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VIII

Businesswoman’s Transcendent Burden

Sometimes arbitrary thoughts can intrude on my day like a guest who doesn’t know when to leave, and whose main purpose in life is to distract me from more important matters. Occasionally, such as this morning, it is a dream I cannot escape. Other times it can be the slightest impact a person has on your mood, an unexpected challenge, and sometimes discomforting thoughts that are unprovoked, but still inescapable. I guess speaking about avoided subjects is what therapists get paid for. Having someone else listen, but also being able to hear yourself can sometimes be beneficial, though most of the associates that I know who pursue mental health treatment are more interested in the psychiatric end of things than the psychological.

Although I can’t deny there’s an allure to certain kinds of psychiatric remedies. I have avoided going that route because I believe that pain is there to remind you something is not right; it is a necessary evil. They have created drugs that allow you to avoid having to handle almost anything. If a pill could stop me from having such intense dreams, what type of pill will they prescribe me during the day, when my mind hasn’t been able to rely on my subconscious to vent while I sleep? Maybe this is pure superstition, or my insecurity at the thought of relinquishing any part of my control to a drug, or another person the ability to see into my mind, but I fear psychiatric drugs are major issues in the United States. It is wise to be aware of your surroundings, and even though this awareness is embedded in most of us as a defense mechanism, many people willfully lag in that area while relying on expensive treatments that hinder it. When someone becomes complicit in such a way, they forfeit intuitive accountability. Between those who numb themselves, those who become a prisoner of a marketed ego and the vast majority of unhealthy addictions poisoning humanity, there are certainly more people asleep than awake to the sickened condition of society. Those who are partially awake find themselves in a position of being sharks among fish, and some will use that dynamic to manipulate to get what they want. I’d be lying if I profess to have not done this during my adolescent phase, but karma came at me hard and fast when I tried that route. At this point in my life, I use the gift of persuasion for good, and even though it’s futile most of the time, I try to wake as many people as I can while attempting to stretch my arms and awake even further. However, I sometimes make tiny use of a world that sleeps. For instance, I expect most people to misinterpret my body language unless I’m making it a point to be obvious. Today my body language will resemble last night’s effects on my mood; however, it would be impossible for anyone to gather the full extent of my thoughts or pick up on body language cues that would suggest more. I take this into account when I read other people’s body language too, but as an empath, I am capable of feeling people’s vibes, and I make an effort to correlate those vibes with body language. I do not profess to be adept at reading people’s thoughts, and I am fully aware that I may know nothing regarding the thoughts that perpetuate people’s emotions, but I am fairly on point while assessing people around me. One of the wisest realizations I’ve had is that assumption isn’t equal to certainty, especially in regards to people. Sadly, my environment is always busy with people who haven’t sacrificed enough of their ego to admit they are just as ignorant to my thoughts as I am theirs, and I sometimes dislike their crazy interpretations. Frustrated with the idea of dealing with people today makes it harder to push aside the question of medication, where I can be peacefully numb for the day, but I do it once more in the name of “self-control and awareness.”

What an alien feeling to be here, in my second home, before the sun rises, with the office quiet and motionless. It could easily be mistaken for late evening. In a couple of hours, the silence will be replaced by fax machines, the clatter of computer keypads, chattering voices, and slamming metal filing cabinet drawers. There are a select few that are always here early to finish their last-minute projects before my anticipated arrival.

However, I trust my employees to manage their own time, and it makes sense that they would center their work on my typical arrival time. It is out of character for me to be on time one day and early the next. There will probably be nervous apprehension around the office for weeks to come.

The smell of coffee begins to scent the office delicately. The darkness is brought to an abrupt halt as blinding neon lights flip on in the corner office directly across from mine. Fortunately, the entire floor is full of windows, and by the time everyone is here, gentle daylight overtakes the harsh, unnatural lighting.

The smell of coffee by now has become quite alluring, and I guess I could use the wake-up. I grab one of those cliché coffee cups with a Capricorn symbol on it. I am an Aries, but I tend to get along well with earth signs such as Capricorns and Tauruses. My office and homelife are full of people that carry their earth sign surprisingly well. I grabbed this particular cup because I love the petite yet sturdy handle. Finding that perfect coffee cup is similar to finding the perfect pair of jeans. It’s all about the comfort, size, and weight.

On the way to the coffee machine, I catch a quick look of myself in the reflection of my mirror-tinted office windows. Without being too obvious, I try to get a full body perspective. I look rather well—my hair not as tightly fastened as usual, loosely curled locks falling into place as if I have done it on purpose. My tightly fitted attire is complimenting and sleek. The dark-blue pantsuit, just a shade lighter than black, contrasts favorably with my ivory complexion. I catch a glimpse of my overworked and overtired face. It doesn’t matter, as I am sure that everything placed around it will serve as a distraction until I have had a cup or two of coffee. I make my way over to the other side of the office, pretending to ignore the furtive glances of my employees direct towards me as I pass.

To my delight, my desk has been cleaned, with nothing but a pile of finished projects stacked in the center. Reaching into my purse to grab my BlackBerry for an overview of today’s schedule, a scrap of paper falls out:

Mistress Fran Mongiello

Psychic & Paranormal Research

Its peculiar appearance twists my thoughts back to the abstract, and I remember the strange old woman handing me her card yesterday at the museum.

It looked like she had it made at Kinko’s, like any other weirdo with a big idea, but that doesn’t confirm or deny whether she’s a legit psychic. Noticing that the address below her title is one I’m familiar with, I’m struck with the urge to track her down. I am certain that a “normal” life is not exactly possible for someone like me. I am by nature overanalytical, as well as intrigued by the obscure, so my curiosity never allows me to walk away. You cannot turn something like that off. I can only ignore my impulses to search too far for everything. My life consists of multitasking, and I keep all of my priorities separate, organized by their importance and value. My interests are typically last on my inexhaustible schedule. Fragments of my dream and overwhelming curiosity have been sneaking past the defenses of my priorities, and I need to get a grip, so I flick the card towards the trash, but it misses and flutters under my desk. For a moment I wonder if I should consider keeping the card or aiming for the trash a second time. On the one hand, keeping card will lead me into another nonbusiness and nonfamily rabbit hole that I more than likely won’t have enough time to attempt.

Maybe my poor aim is a sign that I shouldn’t throw it away. I suppose that I might someday need to vent to a crazy old woman who thinks she knows me. I laugh quietly to myself. If we spoke, no one would ever know, and I am sure that nobody would take her seriously if she revealed anything discussed. Figuring out how to surmount bizarre frustrations through a stranger that seems to ride the crazy train to a place of beautiful art during her final years could be a tempting conversation too. More than this, I’m just intrigued by our exchange at the museum. I’m curious why she—or anyone, really—would approach me on a day I was out looking for an answer, rather than seeking an escape. When I took the card, I had no real intentions of calling her. I saved the card to capture the moment—the way a pack rat clings to otherwise meaningless objects to physically collect a memory. It was a strange moment in my world when this seemingly crazy old woman was bold enough to invade my space and make me remember her by way of force. Not that I profess to be completely sane either. At times I believe that the only thing that makes it possible for me to omit the potential that I am completely insane is the fact that I’m still accountable enough to question my sanity. I’d also try to consider believing someone if they had the balls to tell me when I’m acting crazy. I suppose that I also have some tactics to suppress or hide certain nutty aspects of myself. For instance, my eccentricity is well disguised behind my business face; my sexual appetite is controlled in the name of monogamy, and I prioritize my family over my esoteric interests. Without this trinity of self-employed strategy, I’d probably seem as mad as the old lady at the museum. Though while under my subjective scope, her craziness is certainly more obvious than mine.

As expected, the office chaos has been building up to its pace since I’ve been sitting here contemplating my private agenda and Mistress Fran. Getting some composure before I address my office will be necessary. Sucking in any outward evidence of the questions swirling in my mind, I walk into the open floor space. The thirteenth story office building that I own and all of my obedient employees are awaiting my direction.

A hearty, motivational, and one-sided discussion ensues, which leaves me feeling inexplicably drained. I want nothing more than to be a recluse in my office.