: There is an irrational part of you that fears something you hate is going to come to pass. The rational you can’t get to the irrational part, because there is a fortified wall between them–that wall is built brick-by-brick out of fear, self-loathing, feelings of worthlessness, and all the past failures. Sometimes that wall is insurmountable. We just can’t do it without help.  Corollary: If we have to ask for it all the time, we’re not doing the necessary work.
  • If we’re in a particularly difficult season of our lives, we need people to be patient and loving and nurturing as we try to work on our selves. As long as we’re willing to put in the work, we need those people who love and care for us to be patient with our bullshit. (And yes, most of the time, we know it is bullshit. It doesn’t change the very real feelings behind it.) Corollary: If we’re not willing to put in the work, we can’t expect those around us to, either.
  • I can’t be perfect, but I can be good enough…and that’s okay.
  • When a person feels worthless or deals with negative self talk, the best thing someone can do is show intentionality. This can be anything–a hug, a cup of coffee, a random kiss, a package in the mail, being fully present in a moment with someone. We crave intentionality, because the part of us that most
    people have that can self-soothe is broken. Everyone I’ve talked to who suffers or has suffered from this agrees–we do our best, and sometimes it’s just not enough.  Plus, intentionality is just a good way to interact with people, even if they don’t have anxiety or depression.
  • People with anxiety see through words. We’re great at lying to ourselves and wearing masks. We will look at how you act, what you make a priority, and how you treat us when we’re at our lowest. “I’m here for you,” or “I love you,” means nothing to us if it isn’t matched to compassion and intentionality.

I wanted for years to be cured. I prayed for a miracle (when I still believed); I researched tirelessly for therapies and treatments that might make me better. In the end, I’ve come to the conclusion that I have to manage this, just as if it were diabetes or multiple sclerosis. I am responsible for me and my own happiness, but the difficulty curve in achieving this is much higher than a person who does not manage a condition like this. But you know what? I really can’t do it alone. And there’s no shame in that.

Listening to People Around You

As a people leader, I often teach the principle of active listening. It’s been my experience that most people don’t know how and aren’t even aware that this might be an area for growth. My observations have led me to conclude that there are three, broad categories of people who don’t practice active listening. (As with any categorization, you run the risk of stereotyping or being reductionist; the categories are meant as general guidelines and not as labels or triggers.)

The first is what I call “the promoter.” They are so focused on their own world and their own problems that they’re already thinking about the next thing they’re going to say while you’re still conveying information. What you say doesn’t really matter; the only thing that matters is what they are trying to say. In the work environment, they step on others ideas and block the healthy exchange of ideas. In a personal sphere, they are the ones that always have a cooler, better story than the one someone just told. Or, failing that, they will change the subject to something that interests them or showcases their talents.

The second category is “the busy bee.”  Everyone knows this person. They are too busy to help; too busy for family; too busy for loved ones. They run around in a constant state of stress and disorganization. No one can have an emergency except for them, and if someone tries to intervene or calm them down, they are met with sarcasm, mockery, anger, or withdrawal. In the business, these people make others feel guilty for not contributing, or they make others feel inadequate because they can never measure up to the busy bee’s standards. On the personal side, these people leave neglected friends, family, and loved ones behind as they seek to feel useful through constant activity.

The last category is “the teenager.” People in this category are too cool to listen; they may think they know it all, or they may feign disinterest because they think it helps them maintain control. Another way people in this category manifest their behavior is through the criticism of solutions and situations without offering any alternatives (a typical teen-aged indulgence). Their attitudes are immature at best and divisive at the worst. In the business, you will see people in this category slouch during meetings and exhibit closed body language. They’ll cross arms, frown, and stare off into space. If you’re not running a meeting with ground rules, they may stare at their phone or whisper to their neighbors. Outside of work, this personality comes across as sullen, entitled, or unwilling to accept criticism.

One of the benefits of active listening is that people tell you exactly who they are with their actions. Once you learn to really listen to the words, you can also start to really listen to actions. You can begin to compare them to the way people act. Where are the inconsistencies? Why do the inconsistencies exist? The gap between word and action is framed by intent. This is where people tell you who they really are.

Do you have a subordinate who comes across as angry and frustrated, but who also shows up early, stays late, and never misses a deadline? What does that tell you about their true self? Do you have someone in your life who professes love and commitment, and yet buries themselves in work and other people? What does that tell you about what they’re really committed to?

Actions speak much louder than words, but it’s rare for people to listen to either. By examining closely not just the things someone says, but also their actions, you can begin to form a picture of what they find valuable in their lives. Understanding that gives you insight into their personality. From a professional standpoint, this allows you as a people leader to put people in places that fulfill them and provide opportunities for success. On a personal level, it allows you to honestly look at the relationships in your life and determine (by someone’s actions) what they think and feel.


I’m not sure of the source(s) here, having never heard of “Axios” before, but the pedigree is sound (former Chief White House Correspondent for Politico).


This isn’t a dictatorship, and thank GOD even a few of the members of our Republican delegations in the Senate and the House somewhat listened.

Let me be real here. An end result of Obamacare is that my father lost his retirement insurance with AT&T, so no, he did not, in fact, get to keep his plan. He has chronic health issues, and his health care costs have gone up by a third in absolute dollars (did not adjust for inflation). That’s a strike against. But you know what? He still has good coverage. Sure, it’s a more expensive proposition, and sure it doesn’t honor his years of service and sacrifice to a corporation that couldn’t give two shits about him, but he’s here, and he’s going to continue to be here.

On the other side of the debate, my best friend Kevin Sipe recently battled colon cancer (twice). The first time, without insurance. In my opinion (and Kevin might argue with me), he got shoddy treatment that did not adequately address his needs. The second time, Kevin received much more thorough and comprehensive care with coverage from Obamacare. The result? He’s in remission and still around to bust my ass. Without Obamacare? I might not have a best friend.

My partner Kate Baker, who works for a small non-profit, would not have affordable health care without Obamacare. She’s a hardworking, single mom–a tax payer and a contributor to this country not just from a fiscal standpoint, but from an artistic and personal one as well. I obviously have a personal stake in this, but the thought of her not having affordable health care is scary at best.

Would I sacrifice my best friend and the well-being of my partner for a little extra money in my pocket? If I broaden the scope, would I deny access to health care for millions of Americans that really don’t have another option?

I used to think that government should not be in the business of providing social safety nets, that being the responsibility of the individual. It’s hard for me to shake this view, but when I think of all the stories of people who owe their health (or even their lives) to this broken, propped up system we currently have, I wonder what we could do if we all worked together in good faith to serve the people of this country.

We don’t need half-assed repeal. We need reform. That’s the challenge I laid at Michael Burgess, the representative for my district.

For a full rundown of the Republican opposition, see this link:…/happened-ahca-vote/

Let’s Dive Right In, Shall We?

I participated in #PitMad today and ended up with a hit on this tweet. I have mixed emotions about this.

I also had a hit for a different novel last year that resulted in some solid critique from an agent. While he ended up not representing me, it was a sign that I was close to breaking into the business.

That’s been my story for a long time. I got in to Viable Paradise, but couldn’t convert my time and learning there into sales. I get requests for partials (and even full manuscripts), but I can’t quite close the deal. I send out short stories (which are, admittedly, not my favorite thing, nor are they something I’m comfortable writing), and rarely get anything beyond a form rejection.

I did manage to win the Boskone/NESFA short story contest a couple of years ago, but alas, that story has also remained unsold. I compared notes with a couple of other people and realized that while my rejection count (mostly agents and novel queries, but also a good selection of short story submissions) is approaching 200, I should keep submitting, because I’m nowhere near the upper ceiling of most professional writers.

I’ve long been a perfectionist; I’ve long been prone to anxiety. In terms of personality, I am a functional extrovert (meaning I can be extroverted if I believe the situation requires it), but I mostly prefer intimate settings with trusted friends and family. When I create art, it is informed by not just my imagination, but by an out-pouring of my feelings/emotions. Some of it is experiential–my struggles in life, the emotions I deal with on a daily basis. Combine these personality traits together with a yearning for expression and you have a recipe for someone who takes rejection poorly.

Here’s the thought I can’t escape: rejection of my writing is a rejection of everything that is me. Oh, I’ve heard the arguments. It’s not personal; there’s thousands of slush submissions; I should read slush so that I see how much better my submission is than the normal stuff. There’s a rational counterpoint to every specific thing that I feel about rejection, but therein lies the problem.

I am unable to bridge the gap between rational evaluation and emotional investiture.

But even if we consider the rational aspects of it, I still feel like I come up short. Look, I’m a lucky guy–white, straight, upper middle class. I’m post-college educated with a senior position in a global company. In academic, athletic, and professional endeavors, it is rare for me to experience failure. Most of the time, I can apply discipline and sweat and get exactly what I want.

What I can’t wrap my head around is that years of effort and investment in the craft of writing has yet to result in success. It’s not strictly entitlement (although I have to be honest and say that I, at one time, felt that way); it’s more of the idea that I’ve put in the work, the time, and the resources necessary to accomplish a goal and I’ve yet to accomplish it.

It’s not that anyone owes me anything. Please don’t mistake my argument. It’s the old American dream idea–work hard, achieve your dreams. Believe in yourself. Luck comes to those who are well prepared. (Add any other cliché you’d like.)

When you’re listening to your pillow pound in your ear at 1:30 AM after your most recent rejection, it’s easy to say that you’re not good enough. The voices of anyone and everyone who’s ever said anything disparaging about you, your craft, or your work ethic become loudest. Do this frequently, and you believe it. And if you’re already prone to anxiety and depression, and you’re already saying that about yourself in other areas of your life, you start to build a false and very cohesive narrative. Rather than using rejection as a means to improve and grow and change, you use it as an excuse to remain stagnant and stubborn.

The results are heart-breaking. You snarl at people you love when they experience successes with their art, or when they try to tell you that “you’re good, keep trying” or “you’re so close, you can’t give up now.” You compare yourself to others and find fault with their work. You work with a chip on yoru shoulder, and it comes across in everything related to your craft.

Truthfully? I’ve done more damage to myself and my partnership with Kate through my own self-loathing and bitterness than I ever could have done with intentional insult(s).

Maybe what I needed was to have a different way to face a horrible truth:  as a creator who is submitting art to a curated market, maybe Pete isn’t good enough. Maybe all my hard work hasn’t paid off. Maybe I haven’t learned what I needed to learn. That realization isn’t negative–it’s an opportunity to change for the better. To adapt. To grow.

A common criticism I get on my writing is that while I am technically and mechanically near-perfect, I miss on emotional depth. I produce super-clean manuscripts. I plot well. I plan well. My world-building is inventive and fully realized. But do you know what I lack? Connection. Intimacy. Tiny character details that make someone live and breathe. Sometimes I’ll get these right by accident, but it’s never consistent.

Why? There’s a lot of reasons, but I think the most profound reason is fear. I fear rejection. I’m already putting myself out there, and if I take that extra step to make my writing just that much more authentic and impactful, I’m more vulnerable. Fuck vulnerability, right?


So what does this continually tell me? What can I no longer deny, as comfortable as it is to remain bitter and jealous and afraid?

I have a choice. Continue as I have been or do something different?

I’m going all in on the idea of new beginnings in 2o17. For too long, I’ve let fear be the dominant voice in my head. Fear of rejection. Fear of feeling/looking foolish. Fear of the future. Fear of FAILURE.

No more.

I can offer myself some hard-won epiphanies. I know they’re true. People in my inner circle have told me these things over and over, but I’ve had to learn them for myself to really grok what they mean. (That Kate has been so patient with me in this process is a fucking miracle that I don’t deserve.)

  1. Bitterness, jealousy, and resentment are just excuses for not reaching your full potential.
  2. Art is art. (Reflexive property of algebra, right?) If you are driven to the act of creation, that is an end in and of itself. If you require the accolades of others to vindicate your art, then maybe you’re doing it wrong. (Full disclosure: I’m doing it wrong. At least I recognize that, now.)
  3. You are not your story, your poem, your essay, your painting. They all have identity independent of your sense of self. They do. (I’ll keep reminding myself of this.)
  4. Anxiety and depression make creation an order of magnitude more difficult, but the end result can be more impactful and relevant than you ever thought possible…if you allow it.
  5. The success of others does not preclude your own success. If everyone on the planet produced something creatively, it doesn’t mean that no artist is successful or able to be heard–it just means that Earth would be a fucking dynamite place to live.

So do me a favor. Create something. Invest in it. Dare to be vulnerable. See what you actually have to say if you can let your guard down.

New Beginnings

Yeah, about that.

I just updated the site and blasted all of the posts of the past. Some of them weren’t relevant to the here and now (my stance on some things has changed in the face of new info/arguments). While it was entertaining to go back through and read how my thinking on things has changed over the years, I’m left with the idea that I wanted a fresh start.

In a lot of ways, 2017 is a year of rebirth for me. I’m coming to terms with who and what I am as a person–authentically and without artifice. I’ve spent years pretending to be something I’m not. I’ve worn masks, I’ve lied to myself and others.  I’d like to say it stops now, and that I’m drawing a line in the sand. The reality is that this is a process that takes time and effort and discipline. The line in the sand is definitely there, but my goal is for continued, measurable progress and not perfection. I refuse to hold myself to unrealistic standards, but I also refuse to tolerate any excuses from myself.

What that means for me is that I’m looking ahead to the future and working on my personal issues of anxiety, depression, and perfectionism. I’m trying to shake off the bindings of the past–not because I want to forget how they’ve helped me grow and develop. I want to put aside the bad habits and poor decisions of old and make life-affirming choices for the people I love and for myself.

You might see me write about these from time to time here. If so, please know that there are other people who struggle with the same issues you do. You are not alone, even though you probably feel like it.

So…here’s to new beginnings.