“I just need to get out of my head,” I stutter out.

“Trust me; I get it. More than you know.”

“Okay,” I say again, sounding like a broken record.

“Now, go to work. Tell Jonathan you need two weeks. Actually, no. Ask for three, so he’ll bargain down to two. The flight will be around five. Let me just make some calls and make sure it works. I’ll call you back to confirm.” Eve’s no-nonsense voice rings clear, and it chokes me up.

When we worked together, she was always tough in the office; we used to call it her bitch mode. But the thing with Eve is, she’s always a straight shooter. I’ve never had to worry if what she says isn’t what she means. It is always real. In my gut, I know being near her will help me.

“I’ll be ready,” I reply with as much strength as I can.

“Good. Talk later.”

She hangs up, and I clench my fists. I need to get through today. Just one step at a time.

The black Tumi suitcase is opened up on my queen-sized bed, filled with two weeks’ worth of clothes. My hands shook while packing, but I refused to let it ruin my neat folds.

I stare at my handiwork, feeling confident that I have what I need for this trip. Readjusting a shoe to make space for a cashmere sweater that’s waiting to be settled in, I notice a tag hanging on a shirt. I gently pull out the blouse, not wanting to upset the rest of the clothing. I turn the tag around and see it—$425.00. My jaw drops. How could I have spent this much money on a shirt? For the first time in maybe ever, I feel sick to my stomach over the amount of money I spend on material items. I pull off the tag, wondering just how much cash I have sitting in material items.

I turn from the bed and enter my closet, tearing shirt after shirt off their hangers and flinging them onto the floor. Shoe after shoe. And the bags. Thousands of dollars of Yves Saint Laurent. Chanel. Gucci. God, all of these things that I used to save up for. I used to covet these items, but what do they even mean? They’re nonsense, and right now, they’re making me ill.

My mom told me it’d get better. Will it ever?

I walk into my kitchen, taking out three extra-large white trash bags before turning back around and grabbing a fourth. With a Sharpie pen, I write Clothes, Shoes, Purses, and Shoes again on each and begin to methodically fill them, making a mental note to drop them off at my local Goodwill as soon as I return from Nevada.

I’m sweating by the time the work is done, but I feel amazing and somehow lighter. Relieved. That’s when I decide that I’m going to get through this. I will take a little time and figure out what I’m going to do next, but no matter what, I’ll be okay. This incident is causing me temporary suffering. Still, it’s temporary. It might change me, but I’m still me, and I always will be.