In 2013 I found myself in a place I didn’t believe one could fall to.
The regional manager from a luxury hotel chain (we’ll have more on this in 2018) had flown me to New York and in Times Square at the top of the Marriott told me who’s blonde hair I found in his bed (he let me have this space to my own in his $2 M dollar house) and who was also the owner of the curling iron and Big Sexy Hair Spray I found tucked away in the top drawer of his dresser.
I suppose before this I wasn’t in a good place if I had allowed this situation into my life.
Trials and tribulations of the rich and spoiled, right?
My yoga instructor, and friend took me to lunch and slapped the utensils down and said, “You let him. This happened because you let him.”
Needless to say, I was called “crazy” because of all of the extra women surrounding our island love affair, my brand new convertible melted and I was simply too tired to care anymore. I wasn’t prepared for the human experience and my wealth came from busting my dimpled butt cheeks ten-plus hours a day. At the end the end of the day, no matter how much slack I cut people to prove they were of the same cut as my doting father and older brother, a let down always proceeded a meltdown.
I’m pretty sure while my brother was dating Kate he didn’t keep an extra toothbrush in his flat, and a drawer full of Victoria’s Secret lotions, sprays and female hair products.
At the end of the day I also knew the capabilities I had. Those which will land my mug on billboards across the state.
I cried so much and suffered so much distress I believe the island priest felt like a failure and transferred to the mainland after telling me after confession, “You are bright. You have to forget about these people and the negativity and go out there and look for the joy.”
Those words stuck with me.
I started to “Look for the Joy”, only more situations weren’t “working out.”
I had to learn how to take responsibility for my life. I felt guilty for my talents. I felt guilty about everything I had earned for nearly two decades. I believed my broadcast colleagues would be thrilled to have me on their team because of my local ties to Cleveland and because “I could write”.
The interaction was the opposite.
Which led me to the The Secret Gratitude Book by Rhonda Byrne.
I had leased my downtown loft to a hospital CEO and apparently he was struggling in the sense of a text book case. I returned to my loft after being called by the developer because he wrecked his Maserati in the parking garage totaling three other vehicles in the process to find anti-depressants, vomit, porn, a yoga mat and gratitude book (plus more) in my chic space.
I cleaned up and then gave away nearly everything he had brought in. Except this journal book. I opened the pages and started jotting notes.
My life hadn’t turned out the way I had planned. The pages written for me were better than what i could have written by myself. I wrote what I was grateful for.
My family, my puppy dog, our home on the river. Sometimes the items were ultra-simple clean socks, fresh towels, clean sheets, multiple blankets, ten fingers, ten toes, two hands and two feet. Of course my dad, Beverly and for food in the fridge and who could live without sparkling water and a wrinkle-free forehead.
I was also thankful some people were no longer part of my life. Sadly, and I didn’t know this until I was almost forty, some people find joy in inflicting psychological and emotional pain onto others.
But, only if you let them.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Surround yourself with people who love you and “Look for the Joy”! I’m pretty sure the Bishop of Cleveland retired because I wore him out with my whining because I couldn’t see what to be grateful for.