PART IV: ADDICTED TO AMBITION

College was brutal. I struggled to pay attention without Adderall, which wasn’t necessarily a medical suggestion as much as it was indicative of an aversion to dry lecture halls. I was a psychology major, and I really didn’t understand my learning style until I leaned into a seeker path to study human behavior. The open field of interacting with people’s neurosis in conjunction with my own, and drawing evidence of the deeper story, felt more natural to me. Hence, my attraction to the hospitality industry. 

I felt the same yearning for a non traditional approach when I began my healing path to recover wholeness. Dressing clients at Sharp Dressed Man cracked me open to the feeling of pure love & joy and reminded me of who I really was.  While this weekly stint of volunteer work provided a reprieve, I couldn’t shake the intolerable discomfort of being in my body. A pattern of consistently gunning for what appeared “hard” or uncomfortable developed, which became my means for feeling something. 

I acted as a typical female millennial living in Washington DC when I shared an overall disgust of myself to a casual friend over an overpriced dirty martini that I couldn’t afford. After twenty minutes of stewing, she asked, “How woo-woo are you?” 

I replied, “I will be as woo-woo as I need to not feel this emotional pain anymore.”

She recommended a psychic intuitive that helped her move through some major ego blocks and bring clarity to the direction in which her soul was trying to take her. My curiosity and desperation brought me to my knees, and I booked an appointment with the woo-woo psychic while gulping down the last of my “self care” budget.  

Along with downtrodden Baltimore convicts, I am able to add Amanda Rieger Green, intuitive psychic and medium, to my list of spiritual guides. During the first reading, she spoke to a hidden part of me that laid dormant for the last 32 years. I couldn’t say whether this women was fucking insane or insanely gifted, but I surrendered to her empowered words either way.  As she fired off words like “freedom,” “reciprocity,” “receiving,” and “interdependence”, I was enthralled by the speed of her rapid channeling and deep Texas draw. “Is Dolly Parton on the line giving me a psychic reading?” I wonder.

I broke open after being confronted with the interweaving of my internal experience. It was wildly amusing. I was aware that something greater than myself had taken over, and I was ready for the information.  For the first time in my life, I felt an awakening and was ready to take responsibility for all aspects for my existence. I listened to the recording of our session over and over and took notes, studying my own inner wisdom as awakenings began to take place. 

I grieved. I accepted the deeper emotional complications stemming from the sexual and emotional trauma I suffered through as a child. I allowed myself to heal.  I wanted to learn. The puzzle pieces began to fit and a picture of why I am the way I am slowly appeared. 

The world looked different and slightly intentional. My intuition blossomed like an unraveling tulip bud. I couldn’t stop seeking. For the unforeseeable future, I continued down the seeker path. I invested in spiritual learning and created empowering routines that awakened my younger, disassociated self. 

In the meantime, I have no clue what to do with my career. I left the cushy executive job, the mansion, and the perks. I have no plan except to take time and figure it out. I took a part-time job selling fancy housewares in a beautiful shop that catered to the “Real Housewives of DC.” My choice to leave my post in the mansion to wrap holiday presents and sell Italian ceramics confused my neighbors and acquaintances. I also tended bar on a party yacht where my work uniform entailed a relaxed polo shirt or a one piece sexy sailor costume. My arm muscles became strong while pouring fireball “shotskis’ to GW Graduates. To say I was humbled, happy and free was an understatement. 

I loved spending my summer weekends frolicking down to the dock, slinging Red Bull vodkas, and sweating to the late night energy of the crowd.

 At the same time, my ego felt shame. I worried that I would be made fun of for this downward career spiral. I constantly prayed, hoping that I wouldn’t see anyone from my past who saw me as “somebody” and now would see me as I actually was–just a human being. I screamed internally to my pretentious UPenn college aged customers, “Do you know who I am? I was somebody!” In my head, I rattled off all of my accomplishments that brought me finite joy, and I could feel my defenses building. I had two false beliefs butting up against each other: I can either be successful and hate my life or I can struggle financially and live in my joy. The next few years were going to test these beliefs in real time as I peeled back the layers of the onion. To be continued.