That’s a Wrap: UK Meet

Now that I’m back home, have a couple days’ rest under my belt, and have had time for reflection, I figure after all the handwringing I did over going to my first convention, I probably should say something about how it went.

In a word: incredible.

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A Piece of Me

I’m over at Diverse Reader today talking about my feelings from before the UK Meet, and sharing something I’ve held close to the vest since the beginning of my career. Take a peek and drop a comment. Come say hello, maybe make a face with me.

Interview (the Last Step)

Kate​ is in Scotland with her family on holiday but has received word that her interview with the US consulate in London is scheduled for September 3rd.

This is the last hurdle in our application for a fiancée visa for her to come to the US so we can marry. This is where they talk with her to verify our intentions and that we’re honest, really a couple, and won’t be a burden on anyone. The forums she’s been reading up on say they pretty much know if they’re granting approval or not by the time the interview rolls around, and that approval comes swiftly, if not the day of the interview, then within the week. For us specifically, they’ve requested no further documentation, and they’ve not had further questions on existing documentation. We have no reason to think there’ll be a negative decision.

This is it, folks. Now, I’m pretty sure Kate’s going to knock this out of the park, even if she’s nervous (she handles this stuff like a champ). I’m the one that’s a fucking basket case (mainly because all of this is out of my hands and I can only sit here and watch). There’s so much riding on this, not the least of which is our future together, and lemme tell you, this is where I would usually curse my jump-in-with-both-feet attitude.

When I first told Kate I had bigger feelings for her almost three years ago, she thought I was a guy (long story for the new peeps, and those who’ve been around awhile, you know already), there was a damned ocean separating us, same-sex marriage was not federally recognized with DOMA still in place, and most states did not recognize ssm. I think 8 states had equal marriage laws. In the last three years, it seems the obstacles in our path have simply gotten out of our way, with DOMA falling in June 2013, then the state I live in passing marriage equality in late 2013, and finally, SCOTUS declaring it this year in all states. I know at the heart of it all are couples who fought for all of us to be able to love equally, and I am forever grateful to them. My point is that so much was against us from the beginning, and now, we’re 24 days away from the last step. One more thing, and then that ocean can stop being between us.

I can’t find it in myself to curse my leap-without-looking mentality about this. After having toed the line for the first basically 30 years of my life, I refuse to do anything but live out loud, love as hard as I can, and go after the life I want to have. I’m fucking beside myself with the shakes, because I need her like air, and this is it. We have no reason to doubt the visa will be approved, but this is that moment. The one where the music crescendoes and the characters, who’ve been moving around the game board to get into position, do their thing to get their moment of victory. Yeah, that sounds hyperbolic, but in this case it’s not.

A yes means she comes back with me when I fly home from the UK Meet next month. A yes means we get married in October, before the paperwork has time to expire. A yes means I never have to say goodbye to her in an airport again with the stretch of months and an ocean to conquer before we are together again.

Yes means our Happily Ever After.

In 24 days.

Nerves Ahoy

I was on the phone with a dear friend yesterday and the subject of the various romance cons came up. He asked me how long it was until I fly to England to participate in the UK Meet. I was shocked to realize it’s a mere six weeks away.

What’s more shocking is I’m less afraid than I expected to be at this point in time. I’m honest-to-god looking forward to it.

It’s no secret I have anxiety, which manifests in many ways but never more quickly and more ferociously than in social settings. The very day I signed up for the con, I went to take my ruffians trick-or-treating, thinking it would be the usual family affair it had been in years past, only to unknowingly walk into a costume party with a potluck dinner, for which I wore no costume, nor did I have a dish to contribute. After taking the kids to get their candy on, I got out as soon as I could so no one could see me hyperventilating and near tears, almost too panicked to drive.

I had no idea what I was walking into that night, so it blindsided me, and while I knew everyone at the party, I stood out like a sore thumb without a costume. (Not to mention the small fact that it was among a group of people who were related to my ex, so while we’re amicable, it was still incredibly awkward with people I hadn’t seen in a long time.) I didn’t feel it fair to partake in the food everyone brought when I brought nothing, and so at 9 at night, I drove through a Sonic drive through for a giant ass strawberry limeade (my comfort drink) and a late dinner I could barely stomach. It was hours until I felt reasonable again, and stopped berating myself for being so woefully unprepared.

Why can’t I function normally around people I know?

Why was it so hard to talk to people who told me more than once it was good to see me again?

Why can’t I be like everyone else?

The answer is simple: I have social anxiety.

So what the fuck am I doing going to a con??

Two things in particular trigger my social anxiety: hugs and the possibility of my face being put online.

If someone comes at me with their arms out, suddenly, my heart is in my throat. I know I’m not being threatened, but it feels that way. Several things flit through my mind. 1.) I’m short, so most hugs put me at chest level to others. Women, I’m faceplanted in their boobs. Men, I’m nose-to-armpit. Unless I crane my neck awkwardly, it’s uncomfortable, and I FAIL AT HUGGING. 2.) I can’t breathe. Whether that’s physical or psychological, I don’t know. I have only been diagnosed with asthma in the last year, but who knows how long I’ve had it? 3.) I’m always worried I smell, or that I’m not in my best shape and someone will feel that and judge me. All of these (plus more if my brain is being particularly cruel) make me shaky and nervous, which intensifies the stupidity I feel. There are definitely wrong ways to give a hug. I suck at hugs.

My friend on the phone gives the best hugs ever. Why? Because I feel safe when he hugs me. How would I find that level of safety with someone I’ve just met, or have only talked to online? It’s a question I can’t answer. Which is why hugs scare me. Literally scare me.

My photo being put online is becoming less of a trigger, but still a concern. I see people happily put themselves out there, and even though I like being able to put a face with a name myself, the thought of doing so with my mug makes me freak. Anybody can see it. Set aside my self-criticism, I can’t control who sees me if my face is online. Given my active imagination, I spiral into worry about predators trolling the internets for their next victim and well… I know it’s stupid. But anxiety is not logical.

I am proud to say, however, that in the months since I signed up that Halloween for the UK Meet, I’ve managed tricks to ratchet down the irrational fears. It helps the UK Meet organizers are conscientious of these things, and I will wear a lanyard color coded to let people know without asking whether or not taking my picture is okay (I haven’t decided if I’m going to brave this one yet). And there are badges that can be worn to let people know if it’s okay to hug the wearer. Two awkward conversations handled smoothly with non-verbal cues, and I tell you what, I can actually relax that these things don’t rest on my shoulders. I have also gone over and over with Kate ways to extricate myself from awkward situations should they arise. Having a contingency plan for every scenario makes me feel more in control.

My friend on the phone told me the story of his first romance con as a writer, and he said when he first arrived, he was literally mobbed by people wanting to talk to him. It took him half an hour to reach the registration desk. He’s not as severe as me with anxiety, but even he barely managed to keep from walking out and never looking back.

We had a good laugh. And I realized, as I was talking about the round-table discussion I’m leading with Kate, and how I’m looking forward to the gala dinner and the people I have on my list that I absolutely must say hello to, that I’m not scared right now, six weeks out. My heart isn’t beating hard at the thought. My eyes are dry. My hands are steady.

Could that change in the coming weeks? Sure. But the best part is, I really, honestly think I can do this. If someone asked me last year if I’d really make it, I’d have said the chance was iffy. It’s not the flight, being in another country, or even speaking to a crowd (strangely, I only get as nervous as the average person when giving a speech, go figure) that gets to me. It was knowing my specific triggers not only were possible, but probable, just because that’s what people do at cons. They hug their friends and favorite authors and take pictures with them. The fact that those things are already handled, significantly reducing my chances of panicking, is really giving me some hope. Maybe even enough confidence to challenge one of the triggers. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to put up a photo of me with one or two of my favorite authors, who I’m dying to meet, and say, “Look! I have proof that I met x                            and they are awesome!”

OMFG, or What Have I Done??

One of the most common questions I get is, “Will you be at GRL this year?”

For the last couple years, my answer has been the same, “I don’t think so. I can’t really do cons.” In the last six months, I’ve tacked on, “Never say never, though.”

While most of the people who’ve been around my blog/social media presence for a bit will assume that’s because of the fictional identity issue, it’s not. Some of you know I have pretty significant anxiety. There was a blog post that I floated talking about my inability to retain friendships without spazzing out (though there are a tenacious few who have managed to like being my friend despite my complete ineptitude, and I love them fiercely) and how meeting new people is one of the scariest things I can imagine. That blog post was live for about six hours before my addled brain said enough and I had to pull it down. My fleshy underbelly was too exposed. So I’mma try to get through the rest of this post without getting too emo so I can leave it up.

I want to go to cons. I see you guys all having fun, the facebook updates squeeing about having met this favorite author or that awesome internet friend, all the bookporn, and Edmond Manning, and I want a little piece of that. (Well, I don’t want a piece of Edmond Manning himself, because who knows when his expiration date is and I’d probably get food poisoning, but maybe a piece of his attention? Hell yeah.) But the truth is this:

It fucking terrifies me.

It’s not that I don’t want to meet readers.

It’s the noise.

It’s not that I don’t want to meet other authors.

It’s the unknown setting.

It’s not that I think the information from panels and such isn’t worthwhile.

It’s the crowds. No matter how friendly, I have major problems with crowds. And hugging. OMG I cannot hug you no matter how much I like you, unless in that moment, I feel it will be okay. But I won’t know until I’m there. Hugs are too much.

It’s not that I don’t want to stand side by side with the people I’ve come to care about and take pictures or mug funny faces for the camera.

It’s the idea of my face going online and it freaks my fucking shit out so hard I feel the need to go fetal in a dark corner and rock a little.

That’s not hyperbole. I really think about my picture being posted online and want to curl in a ball in a corner of a dark room.

My anxiety is crippling.

The only reason I can work outside my home at all is because everyone around me has assigned seating. I joke about hating my cubicle at work, but it’s my space and no one invades it without my permission. Cube = hamsterball. Anything else where there are a lot of people? Nope. I skip if I can, and if I can’t, I hide out in a bathroom more than I should. I can handle errands to the store and such because I have a cart to wield like a shield. And people have assigned roles. Shopper. Checker. Shelf stockers. I can plaster on a smile and speak to strangers without much trouble because we all keep to our roles.

But I’ve done a lot of thinking the last couple weeks. I know GRL is in San Diego next year. I am also well aware that I probably can’t gear up by then to go, no matter how much I want to. The thing that makes me the angriest is the anxiety is winning when it comes to this subject. This is my dream job, goddammit, and I’m missing out on part of it because I’m so twisted up about stupid stuff. I hate it. I hate anxiety so much. SDLKAHOERGHQOHR(key smash)

What am I gonna do about it? I’m going to overcome it. Maybe not all at once. Maybe not even next year. But I’m taking steps. I just want you guys to know, I am taking steps. There’s another con. Smaller. It has a policy about whose photos you can and can’t post online. And because of its location, I can make the trip part of a bigger trip with an entirely different focus than conference! Crowds! Unknown setting! Also, the attendees in this location are (possibly) less likely to hug me.

So I signed up (with Kate’s promise to never ever leave my side). I put down the deposit for the ticket, and hope when the money’s due, I can still see myself going. I hope when it’s time to make up the swag and ship the paperbacks, I can still keep calm. I hope when it’s time to fly over and show up, I can get over myself and actually register at check-in. And maybe then, when I set up my table to sign books, I can do it with a smile on my face, and you all won’t see the terror in my eyes.

Holy shit, people. (I think) I’m going to the UK Meet.