Everyone deals with loss in their own way. Mine was to pretty much drink myself into oblivion for a two-week period. While I wouldn’t recommend it for most, it worked for me. During the day I was dead, devoid of emotion, walking and working in a trance. Coming home and getting blasted every night was a way for me to tap into my emotional existence and thereby expel it. Intoxication was a tenuous rope to walk, as alcohol is a depressant, and I was clearly already suffering, but somehow I managed a balance and made it through the period without any emotional or physical marks.
The loss of Boy was so many more things than simply the loss of Boy himself. The relationship with Boy hadn’t been just a source of happiness in my life; it had also served as a distraction. I haven’t felt on solid footing since law school graduation. The economy is up in the air. My career is up the air. My finances are pretty much in the toilet. In times like these, it’s hard not to question yourself and be tempted to wonder what if… What if I hadn’t gone to law school? I’d be sitting in Austin right now, possibly a little bored with life, but at least I could afford my rent. What if I’d gone after a BigLaw job? I’d be miserable, but again, I could pay the rent. Did I really want to practice law? I don’t know.
The relationship with Boy enabled me to sweep all of those dirty little thoughts under the rug. Yes, I was in financial and career crisis, but look at what I was doing. I was dating someone I liked, who liked me, too! This was so rare that nothing could interfere with my joy. I was growing, not as a professional, but as a person! I was maintaining something that I had rarely maintained in life! Forget my finances, this was the important stuff!
And then the bottom fell out, and I wondered if I really had been maintaining or just deluding myself. Did he ever like ME, or did he just like having someone around? Was I too stringent? Would I ever be able to pull this off? I felt like I tried so hard, and yet once again, I’d failed. I’d been patient, tried to be reserved; I would have given up almost anything just for that ONE person, that one person who stood by my side and cared about me and worked WITH me, the two of us working towards one common goal: each other.
But no, it wasn’t to be, and when I left there was nothing more that could be said rather than that I just didn’t do it for him. Where do you go from there? It’s hard to kick and scream and say, “Damn you for not loving me!” That’s not exactly something you can force on another person.
But reality…ouch. I’d been working at the publishing company for 3-4 months making next to nothing. I knew it would be that way, but I hadn’t expected to be there for so long. I hadn’t expected a hurricane to interfere with my life and my earnings, hadn’t expected the economy to nose dive right as I was leaving school. The plan, for the last six months at least, had been to work at my landlord’s office – which when it was planned had seemed like such a perfect answer. It wasn’t a formal law office, but a solo joint. Everything was a bit more casual. Like me, my landlord was a woman who lived in the gayborhood and maintained a solid self-sufficiency. She was supposed to be my mentor. She was supposed to pass the practice along to me one day.
Yet here it was November, and I was getting paid squat working at the law office one day a week. Every day I worked, my landlord moaned about business being down and the state of economy, sending me news articles discussing the dire state of the law industry. When I asked her if I should look for other jobs, she told me no, this was going to work. How, I wondered?
Where had I screwed up? I really thought this was going to be the job for me. To make matters worse, I didn’t know what I was doing. She’d ask me to put together a motion, and I’d sit at my desk for hours researching and scraping something together. And it was shit the paralegal could have done in thirty minutes.
One morning, during the week that Boy and I were in our fight, I woke up for work and cried. Why was I just delaying the inevitable? This wasn’t going to work out. Yes, it might be the perfect situation, but with my loans coming due I was never going to make enough to get out of the red. Around 10 am, I finally dragged myself into her office, hungover and dead to the world, barely even trying to keep it together. In the midst of researching a memo she snapped at me, “I can’t spend any more time on this!” and then went on to compose the writing herself.
Giving up, I grabbed my cigarettes and walked outside. A few moments later she appeared.
“What’s wrong, Ana?”
She’d asked me that several times during the morning, and I’d just shrugged in apathy, but now, figuring that it was over, I told her. Who cared if she thought I was emotionally unstable. This wasn’t going anywhere anyway. I told her about Boy and our problems. I discussed my frustration at feeling like I didn’t know how to do anything. I talked about my inability to pay my rent and my feeling like I was so completely useless in this world.
LL pulled a pack of American Spirits out of her pockets, borrowed my lighter and took a long drag.
“You know,” she exhaled, “I was a legal secretary for ten years before I went to law school. I forget how much knowledge and experience I gained from that. The paralegal may be able to pop out a form in twenty minutes, but you know what, Ana? You understand the substance of what you’re writing; you just aren’t familiar with the formats. The stuff that I can’t teach you, you already know, and that’s valuable to me. The other parts you’ll learn in time. Now I know business is bad right now, but since the day I opened the doors of this law office, I haven’t once been in the red. You’ve got to spend money to make money, and you’re an investment that I’m confident will pay off.”
I walked back inside convinced that either this woman was bat-shit crazy, or in the alternative, planned to pay me slave wages until I could produce. In salary discussions we’d determined that once I went full-time, I’d be paid a small salary along with a decent percentage of what I billed. Problem was, there didn’t seem to be enough work coming through the door for either of us to break even.
Over the next two weeks, I experienced this pain as well as the one that came with the loss of Boy. If only I could go a year or two in abject poverty, I might survive. Landlord’s plan was to let me slowly take on more and more work until she was able to come in 1-2 days a week. It could happen; I just didn’t know if I could make it until then. I was in my mid-thirties, not my mid-twenties. I was supposed to be getting married and having babies at this age, not starting from scratch and living sparingly.
And did I even like what I was doing? Once I knew how to do the job, would it be easier? Would I enjoy it? I wasn’t sure. Wouldn’t it be safer to just go back to what I’d done before law school? I would make more in the beginning, but I’d lose out over the long haul. And darn it, I thought I’d planned the thing so well. I really liked Landlord. She was gruff on the outside, but kind-hearted on the inside. They day after the election we exchanged high-fives, and LL was in disbelief that I’d stayed sober the evening before. “You could have come in hung-over,” she said, “I am.” She knew me, knew my lifestyle, and she accepted it. In some ways she seemed to understand me, see something in me.
I talked to others. Get out, they said. It won’t work. Apply for other jobs. I tended to agree and decided it was time to face reality. I put together my resume and applied for various positions, none of them law-related. It was time to be sensible. Time to let go of dreamland. Funny thing was, doing so left me with a sense of empowerment. When I went to work for LL the next week, I felt like I had more options; I didn’t have to be there. And you know what? I realized that I wanted to be there. I liked sitting in on client meetings and hearing their stories. I liked watching and learning from LL, realizing which clients would be a problem, who would and wouldn’t pay, which ones you should let go before litigation even began.
We started having company meetings on the back porch with a two cigarette minimum. One day we were out there, waiting for a client to come pick up her award check. The client, who had already told us that she planned to use the proceeds to buy a mobile home, was a little nutty, and LL and I pondered whether Client would show up to the house wielding a shotgun.
“How are things with Boy?” LL asked.
“We broke up,” I told her.
LL silently nodded her head in sympathy. “Well, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
I explained to her that as I hadn’t had a break since graduation, I planned to stay at my house recharging.
“You should come to the beach house,” she said.
I said I would, but for the dog. In the last few weeks Martha has been my little rock. I wasn’t about to leave her alone on a holiday, even if she didn’t know any different.
“Bring her!” said LL, “I bet Martha’ll love the beach.”
I told LL I’d consider it.
Later that night I met some non-lawyer friends from college for drinks. One member of the party was discussing her divorce and all of the aggravation of the whole process and the he said and she said and they said and how her lawyer was trying to get all of this paperwork, but the other side was dawdling and…
“This stuff doesn’t actually matter,” I interjected. “You have only a few assets between the two of you, and you don’t seem to want much. If you want to get out of it, all you really need is a court date.”
My friend stared at me blankly and I replied, “Sorry, I took the emotional context out of this and looked at it from a purely legal standpoint. That was pretty insensitive of me.”
“Well, it’s just that Husband did this and his lawyer says that I owe for…”
“Dude, his lawyer is just trying to scare you. You’re not legally responsible for that crap. I sure hope your lawyer told his lawyer to suck it.”
My friend looked at me agape. There my friends were in a cute little house, in their cute little outfits, with our little glasses of red wine, and here’s Ana, in jeans with wavy hair flying everywhere yelling, “That’s bullshit! Tell him to SUCK IT!”
And that, my friends, was the moment where I finally realized that I really-really do want to be a lawyer.
A day or so later LL stood in my driveway as I walked out to my car.
“You coming to the beach house next week?” she asked.
Why not. Yes. Yes, I would go to the beach house.
So there I was, finally a moment of clarity. Life was good. It might be rocky for a little while, but I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. I started moving on with life. I found that I still missed Boy, not in a romantic sense, but as friends. We’d spent so much time together that it still seemed strange to be without him in my life. One night, I was back at Boy’s bar, this time with the friend from college that I'd run into during my bender.
One of Boy’s friends walked in and wrestled my friend’s husband thinking he was Boy.
“Oh sorry,” said Boy’s friend.
“Not as sorry as I am for coming to this bar,” I thought.
The little bar was part of our routine, and I thought that I’d be comforted to be in something familiar. I didn’t realize that the bar was a little too familiar for this juncture. That night I again tromped over to Boy’s house, but this time it didn’t hurt so much. In fact, it didn’t hurt at all, and in the morning I’d wondered why I thought it was necessary. No more going to Boy’s bar I decided.
And then I was free. I started going to bed earlier, waking up rested. At night I came home to find the Wine Cube and I just smiled at it.
“I don’t need you,” I sneered, “I’m a bad-ass!”
For good measure, I spit out my tongue.
This weekend, I decided to take back control of my life. I cleaned the house, I organized, and on Sunday I sat down to do the things I’d been avoiding, one of which was deferring my student loans. For the last few months I’d told myself that a something would happen, by December I would be able to pay them, but now I realized that this wasn’t going to happen in time, and I went about figuring out the process. Checking my email, I noticed one from LL with directions to her beach house. Being productive, I mapped the route on Google.
Three hours? That’s how long Google said it would take me. Oh crap. My car breaks down if I drive it for longer than an hour at a time. What was I going to do? I couldn’t flake. For the last three weeks, I’d been too flakey and emotional around LL. Backing out might be the move that would cause my demise. Shoot! I decided to think about it later and do my loan stuff first.
I found my lender’s website and filled out the information through an automated system. When it was done a screen came back that said, “You do not qualify for financial hardship.”
How was that possible? After making my loan payment I would be left with about $600 of income. Criminy! This wasn’t fair. If I didn’t have an income then I would have certainly qualified, but the fact that I was making an effort, sludging through a mediocre hourly job made me ineligible? Damn you, lender! Damn you, the government! I was trying, trying hard to be a productive member of society. Who was I fooling? Why did I bother? Stupid, uppity little girl. How dare you try to better yourself!
Perhaps I could qualify based on last year’s income? Yes, I could, but then, I couldn’t find last year’s tax return. What the hell? I looked everywhere, then finally went online and searched the website that I’d filed through.
“Sorry, our system is currently undergoing upgrades and your information is not available.”
I went out to the front porch and cried, but not before I poured myself several glasses of wine. Sobbing, I texted Boy.
“I know I’m not you’re problem anymore,” I told him, “but if you could come over as a friend, I would really appreciate it.”
Immediately he replied, “Honestly I would, but I’ve got a work function to attend. Maybe tomorrow?”
“It’s okay,” I responded, “I shouldn’t have asked to begin with.”
Beating my head against the door post, I wondered what was wrong with me. Why had I contacted him? Yes, I’d felt weak. Yes, I’d wanted some stability, but I should have known better! He dumped you, you idiot! He doesn’t care anymore! It doesn’t matter that you still feel some anxiety from the separation. It’s over, Ana. IT’S OVER! Why can’t you get that into your tiny little head? Let him go!
This was it. I was done trying. I couldn’t do this anymore. I curled up into a ball on my patio chair and continued to sniff and snot all over myself.
“HELLOOOO! IT’S THE MEAT FAIRY COMING TO PAY YOU A VISIT!”
What the fuck?
I pulled up my head, puffy-eyed and red-faced to see Alex walking up my sidewalk.
“Geezus, what happened to you?” he asked and took me into his arms.
As it turns out, Alex had gone home to the Hill Country for the weekend…and brought me back some BBQ. Weepily, I told him the entire story.
“You can have my truck,” he said.
“REALLY?”
“Yes, you can drive a standard, right?”
“No, BUT I CAN LEARN. I’m a real good learner! THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!”
Alex was leaving town on Tuesday, but we agreed to meet Monday for my training. As he got up from the table, Alex pulled a link out of his bag and placed it top of the brisket wrapped in butcher paper.
“Because you’re having a bad day,” he said.
“Dude, not only have you sat here and comforted me, promised to teach me how to drive and let me drive your car to Timbukto, but you’ve also realized that in my darkest hour, sometimes all a girl needs is a little sausage.”
“You do like your sausage,” he said.
“And it’s been awhile since I’ve had some,” I agreed.
The next evening I met Alex for my lesson. I herked and jerked all over the stadium parking lot of Other-University until I was pulled over by the O-UPD.
“Either you’re having major vehicular problems, or you’re learning how to drive a standard,” the cop laughed.
After two hours, I grew tired. This was my only chance to learn, but I was worn out. Alex drove the truck back to his house and as we got out, handed me the key. Surely, he wasn’t going to let me take it. I was awful. I mean, I was getting there, but I was definitely not ready to drive almost 200 miles.
“I know you can do it,” he said and walked inside.
Tuesday I sat at work debating. Could I really do it? If only I had one or two more lessons, I was sure I could, but Alex had already left town. While composing yet another memo, Gmail told me I had some email.
“Helloooo!” it said. “I’m the stick shift fairy! I hear from the meat fairy that you’re trying to learn how to drive a standard! Wouldn’t you know, I give free lessons! Call me!”
The email was from the girl who threw the Recession party last week, you know, the piano major-turned investment banker–turned driving instructor. I don’t know this girl very well, we’ve only met a few times, and as such, I was completely touched by her kindness. We got together, and after another two hours of work, I felt much better about the drive. Afterwards I shared a glass of wine, and she shared a loaf of olive bread. By the end of the night, I felt as if I’d made a new friend.
And the other stuff? Well, kudos to the gay boy at Sunday brunch who informed me that I could get a copy of my tax return from the IRS. It won’t come for two weeks which means that I have to pay my loans this month. It will be tight, but I think I can do it. And as for the job? This week LL handed me a file. I was to prepare a plaintiff’s petition, and as usual, I read through the entire file. At the bottom of every file is the employment agreement outlining LL’s fees. As this was a new client, my rate was included. I read the letter and gasped. LL listed the “associate rate” at more than twice what I’d expected. I’d underestimated my worth, but thank goodness for LL. She knew my potential. At that rate, I will definitely be able to feed myself.
Today, I walked to Alex’s house and drove the car back to my place. And guess what? Flawless.
And so on this eve of Thanksgiving I’d like to give thanks – for all the friends who believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. You fill me with awe.
