I realized talking to a friend of mine that very few of my friends know my entire Chicago experience. I have my reasons----it's very difficult to talk about, and its an area of my life I'd like to forget sometimes. But I also know that it is part of my life, and it belongs to me. Like that nasty burn scar on my left leg that refuses to fade. The story isn't "ME" but it is a part of "ME". In a series of notes, I'm going to detail what happened from the moment I stepped off the plane in Chicago, to the moment when I returned to Pittsburgh, bruised, battered, depressed, and suicidal. As a therapist, I feel that the stigma of mental illness has us in a chokehold, and only by speaking our truths will the hold be broken. Here is the first of....many notes that detail my experience as both a budding practioner and recipient of mental health services. Here's my truth.
In May of 2005, I graduated from Chatham College (now University). Needless to say, I was thrilled. I FINALLY had a B.A. in Psychology, and I was ready to tackle the world.
"I'm gonna do great things! People are gonna be HEALED!" I thought to myself as I framed and admired my degree. "Awesome, I'm gonna make money." If I only knew....
I started my first real job search. I looked everywhere and had interviews. I talked to people, got phone numbers, got contacts, and just KNEW my life was going to change.
"Yes, gonna make a change. And money."
What I failed to realize was that with a simple B.A. in Psychology, at most I was able to get beat up and cursed out in group homes. Well, for me, this was a step in the right direction. But then I bumped up into the ugly truth: The REAL money comes with a Master's degree or higher.
"Well damn," I said, "I guess I have to go to graduate school." Okay. So I began to look into programs. I found one program in Chicago that specialized in Forensic Psychology. Being very interested in the field, I decided to apply. In the midst of this, I ended up finding a job at a group home in Wilkinsburg, and applied. I got the phone call that I was accepted into grad school on Tuesday, and got my new job on Wednesday.
After 3 months, it was time to move.
"Yeah! Grad school! Chicago!" I was PUMPED. Until I got there and saw what I was up against.
I have to stop here for a second to explain my situation a bit. See, there were a total of 6 things that had to take place in order for this move to be successful.
1. I needed a job. This was just how it was. With experience in check processing, I knew this would be a breeze. Who doesn't love a check processor? How hard can it be to find a job doing that?
2. I had to move my crap. Keep in mind that I'd already been living on my own for 3 years by this time, and in the words of George Carlin, I had a lot of crap. No problem, I thought. I can just get a truck and drive it all up there. A breeze.
3. My section 8 housing had to be successfully transferred within a certain 2-week period. This is a little known fact about yours truly. While in Chatham, I worked at night, went to school during the day, and slept never. The Section 8 voucher kept my rent low enough so I could work part time, and keep my mind on school work. Section 8 is transferable anywhere in the country. How hard could it be to transfer my housing?
4. I needed a place to live. This was directly influenced by #3.
5. I needed my student loan checks to come ON TIME. I worked out that for the first 2 or so months, I would have to live on the checks. So then needed to come on time, no excuses.
6. I had to have a phone. There was no other way to keep in contact with my family and friends to let them know how I was. I HAD to have my cell phone, on and working at ALL times.
Six little requirements. That's all I needed. And it's not like they were HARD, they were easy. This wasn't psychobiology, I could do this. So I thought.
I knew I was in trouble when classes started on August 28th instead of September 3rd like I originally thought. "Shit!" I thought to myself. "My lease isn't up until August 31st. What the hell am I going to do?" I made a drastic decision: I would go up to Chicago, stay for the first few days of classes, come back to Pittsburgh, close off my apartment, get my security deposit, and beat a path back to Chi-town. Should be easy, right? After all I'd done the hard part: Putting in a transfer of my Section 8 voucher. A little glitch, but this should be gravy after this. My first two weeks in Chicago I stayed with a friend, of a friend, of a friend of my mom's. "It's all good!" I thought. "She DID say I would have the guest room." The guest room turned out to be an air matress. In her studio apartment. Oy. Okay, let's digest this. No privacy, and no personal space for EITHER of us. No biggie. I told Ms. "Liv" that I would be at her house for 2 weeks, tops. By then the voucher for section 8 would have been successfully transfered, and I'd be able to find a nice place to live in. Just 2 short weeks. What can possibly go wrong in 2 weeks?
I did live close to school, and walked every morning. My first day of classes I wore my Chatham College t-shirt and my brand new Gap jeans from my grandma, and happily marched the 10 blocks to school (Chicago is all flat. It ain't like Pittsburgh hills. A Pittsburgher can walk 5 miles in Chicago and never feel it.) My classes were AWESOME and I learned so much. I was a forensic psychology SPONGE. I loved the city, and would entertain myself for hours riding the L-trains in the city to learn my way around. Across the street from my school, there was a building called The Merchandise Mart that had a number of great places to eat. I had my first chicken gyro, KICK-ASS Italian pizza, and the best burger I'd ever eaten from that place that was parodied on SNL in the 70s. You know, the "Cheeburga, cheeburga" guys? Yeah, there. And it's true---They only sell cheeseburgers, chips and Pepsi. I also became fast friends with the eldery man who managed the Mrs. Fields on the second floor. I was doing well that first week. I'd gotten to my classes, was able to get back to Pittsburgh to pack up my apartment, and was living off of my meager security deposit. My Aunt Megan was an ABSOLUTE GEM and paid for my big furniture to stay in a storage unit in Pittsburgh until I found a place in Chicago. I took the essentials with me to Chicago, and left everything else here. I put extra money down on my phone bill, and squirrled away some cash for my new place that had yet to materialize.
At home, things weren't going as well. Ms "Liv" began to make noise: "I need money for rent. You cost money. Where is some money?" Knowing that my refund check was due, I was able to hold her off for a short period of time. I couldn't figure out why the check hadn't come in. It had been about two weeks since school started, and I was guranteed the check on one week. I visited the finance office to figure it out. Conversation went a bit like this:
Me:"Hi, I haven't recieved my refund check yet. I filled out the direct deposit forms, but I haven't gotten anything in my account."
Man behind the desk: "Well, it says here it went out 3 days ago. Are you sure you filled out the forms correctly?"
Me (In a cold sweat): "Yes, I triple checked everything to make sure it went through. Do you mean my money is lost?"
Man behind the desk: "Don't worry, give it until tommorrow. It will be there."
It wasn't there tomorrow, or the day after that. I started to panic. How was I going to pay for an apartment with no money? How was I gonna wake up and face Ms. "Liv"? I broke out in a cold sweat every morning for 2 weeks when I called the bank, only to hear: "Your balance is $5.14." Then I had to face Ms. "Liv" again, telling her that the money still hadn't come.
I called my mother one day, practically in tears: "Mom, I don't have any money, and I don't know where my check is. I'm cold, and I'm hungry, and Ms. Liv wears this really scary wig...."
"Calm down," my mother told me kindly. "Give me the number, I will call him and figure out what is going on."
I hung up, and went back to the office. I called the bank again (it had become a ritual by now) allowing myself to get my hopes up.
"Your balance is $5.14."
I ran out of the building and across the street. I called my mom again.
"Mommy help. The money isn't there. I'm scared." She hung up the phone, and about 5 minutes later, the man from the finance office came across the street to get me. "We're going to work it out, don't worry," he said patting my arm.
Turns out another student got her check AND mine. She was quite pleased when she had a refund of $8000.
"Okay, we got to the bottom of this. It's okay, today is Wednesday, money will be there by Friday at the latest." And, sure enough, when I called Thursday morning: "Your account balance is $4005.14." Crisis aborted.
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