Name of memoir? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? I knew from the beginning that Losing the Atmosphere, A Memoir: A Baffling Disorder, a Search for Help, and the Therapist Who Understoodwould be the title. The most difficult thing I have ever done was letting go of the imaginary world I called the Atmosphere so I could become more invested in the real world.
Gini Kopecky Wallace’s web page
When the book was finished, my editor, Gini Kopecky Wallace, felt it needed a subtitle, to let readers know what the story was about. Charles Salzberg, Editor-in-Chief of Greenpoint Press, felt the subtitle should imply that there was a mystery and a journey. Gini came up with “A Baffling Disorder, a Search for Help, and the Therapist Who Understood.” I liked this subtitle immediately, and it fit perfectly with Bob Lascaro’s wonderful cover illustration of a therapist’s couch floating in the clouds.
https://www.charlessalzberg.com/
https://www.facebook.com/greenpointpress
Has this been published? If yes, what publisher and what publication date? The paperback of Losing the Atmosphere was published in September 2020 by Greenpoint Press.
http://greenpointpress.org/gb_atmosphere.html
The audiobook, narrated by award-winning Cassandra Campbell, came out in November 2020.
The ebook came out in March 2021.
What is the description of this memoir? Born in 1940s Brooklyn to a father prone to rages and an emotionally erratic mother, Vivian Conan grew up in two different worlds: Outside and Inside. Outside, she had friends, excelled in school, and was close to her cousins and brother. Inside, she saw faces that weren’t hers in her bedroom mirror and was surrounded by an invisible Atmosphere that bathed her in the love and understanding she craved. Moving between these worlds enabled Vivian to survive her childhood but limited her ability to live fully as an adult. To others, her life seemed rich with work, friends, music, and boyfriends. But her mind and soul were filled with chaos and pain. Neither she nor her therapists could figure out why.
Losing the Atmosphere is Vivian Conan’s riveting account of her journey toward self-understanding and wholeness; her encounters with a string of more and less helpful therapists; and her unconventional relationship with the therapist who was finally able to guide her through the courageous, messy work healing required.
Told with honesty, humor, and grace, Losing the Atmosphere is a never-too-late story about the growth possible for anyone with the guts to pursue it, and a testament to the redemptive power of love: not the perfect kind Vivian experienced in her imaginary world, but the imperfect kind that connects us, flawed human being to flawed human being, in the real world she lives in now.
What is the date you began writing this memoir and the date when you completed the memoir? Losing the Atmosphere took 25 years to write. I began in 1992, when I was 50, and finished in 2017, at 75. I was a different writer at the end of that time than I was at the beginning.
Anthropologists who do field work know that they influence the dynamics of the communities they are studying simply by their presence. In the same way, the process of writing a book about myself changed the me I was writing about. Healing—uncovering what I had hidden from myself and coming to feel like a worthwhile person—happened mostly through therapy, but it was facilitated by having to look at my life as a whole so I could put it down on paper.
Where did you do most of your writing for this memoir? And please describe in detail. I wrote in the early morning, before I talked to anyone, or ate, or even listened to the weather report. As soon as I woke, I set up my computer on my bed and propped Rocky, my miniature teddy bear, against my leg, his eyes facing the window. My apartment is on the fourth floor of a brownstone, level with the treetops on my urban street. Whether the branches were lush with leaves or laden with snow, I didn’t feel separated from them by a windowpane. I was in my very own treehouse, a place unconnected to either my apartment or the sidewalk below. There, in an almost hypnotic state, I hovered at the intersection of two worlds: sleeping and waking, Inside and Outside, Then-Time and Now-Time. If there was no interruption, like a ringing phone, and if I started early enough—before the sunlight traveled from the other side of the street and invaded my hideaway—I could inhabit my ephemeral space for a few hours.
What were your writing habits while writing this memoir- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? The story in the finished book is told chronologically, but I didn’t write it in order. Whichever part of me was closest to the surface on any given morning was the part I wrote about.
I typed directly into the computer, often not knowing what was going to appear on the screen until I saw it. Memories of Then-Time events and feelings flowed from someplace inside me, out through the tips of my fingers without passing through my conscious brain first. There was no music, food, drink, or anything that would interfere with this delicate interchange. I printed frequently, using the backs of junk mail and old drafts; it was easier to get a sense of what I had written when I read it on a paper than when I read from the screen. Often I would cut out a paragraph and tape it to something I had printed earlier, then place my fingers back on the keyboard to repeat the process.
I edited the printouts on my commute to work. There was nothing mystical about editing. I was in Now-Time, checking for word dups, considering flow. Would this paragraph have more impact if I moved it to the next page? I sometimes edited after work, too, retyping to incorporate my edits.
Out of all the specific memories you write about in this memoir, which ONE MEMORY was the most emotional for you to write about? And can you share that specific excerpt with us here. The excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer, and please provide page numbers as reference. Setup: It’s 1964. I’m 22 years old and have just started working toward my Master of Library Science degree at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. I’m a commuter student, living with my parents and brother in a four-family house, also in Brooklyn. My grandparents live in one of the downstairs apartments. After a week of classes I feel overwhelmed, so I drop two of my five courses.
Pages 122-125:
“How was your first week?” my father asked when I got home.
“OK,” I said, walking through the foyer toward my room.
“What courses are you taking?”
I monitored his voice, the barometer that warned me of impending danger. I recognized that his chattiness wasn’t idle, but he was still in friendly mode. I turned to face him. “Cataloging, Selection of Library Materials, and Function and Management of Libraries.”
“Only three? Is that all they require?”
The barometer flashed a caution signal. Maintaining eye contact, I took a step backward, toward Marvin’s room. “I was taking five, but I dropped two today.”
I took another step back. He took one forward, keeping the few feet of space between us constant. I could tell he did it unconsciously, but it unnerved me.
“What do you mean, you dropped them?”
I stiffened. “I was taking fifteen credits, but now I’m taking nine.” I didn’t move back. I was afraid he’d move forward again. I slipped off my jacket and draped it over one arm. My bag and books were in the other.
“Why did you drop them?”
“They were too much work.”
I moved back. He moved up an equal distance.
“I’m sure if you go in Monday and tell them you made a mistake, they’ll let you reinstate them.”
“I don’t want to reinstate them.”
I felt the doorsill with my foot, the beginning of the accordion divider passageway alongside Marvin’s room. If I could get through it to my room, I would be safe. My father rarely came in.
“But you want to be a librarian.” His voice rose and his eyes burned into mine. “If you’re a librarian, you’re someone. People will respect you. If you’re not a librarian, you’re no one.”
“I’m still going to be a librarian.”
I moved. He moved.
“You’re taking fifteen credits”—he was yelling now—“and you drop three, and you’re only taking twelve.” I inched back. He inched forward. “Pretty soon you drop three more, and you’re only taking nine.” I took another step. He matched it. We were slowly moving through the passageway. “You drop another three, and you’re only taking six. Six! That’s nothing!”
“I’m taking nine credits,” I said, softly but firmly.
His voice got suddenly gentle. “If you tell them you want those courses again, I’m sure they’ll say OK. Anyone can make a mistake.”
“It wasn’t a mistake.” When I moved back, I felt the doorsill to my room. I was both glad and afraid. I had to work it so I got in but he didn’t.
“Viv, you want to be someone. A librarian is someone. You don’t want to be no one.” His pleading was desperate, almost a threat.
“I am going to be a librarian.” I stepped back and into my room.
He stepped forward, still in the passageway.
“You drop another three credits, and you’re only taking three!” He was yelling again.
“I’m taking nine credits, and I’m not going to drop any more.”
This time, when he stepped forward to match my movement back, he stepped over the doorsill, invading my sanctuary. With a thud, my center of gravity shifted. I grabbed the edge of the desk to catch my balance as my body rearranged itself—the connection my feet made with the floor, the way my arms attached in their sockets. He changed, too. His face became larger, grotesque. Wild energy streamed from his eyes, flowing over me.
“You drop those three, and you dropped out altogether. You’re taking nothing! NOTHING!” The huge face was between me and the door, blocking any chance of escape.
“I didn’t drop out,” I said feebly.
“You’ll have no profession!” the face screamed. “You’ll be a nobody and no one will respect you.” The lips got softer. “If you ask them, you can get everything back. It’s not too late.”
I laid my jacket, books, and bag on the desk, then folded closed, leaving an uninhabited body standing in front of him.
Nothing…profession…respect… The words penetrated my empty container. I couldn’t move or speak, but I had my listening look on. It was safe as long as he thought he was getting his point across. Time passed. Five minutes? Ten? …mistake…EXPLAIN… NOBODY….
Something took over my body. Propelled it toward the closet. I pushed the sliding door open, stepped in, and closed it. Jackets and skirts brushed my face. In the darkness, I moved to the back and crouched on the shoeboxes.
“Answer me! Say something!” I could tell he had walked up to the closet. “Come out of there!”
I was afraid he would open the door, but when he kept on alternately yelling and pleading, I realized he wouldn’t. He was only inches away, but the wooden panel that separated us was like a castle moat. I closed my eyes and curled around the little dot that was left of me, the dot that knew I was taking nine credits.
After a long time, my father’s voice stopped, and I heard him leave. I waited a moment before sliding the closet door open a crack. The stillness was eerie. I let my eyes adjust to the brightness and tiptoed through the passageway. Good—the living room door was closed. He wouldn’t see me. A second later, I was in the hall, the normal world that was always just on the other side of our apartment door. I ran down the stairs and into Nona’s kitchen.
She was standing at the stove, and Papoo was sitting at the table in his worn flannel bathrobe and crocheted woolen cap.
“Hi, Nona. Hi, Papoo,” I said, sitting down across from him.
I watched the familiar coffee ritual. Papoo smoothed out the stained dish towel he used for a placemat and readied his cup and saucer. He kept his eyes on the cup as Nona filled it to the brim. He poured in milk from the small ceramic pitcher. The coffee overflowed into the saucer. He added three spoonfuls of sugar and stirred. More overflow. He slurped from the cup, refilled it from the saucer, and heaved a contented, “Ahhhhhh.”
Nona brought me some koulouria and tea, which she knew I preferred, then sat down with her own coffee.
“Can I sleep here tonight?” I asked.
“Shoo you can sleep,” Nona said. Her eyes spoke her understanding.
“Stay till you go,” Papoo said in his jovial way.
A few hours later, stretched out on the green brocade sofa in the living room, watching television with Papoo, I heard, “Hi, Ma. Is Vivian here?”
“Inside mit Papa.”
I sat up to make room on the sofa for my mother and told her what had happened. “I hate him!” I concluded. “I never want to see him again. And I’m never going back upstairs. You can bring down my toothbrush. And my books and my pajamas and my radio.”
My mother looked at me with resigned eyes. “OK, Vivian,” was all she said. In five minutes, she was back with my things.
“Thanks.”
“Good night, Vivian.” Her eyes were pained. I didn’t care.
“Good night.”
Nona and Papoo’s world had changed little since I was a child. Nona still kept her for-weddings-and-bar-mitzvahs false teeth in a glass of water on the bathroom windowsill, and there was still a pile of torn newspaper squares on the hamper. Papoo used them for toilet paper, the way he had in the old country. In the morning, Nona made yellow farina, then sat with me while I stirred in hard bread crusts, butter, and salt.
My mother came down during the day to say hello. I ignored the torment on her face. I planned on staying indefinitely and gave her a list of things I needed from my room. She said, “OK, Vivian,” and brought them down immediately, like a deliveryman.
When I got home from Pratt on Monday, my third day at Nona’s, my mother gave me a verbal message from my father. “He says if you come back, he won’t bother you about school.”
I told her I liked it here, where I was in charge of my own life. She urged me to return.
“OK,” I said finally, “if he really won’t bother me. But if he says just one thing, I’m leaving.”
There was no fanfare when I got upstairs. My father merely nodded and said, “Hello, Viv,” as I passed the living room door on the way to my room. I felt powerful in a way I never had before.
Can you describe the step-by-step process of writing about this ONE MEMORY? The process was not much different from that of everything else I wrote. I was in my treehouse in the early morning hours, in the delicate space between Then and Now, channeling the 22-year-old I was at the time. All her life, her father had tried to impose his reality on her. Even when it didn’t fit with what she knew to be reality, she had difficulty fighting him. This was the first time she stuck up for what she knew to be her truth. Sitting on my bed, hands on the keyboard, I was both feeling this powerful moment and capturing it.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? No deletions. Just a lot of re-writing to keep the two parallel tracks going simultaneously: what was going on inside me and what was going on outside me.
Other works you have published?
“Me, Me, Me, and my Therapist”
Essay in the New York Times Opinionator-Couch column about preparing for my therapist’s vacation.
https://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/author/vivian-conan/
“Love at Second Sight”
Essay in Lilith about a new relationship between my mother and me
“How to Survive a Business Trip When You Have Multiple Personalities”
Essay in Narratively about going on a business trip while battling mental illness.
“Divided She Stands”
Essay in New York magazine about multiple personality disorder.
Written under a pseudonym: Laura Emily Mason.
Self Service ER
Essay in Ducts about accompanying my mother to the emergency room after a fall.
http://ducts.sundresspublications.com/06_07/html/essays/conan.html
Anything you would like to add? I wrote all of Losing the Atmosphere in a writing workshop – the same workshop with the same teacher, Charles Salzberg, for 25 years.
https://www.charlessalzberg.com/author
One of the reasons I wrote the book was my desire to be seen. Being mentally ill means being lonely, and trying to hide it means feeling invisible. The writing workshop was the first time I came out of the closet to people who were not clinicians. My fellow students didn’t see me as a freak or dangerous. They gave me my first experience of being seen, accepted, and understood. That was both scary and exhilarating.
The workshop also changed the way I approached the book. At first I thought readers would be interested in textbook clinical theory about my mental condition, not in the details of my particular story. It was Charles and my fellow students who convinced me that it was the opposite. Without their guidance and encouragement, I could never have I written so personal a scene as the one about dropping three courses.
https://www.facebook.com/CharlesSalzbergAuthor
VIVIAN CONAN is a writer, librarian, and IT business analyst who lives in Manhattan. A native New Yorker, she grew up in a large Greek-Jewish clan in Brooklyn, graduated from Brooklyn College, and holds master’s degrees from Pratt Institute and Baruch College. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, New York magazine, Lilith, Narratively, and Ducts.org. She received a 2007 fellowship in Nonfiction Literature from the New York Foundation for the Arts and a 2019 Simon Rockower Award from the American Jewish Press Association. Vivian sings with the Peace of Heart Choir, which performs free for communities in need, and has mentored teenage writers as a volunteer with Girls Write Now. Losing the Atmosphere is her first book.
Vivian can be reached via the contact form on my website, or via email.
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