Karen McCrary

My knees gave out as I fell to the floor. I clinched myself into a ball, rocking back and forth on my elbows and knees, chin tucked into my chest, as my head dug deep into the floor in front of me. I cried so hard my mouth pried itself open in silence as I gasped reluctantly for air. Up until this moment, heartbreak was a cliche emotion I had experienced once after being dumped by my highschool boyfriend after prom junior year. Now, heartbreak feels as if my heart was dissolving out of my body before I could catch its pieces, leaving in its wake a crater of searing desperation. This was more than disappointment or betrayal, this was disposal. If I had stopped breathing at that moment, it would have been an act of mercy. Life seemed too long for a pain this heavy. Don’t get me wrong, my sadness did not equal regret. That was the moment that broke me open. I had quit crying years prior when I had temporarily taken antidepressants to cope with the tension of my increasingly hostile marriage and growing urge to protect my children from it. Isolated and no transportation of my own, my courageous call to the pastor to talk after church on Sunday was dismissed. Within a few days, it had evolved into a full-blown postpartum mood disorder leading me back to the sanctuary of the hospital. I didn't know what would happen as I walked through the sliding glass doors with an infant carrier in hand, or if I'd ever see my son again; I just knew my baby needed to be safe. Sitting on the emergency room bed with my feet dangling below and my infant son being rocked by a kind nurse in the hallway, my husband quietly threatened me that if I mentioned him as part of the problem, he would abandon me right there. I kept quiet and became numb. Not only did I abandon the feelings and expectations that were in direct conflict with my spouse’s behavior, I abandoned myself and my own. This numbness became apparent to me when my grandfather died and I couldn't cry. Not because I didn't love him, I did. He taught me how to fish and we talked often as he drove me to school in his old pickup truck. It was as if a switch to feeling had been turned off inside me. I went through the actions of love and rituals of grief seamlessly, but felt completely void in feeling it. The annihilation of my innocence and trust in the world as I knew it was so overpowering in that moment, it broke me open and forced me against my will to feel again. I often described it as emotional rape. As a sexual abuse survivor, I don't use this term without extreme caution. However, no other word I’ve found more closely articulates its non-consensual nature and intentionally cruel act of total domination that forced itself upon me to feel what it itself would not.

Story Statement: After a string of failures in midlife, a tenacious midwestern mom battles for a life of freedom outside the constructs of love and leadership as she knows them. Antagonist: I always wanted to be a mother. As a young child, I was imaginative and obsessively played with my dolls and dollhouses - an observer, manager, orchestrator of people both real and pretend. I was shy and quiet, content in my own imagination, obedient, and always willing to help and share with others. An old soul with childlike wonder, intrinsically motivated and optimistic, I excelled academically and in sports, and voted by my peers to receive an award for my character. I grew up in the suburbs and had access to quality health care, a stable middle-class two-parent home environment, and an excellent private school education; but like many millennial children, emotions were best when avoided. This served me well…until it didn’t. I was never afraid of failure, and my drive for excellence along with my resilience and determination to master the emotional world I found myself stranded as a stranger within kept me going. My curiosity dominated my ego and drove me to ask questions, make connections, and give up control which ultimately gives me the only type of control I really have - the one within myself. Title: Chicago Mom: escaping from the life we once knew How to Survive Midlife Trauma Genre and Comparables: I chose these narrative non-fiction books because they blend personal experience and inquiry, along with research to tell a compelling story about an idea bigger than themselves. My novel will use emotion and personal narrative to bring the reader in, apply and make accessible a wide range of both personal and published research, then provide realistic and attainable solutions. I was inspired by Educated by Tara Westover, but I wanted to take the story beyond the personal narrative and weave in research about navigating middle adulthood when uneducated. Recently posted on Publishers Marketplace: FROM DROPOUT TO DOCTORATE By Terence Lester EATING WITH THE SUN By Megan Zhang Hook Line: When a midwestern mom refuses to believe her intuition is wrong in a pattern of failed relationships, her research and experience as a doula brings her back to the practical wisdom of birth to prevent and resolve midlife trauma. Inner and Secondary Conflict: 1st inner conflict is “am I a Monster?” triggered by an abusive ex husband and the need to resolve a surrogacy-gone-wrong, her search proves them all wrong. 2nd inner conflict is “can I tell the truth?” triggered by a corrupt boss who tries to gang up on her with twisted allegations to cover up her own failing leadership, then she speaks up. She uses this same power to speak up to and take her ex to court to stop the cycle of abuse. When he lies and ditches the system, she risks everything to tell the truth to the Higher Power - the Chicago PD. Setting: First setting is the maternity ward hospital. The hallway and waiting area is 1990’s mauve and sage green institutional carpet with oak trim doors with too many coats of shellac and bulky chairs all in a row sitting empty. The off white blinds to the nursery look cheap, and are oddly closed. The door is heavy. This is where the inciting incident happens, but the antagonist doesn’t know it. Hospital is a reoccurring theme and now viewed as a sanctuary, with the next hospital having sliding glass doors, kind nurses, and a rocker in the hallway. The next major setting is an inner-city nursing home (another hospital setting, this time for long term care) A cockroach runs up the wall as we attempt to talk. People are hollering for help since their call light was placed out of their reach. The wallpaper is peeling and there is a strong stench of ripe, soiled briefs. There are abandoned, unlocked medication carts parked in the hallway. Residents in wheelchairs pull themselves down the hall with the waist-high handrails attached to the wall horizontal to the floor. Catheter bags full of urine hang uncovered from under the wheelchairs. Deep cleaning doesn’t exist, as staff is either overwhelmed trying to keep up, or underwhelmed because there is no oversight. The small TV plays in the assisted feeding area where the staff scroll on their phones waiting for a call lights that might never come. The nurses shop on Amazon behind the desk, as in an unspoken hostage situation. Those who do a good job know they can work somewhere else and do, those that don’t do a good job know we can’t hire anyone else and don’t. There are a few diamonds in the rough who work without breaks to keep the place barely afloat, and you will see them wheeling a resident down to the shower room. Everyone else scatters when management comes, although that usually comes from how they dress, not because they know who the revolving door administrator or director of nursing is in charge this week. The cook and his dining assistant must round the rooms to gather the breakfast trays that were never picked up by staff so there will be enough dishes for dinner. There is no soap in the staff bathroom and the paper towels are out again. 2 men are smoking in an empty room, unsupervised on the 3rd floor with the windows wide open and oxygen tanks nearby. Binders of old medical records stuffed onto shelves are parked in the nurses nook, cluttered and gathering dust. This was not the America I knew. The third major setting is the courtroom. Clean and sparsely decorated, men in suits and ties, the Judge in a black robe with gavel. The court reporter sits behind a plastic shield to protect herself from Covid as those testifying must remove their mask. My ex and his lawyer appear via Zoom. At the table with my attorney, whose papers are organized on the table in front of me. We communicate with a notepad and there is water available to drink just like in the movies. When it’s my turn to answer my accuser's questions, sitting behind the plastic shield, all I see are the court reporter’s eyes peeping over her mask peering into mine, invested in every word I say. The final setting is a downtown Chicago movie theater. Three flights of escalators stacked one then another then another lead to a red carpeted movie theater with a strong smell of artificially buttered popcorn. The manager and police use my phone to piece together the time my daughter’s phone went dead with the paper schedule of all the movies playing that day. They figure out which one he is hiding our daughter in.