How Writing Literally Saved My Life

I was 26 at the time.

Like a thief in the night, I packed up what little belongings I had and made the trek down Interstate 24, headed back to Kentucky to be with my three-year-old daughter.

I had spent the last couple of years in Chattanooga working out some personal matters, but now I was ready to return to the Bluegrass State as a new man and make up for our lost time together.

It was going to take some work, and I knew that.

With a few hundred bucks in my account, I broke my lease, evading all responsibility, never to return to Oak St again.

Denton, a childhood friend of mine, had opened his door to me, allowing me to crash on his couch until I could get on my feet.

I accepted graciously.

Staying with him would buy me some time to get my shit together and eventually save enough money to get my own place. It was as ideal of a situation as it could have been at the time.

With only a high school education, five years experience working on an industrial printing press, and two years experience as a fitness salesman; it’s not like I had much of a resume to wow employers.

Low on initial job prospects, Denton was kind enough to put in a kind word on my behalf with the fine people at Applebee’s. Thanks to his efforts, I would soon be dubbed their newest server.

What a soul-crushing, character-building job that was.

But it was my price to pay.

I did what I had to do.

I was too embarrassed to show my daughter my living arrangements.

I couldn’t allow myself to bring my three-year-old, walking, talking, comprehending daughter to Denton’s place and show her exactly where her loser dad had to sleep every night.

So overnight stays were out of the question.

Talk about feeling like a failure.

It’s one thing to live out of state while you’re working on yourself, it's another to be next door and not have a place for your own kid.

Shame.

Immense shame.

But it made me hungry.

And that was all I needed to light a fire under my ass. So I did the only thing I knew to do.

I bought a 99 cent notebook from The Dollar Tree and began to write.

I had always written in hard times. It was a means for me to make sense of myself and explore my thoughts.

In recent years leading up to this time, I had begun to make daily checklists, mostly for work. I liked the way it gave me a sense of order and control over my day.

Writing was the only thing I could do.

I sat alone one evening while Denton was working, and wrote out everything I wanted:

My own place for Rylynn & myself

A job working in the health and fitness industry

A job where I could determine my paycheck

A job where I was the boss

A better physique

This all may sound very short-sighted to the reader, however at the time it was a wild dream and a far cry from my reality at the time.

I would write out each desire in graphic detail and why it was important to me.

I would write about what would happen if I didn’t take action, and what would likely become of me.

I would write out my future as if I was already living it.

I could see it in my mind’s eye. I could feel it.

And finally, I would write out my tasks for the next day.

This became my daily practice. Write, dream, list, do; and repeat.

Days bled into weeks, and I remained consistent.

The notebook followed me around like Linus’ blanket from Peanuts.

It was my compass, my lighthouse in the storm.

It was my goddamn treasure map.

It was my best self-talking to my current self through pen and paper.

With my notebook, I could dream, believe, and take action.

It was all I had, and it was everything to me.

My efforts began to pay off.

During my search for better employment, I ended up swindling a week's worth of free passes and a part-time gig at a local gym, slinging protein shakes and cleaning equipment.

The job was bogus, but it allowed me to have a free membership and a little extra cash. Having access to a full gym was quite the upgrade when compared to the playground workouts I had recently grown accustomed to.

I began to control everything I put in my body with rigid discipline. Living on limited funds, it is not easy to eat clean and stay within budget. So, I would buy cans of tuna fish in bulk, mix the smelly, dolphin-safe abomination with dry oatmeal, and then throw on a little hot sauce to make it possible to choke down.

No booze, no drugs, no junk food, and no liquids aside from water.

Although I had been diligently seeking out better employment, nothing was shaking out. One rejection after another. But it didn’t matter. My sites were set, and I wasn’t stopping until I had what was coming to me.

I kept my vision close, writing every day, and taking action every day.

I was on a mission.

I was a machine.

A self-denying, laser fucking focused, machine with a notebook.

Write, dream, list, do.

This was my life, and I found great meaning in it.

Within a couple of months, I signed a lease on my new place and was finally able to have my daughter whenever I wanted.

I was no longer embarrassed.

Although I had new digs and could relish a bit in that victory, I had still not yet found the dream job I had been visualizing so vividly.

After months of being told “no” at nearly every place of employment that had the least bit of potential, a new opportunity would soon appear.

By this time, months had passed as summer gave way to autumn.

The sign read: “Workout Anytime Coming Soon”.

Dressed in my only pair of nice slacks, I parked my haggard Jeep and made my way through the parking lot.

That’s when I met Dale, the GM of the soon-to-be open to the public,“Workout Anytime”.

I introduced myself and asked if they were seeking a badass salesman with experience in the industry.

Turns out, they did.

They needed a fitness director.

They needed someone who could sell big packages of personal training and manage a team of trainers. All commission-based, with a small salary equating to minimum wage.

It was exactly what I was looking for.

Dale gave me the number of the gentlemen who were responsible for the PT department. I paid him a sincere “thank you”, and made my way back to my jeep.

I called the number before I even got back to my vehicle.

A voice answered and introduced himself as Bill.

Bill and his partner, Marcus, oversaw the training departments at several health clubs, with Workout Anytime in Bowling Green, KY being their latest project.

We spoke for several minutes, as I noted my experience and eagerness for opportunity.

Following what seemed to be a promising conversation, arrangements were made for an interview the following week.

As much as I told myself not to, I couldn’t help but be excited.

I was nervous going into the interview.

Wearing the same slacks as I had worn the week prior, I sat down with the two men known as “R2 Fitness”.

The interview went well, I suppose.

I did my damndest to muster up as much manufactured confidence as I could to hide the fact that I was wound tight as a dolphin’s ass.

I knew there was so much on the line.

The two men detailed the job requirements and the pay structure.

Doing the math as they spoke, paying more attention to my calculations than what they were saying, it was clear to me that I could easily make sixty thousand plus, which was a very respectable income, especially in 2011.

The position met my every need.

I would be working in a health club.

I would be rewarded for my efforts, and determine my own income via commissions.

I would be the boss.

I would be doing something that I was good at.

After a half hour or so the interview was concluded. Before we said our goodbyes, they informed me that they would be in contact in the near future, if I was the man for the job.

The work had been done. All I could do was wait.

Two weeks had passed and I had not received a call.

I had been slaving away at Applebee’s for four months, as frustrations were beginning to set in.

Although I was remaining disciplined with my writing practice and personal commitments; I was starting to become bitter.

I had sent an email earlier in the week to follow up, and all I got back was a short response that read, “We’ll let you know soon.”

Better than no answer, I suppose.

So, I kept waiting as patiently as I could.

I stood outside of Applebee’s, enjoying an unseasonably warm November night, reeking of chicken tenders that complimented the ranch stains on my shirt.

My phone rang.

It was an Atlanta number.

“Hello, this is CT.”

“CT, it's Bill. How are ya?”

“Oh, any better and I couldn’t stand it. How about you?”

“Well, I just wanted to call our newest fitness manager and welcome him to the team.”

“I got the job?”

“You got the job.”

We discussed the details, and all was set for me to take my throne as Bowling Green’s newest fitness manager.

I thanked him for the opportunity and hung up the phone.

From the depths of my soul, shouting in triumph, relief, pride, and gratitude; I involuntarily cried the loudest howl that my lungs could muster.

I cried for a moment, collected myself, and went back in to work.

I had done it.

Against the odds, I had seen my vision through.

And it all started with a notebook and a dream.

Since that day, my life has been a steady progression of wealth, health, love, and happiness; all with my notebook & pen by my side the entire time.

When I had absolutely nothing, it was writing that allowed me to gain perspective, create vision, find courage, and give meaning to the challenges that I was sure to encounter.

Without my compass, my treasure map, my words written to myself; I don’t know where I would be today.

If there is any advice I can give you, it would be to simply write.

Write what you want.

Write why you want it.

Write what you don’t want.

Write what will be required of you.

Write the price you will have to pay.

Create a vision, create a dream.

Dreams detailed in written form become a vision.

And a vision that is compelling enough can move mountains & slay dragons.

Believe me, I know.

With Love, CT

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