Chapter 4

My phone buzzed. “Can someone take me shift from 11 AM to 4:15 PM on Wednesday?” The svelte barista with the heavily lined eyes underneath her perfect bangs asked in the group chat made up of all the baristas working at our Long Island town branch. I had off that Wednesday, but the timing fell in line with the hours I usually work, between noon and six in the evening. As much as I mourn working there, counting down the minutes until my shift is over as soon as I arrive, working there meant less time consumed by thoughts of my body and how I really should be moving it, exercising. It also meant banking more money, and taking a slight pleasure at seeing a newfound financial independence. Just as I was about to tell her that yes, I could cover her for that shift, it dawned on me that I was planning on quitting any day. I was just waiting for the paid internship opportunity that I had applied for to come through.

I must have gone on hundreds of interviews for entry-level editorial positions at both traditional print and digital publications, including TIME Magazine, The New Yorker, Fortune Magazine, Marie Claire Magazine, and People Magazine. I applied to a paid internship that was writing centric. It was located on Liberty Street in Manhattan and the location could not be more apt for how I was to soon feel – liberated. I straightened my hair two separate times, before 7 AM. I took notes, rehearsed, memorized and researched. I went through two separate interviews and a writing exam that I handed in, confidently, practicing the method of being positive to attract positive energy. I thought I had the position, no questions asked, and for once was expecting an offer. My father and I were already conspiring for me to finally gain independence and freedom from the eating disorder’s grip not only over me, but over the minds of everyone in my household who were wary about me even taking a walk or lifting a grocery bag. We were planning on rentals in the city so I wouldn’t have to travel. We were confident. We were expectant.

I figured I could take her shift anyway because the offer had not come just yet and even if it did, the job certainly wouldn’t start the next day. I took her shift. And immediately after, I was notified by email that I did not get the position as a paid intern. “Best of luck in your search,” they wished me. They didn’t know that my search has been 7 years long. It has been 7 years since I graduated from journalism school. I had no control over my career stagnancy. First I inhaled deeply and then I let out an audible yelp, something stronger than a whimper, before tears streaked my face and I was sobbing in the passenger side of my father’s car, on my way home from work at the café. I was devastated.