Quite Ready: A Chronicle Of What Gets Left Behind On The Way To The Top

By Rebecca Takada

Quite Ready is a chronicle of what gets left behind on the journey to the top.

From rural Tennessee to the glittering lights of Tokyo and New York, Rebecca had it all. After clawing her way out of humble beginnings, she returned to Tokyo in the summer of 2019 to celebrate the hard-earned victories of her effort. But on

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889269588

Book preview

Author’s Note

I think I’m going through a severe bout of depression.

On a hot July day in 2019, all the years of hard-earned experience checking my feelings at the time clock, feigning health when I was sick, or gritting my teeth and soldiering through stress—all of my efforts to prove I was capable of putting the needs of the business first—were gone at the confession of those ten words.

Two weeks into a new job, I was supposed to be in the most energetic and innovative phase of my career. Instead, I staggered up to my CEO and told him his new head of marketing, whom he’d just placed enough confidence in to hire as one of his first employees, was in the throes of something terrible. Within the moment it took him to process my revelation and respond, I figured I might be out of a job. But depression hadn’t left me any room to care.

It should be normal to ask for help when you need it. Not for me, though. Two reasons made this event significant. One, I had always staked my reputation on the value that you never air your dirty laundry at work regardless of whatever’s going on in your personal life. You don’t embarrass yourself or your loved ones like that, and do not create an uncomfortable environment for others. It’s not everyone else’s responsibility to deal with your nonwork issues.

Two, because I felt so adamantly about number one, work was my identity. Unlike personal relationships with friends and family, I got paid to deal with stress at a job. Early on, I realized this sacred transaction you couldn’t get when dealing with people outside the office. And money, as everyone knows, is freedom. You can unlock a career when you have a series of victories at work. In short, you get rewarded for good performance and coming up with solutions to problems. If you work hard enough, you can build the public image for yourself that you want.

Ergo, as a friend so eloquently surmises, You don’t shit where you eat.

With my depression confession to a new boss, everything I had been conditioned to be came crashing down—no flames, no fireworks, barely any sound. There for decades, gone in seconds.

How did I get here?

What ensued was an ongoing process of deconstructing how exactly I’d arrived at this place—not just how the system broke, but how it was built in the first place. What fueled it? What eroded it? It’s taken over three years and counting of hard work resurfacing old memories, reliving them, trying to understand what happened, pushing through the desire to blame, etc. This process, humbling and awkward, resembles peeling the layers of an onion, every new layer increasing the likelihood of tears.

I know other people are going through something similar, which inspired me to write about my journey. So many of us who otherwise appear successful and put together on the outside have so much more going on underneath. Whether we noticed it or not, we’ve brought old trauma and family dynamics into our offices, on dates, and into new homes without realizing just how deep the roots go. What’s worse, we don’t talk about it. We write it off as being weak and dilute our very real pain with the cold comfort that somebody somewhere else has had it worse.

What could we possibly have to complain about? What indeed.

There’s no woe is me in here. Everything that happens in our life makes us who we are. Reducing events to who’s a victim and who’s the perpetrator robs a story and its actors of depth. Rather, I see the power in scar tissue. Healed wounds are a testament to our ability to survive and move forward stronger. However, we can’t do that if we pretend the scars don’t exist and the fight that delivered them never happened.

This is a story of how the ends and means, the journey and destination, are equally as important. Pain, like all feelings of hurt, can be pushed down for a long time but never goes away—not until it’s acknowledged. My hope for this book is that by sharing my personal journey, others will feel seen and inspired to hold a mirror up to their own life and, like me, come out liberated and happier for it. But you’d better be quite ready to suffer a little bit to get what you want.

Chapter 1

Family

We’re all walking around with a zombie bite, but nobody talks about it. The worst part is that we spread it to our children and loved ones. Most of us live entirely unaware of how an invisible disease of the mind has hijacked our thoughts and behaviors. Hidden in plain sight, it can manifest in an explosive reaction we can’t explain. That’s what happened to me. 

High above a foggy evening horizon in Tokyo, I settled into my chair at the famous Park Hyatt Hotel’s New York Bar and placed my phone facedown on the stiff white tablecloth. A live jazz band got ready for the next set somewhere behind me against a backdrop of glass and distant city lights. Within moments, a suited young man was at my elbow.

Would you like some champagne?

Yes, please, I answered without hesitation.

Being in a place like this was nothing new to me. Earlier in life, I would’ve been as tense as the tablecloth, worried everyone knew I hadn’t grown up with money. It had been a while since I’d suffered that insecurity. I appreciated a nice restaurant like this but was no longer a servant to the invisible approval of those around me. So, when I released a pent-up breath, it was not the result of anxiety but relief.

I have visited Japan several times since moving back to the States and have always visited the same shops and restaurants. But on this occasion, I wanted to experience the kinds of places tourists loved. I finally had the money to do so and picked locations that would make great Instagram posts. This night, indeed the whole trip, was a celebratory nod to the hard work it took to get here.

The waiter reappeared with a bottle of Dom Perignon Vintage 2008 cradled in the crook of his elbow. One thing I liked about the Japanese was that they were always very appropriate. When they studied something, they went deep into it and learned it well enough to teach a rookie in the shortest time possible. This bottle of champagne was about the safest luxury version of the drink you could get. Only a sophist would’ve objected to it. I smiled as he filled up my glass, musing on 2008.

What a terrible year. Not for me. Not yet. But I was still living in Tokyo, making poverty wages when the collapse of Lehman Brothers heralded one of the worst recessions in generations. Everything that happened in life after 2008 would elevate me to the seat I was in that night in Tokyo a decade later. Back then, I couldn’t have imagined coming to a restaurant like this alone, holding a spiked Christian Louboutin clutch that matched the wine-red Swarovski crystals on my Louboutin heels. I was ready to celebrate.

I took up my glass of champagne and fumbled with the video setting on my phone. Getting a nice shot of the city nightscape in the background was a no-brainer for evoking the sense of luxury and accomplishment I wanted for my Instagram feed. As I was about to press record, a tingling sensation ran from the crown of my head down my shoulders and spread across my abdomen. That’s when it happened.

After years of pushing myself well past max capacity in my career, I had surrounded myself with the sparkling physical manifestation of the results of the sacrifices I’d made. I’d done it. I’d made it, at last. I was flying around the world on my own for a two-week vacation in a country I once called home. On top of that, when I returned to the US, I’d start a job with someone I genuinely liked and was excited to work with. I had a wonderful husband at home waiting for me to bring him back a couple of bottles of sake he’d requested. I was at rest in my luxury garments and accessories.

But when I looked into the dark background of my camera’s viewfinder, the darkness looked back. Then an intrusive voice crept into my inner ear. Is it okay for you to be here? Aren’t you being selfish, living it up here while your mom is hurting back at home?

That’s right. Mom was back at home, and she was suffering. I suddenly remembered the voice she’d answered the phone with when I’d called the night before my plane took off. She didn’t sound like the person I’d grown up with. I used to joke to people that my mom was the consummate Taurus: a bull who would brute force herself through any situation that waved a red flag at her. She had no time for others’ feelings. She called them histrionics. If she ever showed intensity, it was one option on a limited carousel of angry, exasperated, threatening, or sweetly sardonic. 

I had called her to let her know I’d be taking off in the morning and to check in on my dad’s condition. He’d been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma just over a month before and was undergoing chemotherapy. I phoned a couple of times a week ever since to check in with her on his progress. Our conversations always stuck with the facts, data, doctor’s impressions, and information on my dad’s charts. I wouldn’t say we were robotic, but we were both clear it was essential to maintain a level head in a dire situation such as cancer and not let personal anxieties muddy the waters. 

However, that clinical version of the mom did not answer the phone the night. I didn’t recognize the person on the other end of the line. This lady sounded exhausted from emotional pain. Her voice sounded strained and raw, and I heard it all in how she answered, Hello?

What’s wrong?

Ahh . . . I’m just . . . I’m just done with all of this. I waited for her to continue. They discharged your father too early. We got all the way home, and he hadn’t made it halfway between the car and the front door before he collapsed right there in the yard.

My heart dropped. I listened in shock as Mom explained that she frantically called my older and younger brothers, and then the older one called a couple of my dad’s friends because they needed help lifting his body. My dad wasn’t heavy before his diagnosis, and though cancer had whittled away even more of him, dead weight on the ground was still a challenge to lift. Finally, she said, they had to call an ambulance.

My parent’s house was way out in the countryside, so calling an ambulance was never really a viable option when I was growing up. Not to mention, ambulances were expensive, and I didn’t even know if they charged for the time it took them to arrive on-site. Mom continued speaking without a break.

I was just driving back home earlier after we got him checked back in, and all I could think about was how many times we’d driven up and down this road together. And I couldn’t imagine having to drive it alone. If something happens to him, I’m sorry, y’all, but I’m not living in this house. I’ll drive down that road without looking back or missing it. I got back and was trying to get myself some ice, and was using the spatula to break it apart, and I just finally started stabbing it and yelling, ‘Fuck Cancer!’

Fuck cancer.

The image of my mom giving into desperate emotion hit me harder than the scene of my dad collapsing in the front yard. I waited for a tick before asking the inevitable, Do I need to come back?

No. There’s nothing you can do here, hun. Just go live your life. Seriously. Come back when he’s better, and you can see him then. That would be better. You’d be of no use here.

That wasn’t the first time I’d asked if I should return to Tennessee, and the answer was always the same. There’s nothing you can do here. If anything, going back would put me underfoot. Concerned friends and family members were constantly phoning and texting my mom for updates. I would’ve been yet another voice adding to the fray, and Dad wasn’t in the phase of chemo where people walking their germs in and out of his room was a good idea. Still, something seemed off about not being around. But I ignored it. 

I wasn’t close to my dad. Had the situation been reversed and it had been my mom dealing with cancer, I would’ve rushed back without a second thought. If it were her, it’d be different. Because she was suffering when I called that evening, my hand was suspended above the table, clutching a glass of champagne instead of taking a video and drinking it. What exactly was I celebrating?

Tears welled up in my eyes, and shame zapped the life from my posture. This was no good. I was in public. I was in the kind of restaurant where waitstaff had their eyes on everyone looking for cues to indicate how to engage. Crying and getting upset would only serve to make everyone else uncomfortable. It’d be selfish to force my pain on others. No one receives training on how to deal with tears.

As much as I fought to reign in my reaction, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop the tears. Shame has a unique power over humans. It doesn’t respond to logic and refuses to let your brain push it aside. Like cancer, it eats away at the body and mind and leaves the victim a joyless husk. Wave after wave of it crashed over me such that I had to turn toward the window to hide my face from the rest of the world. Luckily, I’d had the wherewithal to cram a handkerchief in my thin spiked purse. It served me well when I’d surreptitiously dab at my running nose and the corners of my eyes.

This was bad. I was completely out of control of my feelings and their effects on my physical body. It was as if I’d swallowed a black hole. The density of it was pulling my innards down all fifty-two floors of the building and into the ground. The celerity and depth of the descent were beginning to terrify my rational brain. The latter, bless it, threw up a warning flare. If you’re this upset, do something. Doing something for her will make you feel better.

As I desperately searched for something big I could do for my mom, the process slowly soothed my racing heart, and the pit in my stomach settled into a steadier burn. I eventually recovered, but not without the dull sensation of internal injury. I’d go on to write it off as a one-off reaction at a particular moment in time. It’d be a dangerous mistake. That night was a warning sign of something worse to come.

If only I’d known what was really going on in my heart and mind. If only I’d learned that I had an invisible affliction skewing my worldview, my image of myself, and how I showed up in difficult situations. Understanding what was going on would require going back to the moment I received one of my first zombie bites. If I had known then what I know now, I could’ve saved myself from a dire psychological break.

After years of clawing my way to the top, who’d have thought that the only thing waiting for me was rock bottom? Here I was, toasting myself in Tokyo while my mom was back home alone in Tennessee, stabbing at ice.

***

Let’s talk about your husband . . . My therapist punctuated her statement with open-mouthed shock. I’m surprised you even got married.

I laughed and agreed. It was no wonder she was confused. I’d spent the last few sessions regaling her to the edge of her seat (the back edge) about how I’d learned very quickly growing up that I couldn’t rely on anyone but myself.

Sometimes as children, when we’re left to fend for ourselves because our caretakers are emotionally or physically unable to show us affection or validate our feelings, it can teach us we have to fend for ourselves and that we can’t trust others with our safety.

I sat listening to her describe a part of me I’d kept hidden from others—from myself. Could she tell I was paying attention? That my breath had stopped? I tried not to squeeze my braided fingers together too hard lest I give away just how self-conscious I was beneath her words. The discomfiture caused my mind to wander off into questions about how I appeared to her. Did I look weird? Would she reject me, too, if she knew I fit her description?

She must’ve noticed my reticence because she paused briefly, a tactic I learned some therapists use to bring the patient back to the moment. When we learn we can’t trust others as children, it makes it very difficult to form meaningful relationships as adults. But you said you’re married. What happened? Tell me about him.

Well, I recrossed my fingers. He doesn’t get in my way. I hid an instant pang of guilt for speaking so callously about someone I loved. I thought I could redeem myself by explaining what made him a great person. People look good when they compliment others. "My husband is very kind.