Election Reflection

While filling in the bubbles of my mail-in ballot recently, it occurred to me... I don't remember the last time I did this.  I vividly remember casting my ballot in 2016 and the excitement I felt voting for a woman for the first time.  But in 2020, the memory is void.

And then I realized, I didn't vote in 2020.  

I was in rehab.

In September, I celebrated 4 years sober from alcohol.  September 25th is my sobriety date, as it was September 24th that I entered treatment. I stayed in treatment for well over a month, meaning I was in-patient when the 2020 election occurred.

I remember realizing that election day was approaching and trying to organize voting for us patients. It was way too late for any real organized effort, but I bugged my assigned therapist to look up possibilities anyway. 

The little political nerd in me was unnerved by the idea of missing an election, especially after how I'd spent the last one. 

During the 2016 Presidential Election, I spent the majority of my time fully immersed in every aspect, covering it as a National Online News Writer.

I began this shiny new position in June 2015, just in time to see Donald J. Trump announce his presidential candidacy. 

I remember sitting in the newsroom in Arlington, Virginia, watching Trump descend an escalator into his gilded lobby where the press conference had been arranged.  

"Unprecedented" was the word that bubbled up in conversations and articles after the fact.  

"Unprecedented" would become the word I associated most with that election.

It came up again and again in interviews with political scientists from around the country.

CNN, which I always had tuned in on the TV on my desk as a third screen, couldn't help but slap the adjective on headline after headline, ticking it across the bottom of their screen as if they earned points for every use of the word.

I found myself using it in my articles, lost for any other phrase to convey the sheer oddity of what we saw unfold.  

All the while, as I reported, I grew scared. 

My company had a certain reputation for its coverage, and as an Obama-loving Democrat, I struggled with it.  I was often assigned stories meant to uncover the secret struggles of the Hillary Clinton campaign and repeatedly told to dig into why Clinton couldn't be trusted by voters. 

On one particularly crazy day, the pitch came in as: Hillary Clinton, hot sauce?  

Hillary Clinton had recently come out about how much she loved hot sauce, bragging about carrying mini Tabascos in her purse.  The pitch focused on what the possible health impacts could be. 

That was the story premise.  I shit you not. 

The way my employer, the primary owner of local news stations in the country, was covering the race concerned me. 

But what really scared me was Trump.

Nothing could bring the guy down.  Blunder after blunder, I'd report on how, surely, this would be the mishap to end his campaign and send him back to Trump Tower.

But he kept rising in the polls. 

I'd talk to political scientists, shocked after each time Trump bounced back.  Until finally, one predicted that there might not be anything to stop his supporters.

I remember after the tapes leaked where Trump is overheard saying you can grab women however you like and thinking, "This has to be it."  

But that one political scientist was right.  Nothing would break Trump's supporters.

I got to know them a bit throughout my reporting.  Writing pieces about why women vote for Trump and why minorities vote for Trump, I had the rare opportunity to get to know some of the actual people behind the votes.  

I distinctly remember talking to one man, an Asian American father who was proudly supporting Trump.  

Our conversation fascinated me.  

In my mind, I'd caricatured Trump supporters to be zany and unhinged, completely out of touch with reality.  This man was level-headed, articulate, and passionate.  Every other candidate, he felt, had forgotten about him. In Trump, he’d found someone who was willing to fight for him.  His loyalty was unflinching.  Through Trump's candidacy, he'd been seen, and he was not going to fade back into obscurity without a fight.

I remain grateful to that man for being open to speaking with me and allowing me to get to know him.  Given Trump's distaste for the "crooked" media, finding supporters of his to talk to was a ridiculously hard challenge.  

I was lucky that I didn't have to face it at the convention.  It was decided that the other online news writer would cover the Republican National Convention.  

I was sent to Philadelphia for the Democratic counterpart.

Being on the ground in Philadelphia was life-changing. It was truly history in the making.  The atmosphere was electric, the people energized... but the crowds... they were vitriolic. 

As someone who toes the party line, I was surprised by the palpable unrest at the Democratic National Convention in Pennsylvania.  Yes, Clinton voters were everywhere, ready to enthusiastically support their candidate.  But for every one of them, there was a Sanders supporter, disappointed at the outcome, or a protester, screaming outside of the fences Secret Service had constructed, desperate for anyone to hear them. 

I'd thought the unrest was limited to Trump's supporters, but in Philly, suddenly, I felt it everywhere.  Everyone was angry. 

The DNC was my last major reporting assignment.  

I didn't actually make it through the election as a reporter.

That's how I ended up spending the 2016 election night at a swanky party instead of an election headquarters.  

I don’t remember much of the party.  It was held at the National Building Museum, and there was an open bar; those are the highlights.  There were a lot of red, white, and blue decorations, including a balloon drop hanging in the valences.   The room felt like a pretty Blue crowd.  When states started being called for Trump, the environment became… uneasy. I downed a few more free Bullet Burbouns, went home, and blacked out before the night ended. 

I woke up this next morning in disbelief, hoping the whole thing had been some sort of bourbon-induced nightmare.  But as I checked my phone, it became clear, this was no dream. 

Truth be told, I drank my way through most of the Trump presidency.  

I spent the years between 2016-2020 in and out of treatment centers, struggling to find sobriety. As I stumbled through life, I watched the world change around me amidst the Trump administration.  

We only had two TVs at the treatment center where I got sober in the fall of 2020.  One in the men's lounge and one in the women's.  I don't even recall watching election night coverage.  I don't even remember how I learned of Joe Biden's victory. 

From drinking my way through an election night party to sitting in a treatment group on election day.  

A stark juxtaposition.

I miss reporting on politics to this day.  When election talk comes up, it takes all my restraint not to dive into correspondent mode and start providing my own analysis of the current political climate. 

Yesterday morning, I had my monthly appointment with my psychiatrist, and I was surprised that the election came up.  I couldn't help myself but share "I covered the 2016 election," I said.  

"How did you go from that to what you're doing now?" my psychiatrist asked.

It's a fair question.  I gave my canned response, I burned out reporting, switched to PR and the rest is history.  

But thinking about it this morning, I know the honest answer is this: I drank. 

I drank away a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to cover an unprecedented election. 

Acceptance is a huge element of sobriety, and I have learned to accept the opportunities I drank away, including my political news career.  

Nowadays, I try to hold in my commentary and not bore my friends with my political analysis. 

But I couldn't help but tell my psychiatrist my theory about this election.

"It's going to be a mess," I predicted.   

In the years since I noticed the anger at the DNC, it feels like the unrest in this country has only grown.  The anger, the vitriol, and the overall lack of empathy in our country concerns me. Just like 8 years ago, I find myself scared.  For the country, for what a Trump victory could mean. 

And so, as my feed fills with selfies with "I Voted" stickers and my mail in ballot is counted, I'm taking a deep breath.

This year, I don't get to hide from the realities of the election away in rehab or drink my way out of them.  I'm out in the wild, experiencing it. 

And while I'm terrified of what will happen, I know one thing.  

At least this election night, I'm sober.