Dropping My Guard

Squeamishly, I’m letting you in.

If only for a few moments.

Like my friends, Helen Cassidy Page, Kristi Keller, Katy Velvet, Michelle Monet and P.G. Barnett, I am a proud badass. Everyone has their own story, but for me, a somewhat rocky childhood, a struggle with OCD and anxiety and, above all, this roller coaster called “life,” have molded me into the woman I am today.

In spite of my steely exterior, there is a small part of my core that is about as substantial as marshmallow fluff. In other words, I have a sensitive side.

Anything having to do with animals brings out the “other Sherry.” I cry when I read stories documenting horrific abuse and abandonment. I tear up when passing road kill. I sob, with one hand over my eyes, when the ASPCA TV spot featuring Sarah McLachlan, comes on. The fact that my husband and I have been proud, ASPCA “Guardians” for over 20 years, helps soften this particular pain, if only a little.

I cry when news of the latest mass shooting blows up CNN. The photos of the victims, the senseless theft of a human life…there are no words.

I cry when I think about my parents in their last days, both dying of stage four lung cancer. Two beds. One hospice room. I’ll never forget that image. I wish I could, but it’s seared into my brain.

I am not ashamed to let you know about this side of me. The side that reacts to the personal, as well as to the atrocities around us. But, yesterday, I cried for about twenty seconds over bullshit. Definitely, not me. And, if I had a higher pain threshold, I’d slap the living crap out of myself for doing so. Let me explain:

In several of my Medium stories, I’ve talked about losing my job of fourteen years at a huge marketing agency. I was laid off due to a business loss. It wasn’t “personal.” It had nothing to do with my work, or the work of my teammates, who were canned along with me.

When I was cut loose — from my income, health insurance, and 401k contributions — I was repeatedly told that I was “eligible for rehire.” Huzzah! A bright spot!

Long, shitty story short: I applied for at least five different positions that I could have slayed with my hands tied behind my back. They weren’t senior positions, but I didn’t care. I would have hit the ground running like a gazelle chased by a pack of ravenous lions.

Each time, after slogging through the application process, I was told by the recruiter that I “wasn’t a good fit.” That was it. No explanation as to why I didn’t fit.

You can only be crapped on so many times until you finally throw in the TP and say, “fuck it.”

I was good with that. Finally. Until a couple of weeks ago, when my longtime art director partner (I was “words,” he, “pictures”) got rehired on a different team. That stung, but I was happy for him.

And then, yesterday, he told me that a woman who was recently let go was also rehired.

That did it. Before I could check myself, the tears started to flow. I couldn’t tell you why, exactly, but I suddenly felt deflated.

The tears didn’t last long, and my husband helped with that, but I couldn’t restrain from wondering: So, what’s wrong with me?

For fourteen years, I labored under the assumption that I was well-liked at work. No. Not an assumption. I was. I’m not going to be a pussy here. But, how did I go from “popular,” to “pariah?” What was my sin?

Could it be my age? Yet, the woman who was just rehired isn’t that much younger than me. The fact that I had breast cancer…an insurance thing?

No. I believe it’s personal. I believe that an individual — the big Kahuna over the company’s entire creative universe — has it in for me.

Why? Again, I couldn’t tell you. We never exchanged a bad word between us. In fact, my first year of employ, he gave me a ten percent increase come review time.

We have the screenwriting thing in common, and spent hours discussing the craft.

(By the way: “Screw you, dude. You’ve never sold a script.”)

And then, something shifted. There was a sense that we went from “friends” to “competitors.” I never felt that way, because at the time, he was a Creative Director and I was just a Senior Copywriter.

Has that ever happened to you? Someone who you thought was a friend suddenly decides that you don’t matter? Do people, in fact, suck?

Yes. They do.

So yes. I cried. I was hurt. Mwah. Mwah. Mwah. “Nobody likes me. Everybody hates me. Guess I’ll go eat worms.”

Hell no. No fucking worms for me. After the initial slug to “sensitive Sherry,” the real me came back. Thankfully. I think I needed those tears so I could finally cleanse myself of that toxic dump, where I labored in faithful servitude (albeit, as a bad ass), for so long.

Now, I’m galvanized. I’m going to keep doing my thing, because that’s what matters. Not that building, or the people in it, or those people who don’t want me in it.

Thank you, for giving me the sense that I can be real with you. I know there are more than a few of my fellow writers who can relate to what I’m putting down, because at the end of the day, we’re all sensitive creatures, bad ass, or otherwise. That’s where our stories come from. That’s what fuels the tales we tell.

Now I’ve got to go. I’ve got to make something of myself. And when I do — watch out.

Sherry McGuinn is a longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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