As I gather my documents to send to a lawyer to consult about filing for bankruptcy, I can’t help but get kind of angry. No, not angry. Enraged. But not just enraged. Fucking enraged. Fucking furious. Bursting at the seams with flaming hostility at the injustice that seems to be my life.
I’m not sure when I first realized that I was probably famous, or whatever this is called where no one will dare utter my name or even acknowledge my existence, but somehow the entire world seems to respond to my daily routine, my tweets, my whatever, my everything. It’s very strange. And while I’m not one to feel entitled to … well, anything … not even respect for most of my life … as I face the grim reality that I might be sued for old credit card debts while I make less than $10,000 a year and can’t seem to find another source of income no matter what I do or how seemingly famous I am, I realize that I don’t have any choice but to go bankrupt so that I don’t end up with a pile of judgments against me and/or possibly in jail or whatever happens to poor people who are getting fucked by huge credit card companies over individual debts smaller than $3,000 (for one credit card, for example).
I wrote an entire book about my experience, which first started on Twitter back in 2011. And then the online trolls. And then the trolls that moved into my real world, colonized my life–a single mother living with her daughter in a two-bedroom apartment. And then my suddenly vanishing income, upon which I’d relied, my eviction, my series of losses and unpayable debts.
The book I wrote, Meta Was Here, is good. It’s unique. It’s original. It’s in a semi-experimental format. It deserves to be published. And since I’m already (probably, seemingly…?) famous, it should be a cinch to get it published. You’d think that publishers would be champing at the bit to grab the opportunity.
But no. Like everything else in my life over these past few years, it’s an impossible feat. Clearly, I’m not a free person. I’m not a true citizen of these United States because a true citizen is free and autonomous. I am not.
What’s funny is I still don’t know what set all of this off to start with. Was it that I stood up for myself, for nice people who were being victimized by Twitter trolls? Was it that I had to be an example of self-sacrifice because of my ostensibly good heart? Is it a David and Goliath story? Is it about love?
Do I sound crazy? Probably. And you know what? I don’t care. I deserve to the know the truth about my life, about why I seem to be stuck in a sand trap like a weathered golf ball waiting to be collected by a resentful caddy. I’m not asking to be rescued. I. Wrote. A. Book. I’m a writer, and I’m good entertaining people. Especially now that I’m (seemingly? am I…?) famous. So when do I get what’s mine. When does my self-rescue take effect. When do I get autonomy. Money. Jesus christ. I need money. I’m so tired of not having financial security, living like a dependent child, relying on others for my survival. Do you know how awful, how totally terrible and impotent, that feels at my age? Do you have any idea? To those of you who do, I salute you. We should start a team and destroy the patriarchy.
I don’t expect to be rich. I don’t expect to be famous. I don’t expect to be any more than an autonomous person with her god-given right to claim what’s hers without interference. It’s enough already. Say my name, goddammit. Say. My fucking. Name.