Ending my campaign for Oklahoma’s 5th Congressional District
“Not Done Yet”
Everything was a blur. Physicians were talking amongst each other and occasionally to me, as an IV was stuck into my arm and a tube was shoved in my nose. That morning, March 2nd, after thirteen days of being the center of a hometown scandal that garnered national media attention, I drank heavily in my hotel room, more than 1,300 miles away in an effort to hide and took sleeping pills, anguishing in pain reading about myself on social media and in tabloid articles.
I’d received death threats, got obliterated by cyber cowards hiding behind their computer screens and furiously typing on their keyboards, and got bombarded with prank calls (from people who found my number online) telling me to drop out of politics and go kill myself. The public barrage was the result of a night I honestly can’t remember that took place while I assisted in chaperoning a preteen sleepover with a close friend (now former) from law school. I used poor judgment mixing wine with medication that helps you relax, that I’d never taken before. A mom who wasn’t there, and who never directly contacted me to express any issues, decided to use a ghost Twitter account and send a series of public tweets to me several days after the sleepover accusing me of saying awful things to her child and the other young ladies present while intoxicated. The alleged hurtful comments this woman claims I made under duress do not represent who I am, and to this day, I still have no recollection of what actually occurred that evening and have not spoken to my now former friend as she conveniently threw me under a bus to superficially avoid further interrogation from her ex-husband during their custody battle.
So, who am I? And how did I become national clickbait? I was the 2020 Democratic nominee for the United States Senate in Oklahoma, and now I was running for OK-5, the congressional district where I’d lost by less than 1% of the vote.
I’m a lifelong Oklahoman and a natural introvert, although I love people (hence my career). I felt honored to tell Oklahomans’ stories on the news for so many years. Through tragedies and triumphs, I learned a lot about the people in my beloved home state: what moves them, what inspires them, what keeps them up at night. I reported on things that aren’t easy, like deadly natural disasters, or when I served as a media witness to a botched execution at the Oklahoma State Penitentiary, or when I interviewed crime victims’ families.
I grew up in a family where we went to church every Sunday, and we ate dinner together around the table. My parents taught me the values of integrity and hard work. When people said I could never finish law school in three years while staying on top of my game in my hard-fought journalism career, I pushed harder, graduating as a member of both the Law Review and the Dean’s List.
On election night in 2020, I gave my concession speech the day after my 31st birthday, staring into the cameras like I’d done so many times before as a television journalist and political candidate. No woman has ever represented Oklahoma in the US Senate, and I made a promise, saying, “to every little girl who watched this race, we are not done yet…We still have a path to carve out, and you better believe I’m going to be standing with you leading that charge.”
I believed that path included challenging the republican incumbent in OK-5 this fall. But right after my candidacy announcement in September 2021, the Republican legislature released its new, egregiously partisan gerrymandered map. It was devastating to hundreds of thousands of Oklahomans who feel unheard and unrepresented every day. While I was ready to fight, I was also filled with a very familiar feeling of intense fear; a heightened level of anxiety grew inside of me, knowing I had no shot at winning now, and it shook me to my core realizing I was going to let down hundreds of thousands of people, yet again.
Fast forward to March 2nd, I was in the ER on the phone with my best friend telling her, “I took whatever I had. I just wanted it all to end.” As I listened to her cry, I thought of the other people I would have crushed if I’d taken my life: my parents, my friends, my supporters, all those little girls who looked up to me in our historic run for US Senate.
I’ve struggled with mental health issues including self-worth, severe anxiety and insomnia for about 20 years. In college, I was anorexic, graduating in 2.5 years with big dreams inside my 5’7” body that weighed 96 pounds. Restricting food gave me a sense of control over my anxiety, while also allowing me to punish myself for being unworthy. When I was 22, I started drinking socially. I was a go-getter television journalist dedicated to speaking truth to power and doing stories that mattered. My work got noticed. The “local celebrity attention” I got at bars, events, and even the grocery store fed my hunger for self-worth, but I still drank to quiet that middle school-aged girl inside me saying “I’m not good enough.” It’s a voice I have to quiet each and every day.
I know there are plenty of skeptics who will scoff that I struggle with self-esteem and self-worth. But that’s the thing about mental health: it doesn’t discriminate with its victims. I drank to numb my anxiety, and most of the time it worked, but there were also many occasions I went in to anchor the morning news, having the makeup room to myself, staring in the mirror at the scar I have across my forehead from a horrific car wreck I was in as a child. Who would put me on air with this ugly flaw? An anchor I looked up to in college even told me I didn’t have a shot on-air with my scar. I wasn’t worthy.
My insomnia got worse when I worked full-time at the news station while putting myself through law school. I took over-the-counter sleep meds that sometimes helped me fall asleep, but I’d wake up in the middle of the night and reread the assigned case law for class because I was so anxious to be called upon (Socratic method) and be embarrassed in front of my peers. I passed the Oklahoma Bar Exam with just 2 hours of sleep.
I should have asked for help sooner before I wound up Twitter roadkill, especially before jumping into the cutthroat political arena. I was recruited to challenge longtime Senator Jim Inhofe because I was fairly well known, a young professional female, and a huge contrast in every way to the 85-year-old senator. I laughed and said “no way” several times. I’d had a great 10-year run in Oklahoma as a journalist, and I was interviewing for bigger on-air jobs out of state. Then, Inhofe stepped up to a microphone at an air force base just east of Oklahoma City. Military families living in mold and asbestos-filled homes on base had been calling and writing Inhofe, and finally, two years later, here was Inhofe telling them how nice their housing was — the furthest thing from the truth. These men and women serving our country deserve better. Oklahoma deserved better.
We launched my campaign two days after my 30th birthday, the required age to serve as a US senator.
I knew with 99% certainty that we were going to lose to Inhofe, especially with Donald Trump on the ballot. My anxiety kept getting worse, and I’d wake up like clockwork around 3am and frantically grab my phone to see if there’d been a hit piece written about me. As the crowds of supporters grew larger to come hear me speak, I’d drink enough wine or vodka to numb the anxiety and allow me to turn on the public face everyone expected.
I’m sharing this because I should’ve gotten help sooner, and if you’re suffering, please know, there is help. Unfortunately, I had to hit rock bottom to realize it. And ask any woman in leadership, we’re judged more harshly for our mistakes than men (I’d bet you a man wouldn’t have been tabloid fodder over this). After the sleepover incident, I lost support from democrats. The DCCC announced it was distancing itself from me. The news cycle was the longest 9 days of my life. I didn’t even feel safe staying in my own home due to the threats I received.
So in my hotel room earlier this month, my new sanctuary away from sanctimonious ridicule, surrounded by empty wine and liquor bottles, I stared at the dark circles under my eyes in the bathroom mirror, and this time, I didn’t just tell myself I’m “not good enough.” This time I told myself I was done. I ruined my life. I felt hopeless. I was an embarrassment. I was never worthy of being in the political arena; I had no politicians in my family or wealth, and I’d already lost once. I’d been on an island by myself for so long, and it was the worst place to be because I hated myself. I don’t remember what all I drank before I sent a couple suicidal texts to close friends and sent a tweet out that said, “You guys win. I’ll just kill myself.” I blacked out and woke up on a gurney.
Today, I am ending my campaign for Oklahoma’s 5th Congressional District to focus on myself and my happiness. This decision hasn’t been easy to make; I got into politics because I wanted to help people. To give every Oklahoman a fair shot and a decent life. To my family, friends, and supporters who’ve stood by me and believed in me when I was on top of my game and when I fell from grace, thank you.
I checked myself into rehab a couple weeks ago and am already making dramatic progress. I’ve gone the longest I’ve ever gone without a drink in more than a decade. I look at the scar across my forehead, and now it reminds me that on the surface I may be scarred, but underneath, I’m a survivor and a fighter. I’ve spent years fighting for women, working families, advocating for better healthcare, quality public education for every child no matter their zip code; the list goes on and on. But now’s the time to take on my own fight that I’ve been running from for 20 years: facing my mental health challenges head on. I don’t know what the journey ahead for me looks like, but I’m grateful to be alive with a fighting spirit and keep my promise — I’m not done yet. -AB
