I stood outside one day after work and looked up into the beautiful blue sky, where I thought God might be, and asked out loud, “What do you want me to do? My life is a mess.”

In the course of one week, people from three different places told me how pretty my nails were. They would ask, “Where do you get your nails done? They are so pretty.”

My reply was always the same: “Phar-Mor, for about $2.36.” I had to stop having my nails done professionally because I couldn’t afford it. I was looking in the nail department there and a thought came to me— “I bet I can glue some fake ones on—reshape and polish them. No one would be the wiser.”

I took those remarks from complete strangers as a sign from heaven that I needed to go to nail school. I made a call to the local cosmetology school and found out that it would cost me $1,200 to attend and receive my license. The only problem was that I didn’t have the money to pay for school. I hesitantly called my dad; his answer was no. Due to having filed bankruptcy, I wasn’t able to get a loan. I had no credit any longer or any credit cards. I had nothing.

By this time, I had already been under the care of two different psychologists and two different psychiatrists. Was I destined to be a phone operator the rest of my life? I felt the tug to go to nail school but couldn’t because of my lack of finances. I got severely depressed. I knew I had to do something, so I made a call and started going back to the original psychiatrist—my savior— because I had insurance.

Dara and I had to move into a cheaper apartment because that is all my salary would afford. I had gotten to the point where I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. I was tired of changing all the time. This job, while stress free, was making me feel less than adequate. There was something in me that couldn’t seem to settle for a nine-to-five existence. I felt like I was supposed to do something more with my life. I kept wishing I had gone to college and become something. I would see people who seemed happy, so I knew happiness was possible, but then I thought, could they be faking it too?

I had been seeing my old psychiatrist for several months, and he suggested shock treatments. Thoughts of my aunt and my grandparents came flooding back to my mind. I guessed I was crazy after all. I came home early one day, stood in the middle of our apartment, picked up the phone, and made the call. I told him I wanted the treatments and to check me into the hospital.

I called my family and told them what I was going to do. I made all the arrangements with work, packed my bag, and drove myself to the hospital. Dara stayed with my sister and family for three weeks. We decided to tell everyone that I had to go in for an emergency female operation.

Yes, I was scared, but I was more scared of living the way I had been and thinking the thoughts I had been thinking than of having shock treatments. I had heard horror stories about what shock treatments did to people. My aunt said that she had forgotten how to play the piano; I never knew she even played! I saw horrible things on TV and in the movies about them as well, but something in this life of mine was going to have to change. The deep pain, hurt, and regret were too much for me to bear any longer. I was more scared of living the same merry-go-round of life than of having shock treatments. I had a daughter to think about, and she needed a fit mother.

The doctor assured me that shock treatments today were more refined than they had been years earlier. He explained each detail to me step by step, as if talking to a child. He told me he would give me a sedative that would knock me out before the treatment was given, so I wouldn’t even know they were taking place. Electrodes would then be placed on my head.

He said, “I am going to actually go in and change the brain wave patterns, shocking them back into working properly.”

My dad had remarried and showed up at the hospital with his new wife the night before I was due to begin treatments. Evidently someone in my family told Dad the truth of what was going on. They both begged me not to go through with the treatments. My dad said, “If you will not have shock treatments, I will give you the money to go to nail school.”

I said, “No.”

I wasn’t like him, my aunt, or my grandparents, and I was going to have whatever was in me shocked out. My life wasn’t supposed to end up like this. For once, I really didn’t care what he thought. If I had a choice whether to listen to him or depend on what I thought I should do based on the advice of my psychiatrist who I had grown to trust, then I was going to follow what my doctor said. Why would I listen to my dad now? Twelve hundred dollars wasn’t going to fix what was going on inside of me. Money hadn’t fixed me before, and it wasn’t going to fix me now.

I was in the hospital for three weeks and given fifteen shock treatments. The doctor stood at the end of my bed with one of the biggest machines I had ever seen. The electrodes were attached to my head, I was given a sedative, and I had no clue what happened from that moment on. I awoke each time to a nurse sitting beside me, reading a magazine.

Dara knew nothing of what was taking place. I was able to talk to her on the phone but was not allowed visitors for the first week. I assured her that everything was fine and that I would see her as soon. She was having fun staying with my sister and her family, so that removed a burden of guilt from my heart. I knew this alternative was the last option for me, and it had to work—it just had to. I felt this was the last straw for me. I had to help myself so I could help her.

A daily devotional arrived for me one day, sent by my brother and his wife. Once again, I wondered, what is it that makes people want to shove God down your throat when you are down and out?

I let it sit on the table beside me for a day or two and then picked it up because I didn’t have any other reading material. I slowly began to thumb through it, and I was moved by the real-life stories it contained. I had never read anything quite like it before, and it captured my heart from the first few pages.

That one little devotional opened my eyes to God and brought him down to my level. There were stories entwined with scriptures that made perfect sense to me. I would read each one, stop, and then meditate on what I had read. It was as if my eyes had been opened, and I had been given understanding of things I had never been able to grasp before. This book became a lifeline to me, and I came out of the hospital carrying it everywhere I went.

I went back to work the following month with a sense of renewed hope. My mind was sharp, and I hadn’t forgotten much of anything, but I now knew that I had to do something with my life and not waste the second chance I felt I had been given by God. I knew I was headed for nail school, so I drove there one day to inquire about the financial part of it. I was told that if I could put $400 down, that monthly payments could be made for the remainder. Mom said she would give me the down payment if I would continue to work. She also said she would help with groceries and anything Dara needed since I was going to make the effort to help myself.

I worked full-time by day and went to nail school at night and on weekends; I was able to make my monthly tuition payments. I believed that I was on the right track—not just some track. I had an inner peace I had never felt before. I was working full-time and going to school to learn something I loved. I discovered the true grit that existed within me.

The manager of the cosmetology school called me to his office one day and said, “If you will come to work here as an instructor, I will give you your instructor’s license and pay you to teach classes.” That little gift would have saved me $1,500 plus multiple hours in class time. I firmly told him no. The school wasn’t in a good area, and I really couldn’t picture myself working there. I wanted to work in an upper-class salon, making a lot of money. I couldn’t afford to start at the bottom and work my way up. I shut that door immediately.

A good nail tech could make anywhere from $25,000 up. I thought that amount of income, coupled with Dara’s child support, would be enough to take care of us beautifully. I didn’t even consider bars, drinking, or men any longer. I threw myself into this new direction with every breath I took and was happy for the first time in my life.

I discovered a job opening in a hair salon where I had gotten my hair done from time to time. I was still working at the insurance company but believed that this was what I had been looking for, so I resigned my insurance job, which had benefits, to begin my new life in the beauty industry. I wasn’t fired that time!

I soon discovered the owner of the salon was controlling. However, I loved what I did for the first time in my life so I tried to ignore her and just do my job. I had worked there for several months when she asked me to come into the back. She was in the bathroom fiddling with something, turned around, and asked me to help her with her bra. She proceeded to move forward as if to kiss me on the lips, and I quickly ducked my head. It was sickening. I made some lame excuse and said I had to go wait on a customer. She proceeded to keep her thumb on me so tightly that I could hardly breathe. I had gone to lunch one day and when I returned, she got furious with me, wanting to know where I had been.

I wanted to get away from that situation, so I went to the biggest nail salon in town to check them out. I met with the owner over lunch, and she hired me but told me (I was soon to find out) some of the biggest BS I had ever heard. Clients followed me, but when they saw the way other clients were yelled at and treated, they asked, “What are you doing here?”

In addition to doing nails, the owner wanted employees to sell the clothes and jewelry she peddled. She would sell people anything to make a buck. When she tried her tactics on a few of my customers, they rolled their eyes at me and once again, I knew I had evidently made a big mistake by coming to work for her.

As I walked around, I noticed how they maintained their equipment. Implements were not properly sterilized, and my conscience would not allow me to be a part of this operation, no matter what the money, so we parted ways. I was sitting at home, and a bright idea came to me about operating a fingernail business out of my apartment. I remembered a time when I had my nails done by someone who worked out of her home. I did nails quite well by this time and thought I had gained enough customers to make it work.

;I was impulsive and I didn’t stop to consider the consequences of anything. Customers knew of my desire to work and at the same time, be at home with my daughter, so they agreed to come to the apartment to get their nails done. Every once in a while someone would help me out financially. On one occasion, I bartered rent for manicuring fingernails until the balance was paid. I was doing what I loved to do for a living, but the money situation was dreadful. I got very antsy and had no clue what to do next. I wondered if I had made another mistake.

XXXXX

I sat on my couch one night watching the Psychic Network. I had a customer—a proclaimed Christian and research chemist who told me of a woman who came to town every several months who could predict futures. She was said to be right on the money with her fortune-telling skills, even taping the dialog between her and “the spirits,” for the low, low price of seventy-five dollars an hour. I wanted desperately to talk to someone who had other world powers and could tell me what to do. I also thought maybe she knows where Amelia Earhart is. Alas, I never had the money to go to her, but I could charge this call on my phone bill and make payments every month.

The draw to make this phone call to the Psychic Network became strong. I thought if someone could give me some answers so I could get on the right path, the call would be worth every cent. I went back and forth over this issue for about thirty minutes. Finally, I picked up the phone and made the call. I ended up counseling the so-called counselor, and I had to pay her seventy-five dollars to do it! She commented that I would be great in her line of work and said I ought to consider it. I hung up the phone and thought, you dummy. What a waste of time and money.

I kept searching for the answers. I had a customer finally fess up and tell me she was a good witch. She said she could help me with some of the answers I desperately sought and invited me to her home to read tarot cards for me; she did it for free. Her home was beautiful and situated in a very exclusive neighborhood. I was enthralled with her.

Later, she came to my apartment and read cards for Dara and myself. I began to notice and feel something odd about her. I ended our friendship because it was one thing for me to listen to her; I didn’t want my daughter taking to heart anything she said. I discovered a couple of years later that she had a bizarre and untimely death in the hospital while having a very simple female procedure. The last thing she told me was that I was related to Paul Newman—right!