My Story // Part I
February 2014
I walk into the sex shop and the burst of color contrasts the typical gray metal city behind me. I unwind my scarf and zip down the Chicagoan’s winter uniform. Black North Face parka. Today, I’m looking for 5-inch platform stilettos. I’ve decided to become a dancer. A stripper.
A black pair made of hard plastic and studded rhinestones with a clear top is the one I pick. I leave the store and head back to the El. Something strange is happening to my vision. It’s as if it’s glittering. It grows. A strange arc shape. Am I hallucinating?? I get a sense. You shouldn’t be doing this. I ignore it. This is the easiest and fastest way to make money to get out of Chicago. I close my eyes but this strange scintillating shape is still there. As I ride the screeching and rattling train back home, my mind battles itself. This is a sign. Whatever is happening to your eyes right now is a sign. Don’t do this. But this is the only way…
It’s Monday again. Wearing my uniform again. This parka down to my knees isn’t enough to block the icy wind stabbing my legs as I wait for the train. Why the fuck are the train stations in this city outside.
Daydreaming of warmer days, I remember. Half a year ago, I was working on the tulip-lined Magnificent Mile in downtown Chicago as a web designer for The Tribune. The job landed in my lap and was more money than I ever thought I’d make. It wasn’t the career I wanted. I knew that. Half way through college, I knew. But… what else could I do? I stayed the course. It wasn’t the work that I wanted to do but I needed the money.
The company split. Print is dead. I was laid off with 700 other people. In debt and needing money right away, I landed at this company in the suburbs, making half of what I made before.
Even less money in a field I don’t want to be in.
The train reaches Main Street. I’m back. Two Polar Vortexes behind us, we’re all dreaming of warmer days as the sea of black parkas shuffles onto the platform. A Monday in corporate America or a funeral procession?
Beige walls muffle the water cooler conversations. We had some weather this weekend. There was traffic. The game. Everything in me is silently screaming. Is there any life here?
Google Hangouts flashes with a new message from my lifeline. My best friend Kristin. An article about moving to California. I’ve been talking about moving for years. Shoulders hunched, trying to hide the fact that I’m not diligently working, I read.
Spring 2014
My plan is to become nocturnal. Work in a restaurant in the evening and the strip club afterwards. I find a job as a hostess in a new restaurant that’s about to open. There’s promise that I could work up to being a server and make even more money.
I’m offered an extension on my contract in the beige office but every part of me is screaming NO and I would rather make money by taking my clothes off for strangers than sit behind a computer for another moment moving pixels around. I decline it and go to work at the restaurant. I apply to the club but never hear back. I take it as a sign to finally start my photography business.
My new plan is to work at the restaurant and start my photography business.
But I am so… damn… tired.
My feet ache when I get home. I’m exhausted. My boyfriend at the time, M, is also exhausted. The dishes don’t get done. I hate cooking. We make an agreement that I would clean the house and he would cook. He never does. He smokes weed all day and complains about his job and asks me to sit with him and watch him play video games. I say no. He pouts. I give in every time, all the while feeling like I’m wasting time that could be spent on my photography business. Resentment grows.
I do the dishes with rage, make passive aggressive comments, and snap at him.
We scream at each other every day. This is nothing new. This is how couples fight, right?
He calls me a bitch and an asshole and a jerk. He says this is a sign of love, this is how he and his family talk to each other. I take it as truth. They do seem to be so close. This is normal, right?
Weeks pass and it’s another day, yet another screaming match. This one’s especially bad. I don’t remember what we’re fighting about, but I’ve locked myself in the bathroom, sobbing. My body’s telling me to run, but there’s nowhere to run, so I hide in the only room with a lock. He’s pounding on the door. I’m afraid he’s going to punch a hole in the door. Just like my dad did when I was 15.
The cops are called on us. He says there’s been a complaint and he’s just checking in. Shaking with a tear-stained face, I somehow manage to convince him that we’re fine.
Everything’s fine. This is normal. This is just how couples fight.
Summer 2014
Our building manager’s partner befriends us. He’s 30 years older than us and has kind eyes. He’s a jack of all trades, doing maintenance for our building at the moment, but with a long history of more titles than I’ll probably ever know. In our conversations, he finds out that I’m a photographer. We’re close enough now that he asks if he can borrow my camera equipment and in exchange, can give massages. He’s a licensed massage therapist too. I agree. My body is so tired.
I walk into the home he shares with our building manager. It’s strange to get a peek into someone else’s apartment. It’s clean, crisp, and modern. A contrast to the dark hallways of an early 1900s Chicago building. A massage table is set up in their office and he asks me the typical questions of what’s sore, what needs work.
And then he asks me a question that will be the beginning of my awakening. He asks if he can play an audiobook, The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz. I shrug and say sure, but I’ll probably fall asleep. That’s okay.
I hear snippets. The first agreement is to be impeccable with your words. The second is don’t take anything personally. 3- Don’t make assumptions. 4- Always try your best. Woven into healing touch on my body are healing words that I may never have sought out myself.
We continue our sessions and I find myself excited to hear the rest of the book, and eventually we move on to The Power of Intention by Wayne Dyer. I learn how our thoughts and words can create our reality. Something in me recognizes the truth in this idea.
I’m invited to a free lunch event called Women’s Empower Hour and fortunately, it lands on a day that I’m not working. I’m intrigued, and if anything, it’s a free lunch. A woman named Jen Wiegel, a former TV reporter, speaks and I find myself making connections between her ideas and what I’ve learned from The Four Agreements and The Power of Intention. We each get a copy of her book, Stay Tuned, and I read the whole thing in two days. What sparks my interest is how she thanks the Universe in advance for what she wants. I’m not sure if I believe in God, but I certainly believe there’s something bigger than ourselves out there.
Meanwhile, I’m going deeper into credit card debt. My photography business has gone nowhere. I’m just able to pay rent with my wages from the restaurant and shooting some weddings on the weekends, but we’re spending $40 every few days ordering food from GrubHub because neither of us will cook. M convinces me that this is the same cost as cooking. I don’t believe him but I give in to avoid another argument.
It’s summer and I’ve started to come alive again, but I still keep my dream of moving out of Chicago. It still feels impossibly far away and I know I need to save money to make this a reality. I’m not making enough money by working at the restaurant and I decide to go back into design. The idea of thanking the Universe lights up and I decide to try it because… why not.
Thank you in advance for a job where I can be happy, pay my bills, and maybe even save and travel.
I’m thinking bare minimum here. I don’t want to ask for too much, get my hopes up and dashed. I know I can find a job that at least pays the bills. Saving and traveling still seems too far off.
I repeat the phrase every chance I get. I say it over and over. In the shower and in moments that I’m start to lose hope. “Thank you in advance for a job where I can be happy and pay my bills.” I’m afraid to ask for more. Sometimes I do. Am I worthy, am I deserving? Maybe I can save and travel.
I mention what I’m doing to M one day and he mocks and warns me. It sounds like you’re praying, he says. He’s anti-religion, anti-God, anti-anything that is remotely close to spirituality. All I know is that I’m desperate and I’ll try this in the off-chance it might work.
Thank you. Thank you in advance. Thank you thank you thank you. I imagine myself working a job that I enjoy. I imagine finally being able to pay the bills. Day after day.
And what feels like a miracle happens. I’m offered a contract position with United Airlines as a designer, making as much as I did at the Tribune.