Clara Claims to Know It All (a manuscript)

PROLOGUE 

A life is a life, is a life, is a chance to have lived. 

It’s the reason you hit ‘stop’ instead of ‘snooze’ when your morning alarm wakes you suddenly out of a blissful state of subconsciousness. 

The driving force behind you, putting one foot in front of the other, as you make your way out the front door and into the great unknown of another day on earth. 

It is the reason I’ve decided to stop living for anyone or anything else…but me. 

CHAPTER ONE

Six months earlier

I’m a rightful mess; Alright, maybe that’s erring on the side of dramatic. But, I believe that anyone with two working eyes and a penchant for critical thinking would take one look at me and think nothing else. 

My mom tells me it’s all in my head, that I'm just like any other 25 year old. My therapist claims just the same. Maybe it’s my narrow-sighted view of my circumstances, but against all logic and reasoning, I feel that I’m nothing short of the human embodiment of Taylor Swift’s “Anti-hero,”. 

On paper, I did everything right; graduated college with the highest honors, shortly thereafter got my Master’s. Yet, here I am, in the same town I took my first steps in, working a job that couldn’t be further from what I envisioned for myself. 

I take the not-so subtle prods to appreciate what I have in stride, but not without frustration. There’s no feeling quite as complex as knowing you’re meant for something greater, but having no idea how or when you’ll get there, or what it even is for that matter.

I spend hours a week, lying prone on my bed, doom-scrolling instagram, as my former colleagues’ and friend’s wildly successful lives play out in the confines of a tiny, filtered square. Asking myself why I haven’t found a cute, aesthetic studio apartment in the west village? Why am I not traipsing along the coast of Southern France on my billionaire-dollar company’s generous PTO?

I know; I’ve read the self-help books, I’ve seen the infographics, and heard the Ted-Talks. I’m the sole perpetrator behind my crippling insecurity and dopamine deficiency, and there’s not an ounce of pity I deserve. But I can’t stop, and frankly I won’t stop comparing myself to the millions of young, successful professionals whose lives bear no significance to my own. I am the bane of my own existence. 

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“Do you ever put that damn thing down, Clara bean,” my mother asked under her breath, as she strode two steps behind me, making up for the lost ground between us with her mutterings of disapproval.

“Mother, you know my will to live is derived exclusively from my ability to know anything and everything with just the swipe of a finger,” I quipped, hiding my sneer underneath my thick woolen scarf, as we marched forward, on our way to our weekly coffee and croissant dates at our local haunt, Beansy Brew.

“You joke dear, but it’s a serious addiction. Your generation is controlled by handheld devices. You’re taking all the power away from yourself, and letting that thing dictate how you live your life. Seriously, Clara, I’m just one ‘swipe’ away from staging an intervention,” she shook her head, as we reached our destination. Shuffling into the cute, curated cafe, I savored the warm refuge from the bitter January chill. We made our way to the counter, where a new barista with electric blue hair and more piercings on their face than the fingers on their hands, stared at me expectantly. 

“Dirty chai please, with an extra shot. She’ll have the same,” I motioned behind me, at my still heated mother, who gently pushed me aside to politely ask for a pain au chocolat to accompany our vessels of caffeine. 

The barista, who apparently was incapable of speaking, hastily placed the decadent pastry on a worn ceramic plate and practically threw it on the counter before shuffling to the espresso machine to get started on our drinks. 

“Should we…observe them? Can’t say I have too much faith in this one,” I whispered, shuddering at the thought of anything less than a perfect cup; as if its outcome was the sole determinant of whether today would be a good day or not. I could tell from the look on my mom’s face that she found my comment equal parts condescending and rude. I gave a half-hearted shrug, as if to excuse my calculated outburst of condescension as a mere slip of the tongue.

“Two dirty chai’s,” the harried barista yelped, delivering the drinks on the hard linoleum with the same reckless gusto. I chanced a glance at my mother, and smugly noted a look of acknowledgement that maybe my suspicions of the barista’s qualifications weren’t so premature after all. 

We took our seats in our best-kept secret nook of the coffee shop, tucked quietly in the far back left, unencumbered by the loud squeals of steaming milk and raucous conversation between the staff and other patrons. 

As I eased into the worn leather of my favorite chaise lounge chair, taking a cautious first sip, I felt an unfamiliar weight of tension hanging in the balance. My mom maintained her watchful gaze on me over the steaming porcelain she held to her mouth, looking at me so intently, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was counting every visible pore on my nose, every wisp of hair that was strewn out of place.

“When are you going to leave that awful job, Clara?” the words left her mouth, carried by an exasperated sigh. As if it took running a marathon through mud to get such a simple question out. 

I felt my face begin to flush, my fingers tingle, and my brain slowly shut down. I’m always shocked by how easily words can penetrate my skin, inciting a visceral reaction that I can’t shake. I take slow, labored breaths; recalling the breathing exercises I learned from that one meditation session I booked through class pass last month. In for four, out for-

“I mean, you can’t be happy working in such a desolate place, and for such little pay! You’re worth more than that, honey,” she continued. If my mother had any idea of the physical distress she was causing me, she sure as hell showed no signs of it. 

After a considerable pause, the thoughts swirling around in the ethers of my mind could finally be parsed down to a suitable reply.

“You act like it’s so easy to just up and leave and have a respectable, well-paying job just lying in wake, waiting to provide me with excellent health insurance, a robust 401k plan, and a generous PTO package,” I spat. 

Okay, so not my finest hour. In my defense, that same meditation class didn’t cover deescalation tactics.

My mother took a beat, clearly the calmer of the two of us, ever the voice of reason and unbridled wisdom. She set her mug down gently on the formica table between us, and leaned forward, eyeing me thoughtfully. 

“Well, have you sent your resume out anywhere lately?” she inquired. 

I closed my eyes in silent frustration, hoping to have suddenly gained the supernatural ability to teleport to literally anywhere but here. I could all but feel the weight of the last two years of dead-end soul-searching, existential dread, and involuntary complacency closing in on me. As if it were the elephant in the room that finally decided to make its presence known. 

“Mom, please. I’m not in a place right now to re-route my life as I know it. I’m a big girl, I can forge my own career path without your incessant questions. Thank you,” I finally managed. 

My mom paused for a few beats, studying me a few seconds longer, before offering up a half-hearted shrug, indicating she was done with the conversation. Giving me a way out of this unsolicited informal interview, in her own way.