Out of the Basement

Once upon a time, I woke up on a sunny June morning and realized that my life wasn’t going the way it was supposed to. In fact, it wasn’t going anywhere at all.

I dragged myself out of bed and padded to the bathroom. On my way to the toilet, I accidentally looked into the mirror. To say that it wasn’t a pretty sight is an understatement.

Who was that pudgy, middle-aged lady staring back at me!?

When I moved to Oak Park, Illinois, in 2020, after a couple of years in my life that can only be described as “the shitstorm of the century”, one of my goals was to start taking care of myself again and to get my body (and my face) back.

Based on the evidence in the mirror, the project had failed. Miserably.

Somehow, three years later, I looked even less like myself. I had packed on almost thirty pounds. My belly was hanging over the edge of my pajama pants as if I were pregnant. I had a double chin. My skin was dull. I was slouching and couldn’t straighten my back even when I tried.

And it wasn’t just my looks.

It was everything.

On my way to the kitchen, I started making a mental list of all the other things that were wrong in my life. 

By the time I brewed a pot of coffee, the list had become disturbingly long.

I was living in a cute vintage apartment in the basement of an old building that I adored but hadn’t found the time or energy to decorate. The walls were just as bare as when I moved in, and not a single houseplant in sight.

Chicago, with its vibrant theatre scene, was literally across the street from Oak Park, but how many times did I go to see a play? Once. In three years! And that was only thanks to my best friend, who purchased the tickets for my birthday, picked me up, drove me to the theatre, and brought me back home.

And speaking of friends, I barely had any. Those few that I saw since I moved to the basement had to come over to visit me because I wasn’t willing to drive anywhere; partly because I was always tired, and partly because I was intimidated by Chicago traffic.

My social life was as good as dead.

I spent my nights and weekends curled up with a book or walking around the neighborhood with my two little dogs. A trip to the library was the highlight of my week, although I did go wild a couple of times and ventured to the local Trader Joe’s, and once I even had a coffee and a crepe at Addis Café on Oak Park Ave on Saturday morning. Go, me!

Overall, I had the energy and the lifestyle of a seventy-year-old.

Yet I was only forty-five! It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I had a clear vision of what my life would look like once I moved.

I would find a job that actually paid the bills. My basement apartment would be Instagram-worthy, furnished and decorated with rare finds from local thrift and antique shops. I would fill my huge walk-in closet with cute, quirky outfits. My weekends would be busy with theatre plays, concerts, art galleries, and museums. I would take the dogs to Montrose Beach or for a hike in a forest preserve every Sunday, and then we would have dinner in one of Chicago’s many dog-friendly restaurants. I would sign up for cooking classes at The Chopping Block. I would become fluent in Spanish. I would meet new people and make new friends. My life would become one big, exciting adventure.

And obviously, in the midst of all this, I would also somehow find the time and energy to become a successful popular fiction writer.

Yeah, right!

As I sat by my kitchen table sipping my coffee, I tried to remind myself that not all my plans failed. For example, I did manage to find a job that paid the bills, which was a nice change compared to my past jobs. I loved the hospital where I worked as a social worker/case manager, and I was looking forward to going to work every Monday morning.

That was something, right?

But no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t all doom and gloom, I couldn’t deny that overall, my life had become as stale as a forgotten slice of bread.

I was still relatively young, single, and childfree. Except for my dogs, I didn’t have to take care of anyone but myself. I had total freedom.

How many women of my age could say that?

But all I did was bury myself in my basement, which had become my safe space and my sanctuary, but also, in a way, my prison.

When I move to an assisted living facility one day, I thought, I’m not going to have any exciting memories.

It was not a happy thought.

And so on that morning, before I finished my coffee, I decided to take radical responsibility for my life. It was time to stop surviving and to start living.

It was time to get out of the basement.