Maine has been wonderfully relaxing and refreshing, although our time up here has not been without problems (I took a photo of teh tree which had fallen on the house—but for some reason, the image is not working at my 'undisclosed location—which you will hear more about below!). 

We arrived late Monday night to our lovely little cottage by the sea, only to find this huge tree blocking entrance to our front door.  Now, we had known a tree had taken down a power line and we had that repaired before our arrival; however, no one thought to tell us how badly the tree was blocking the house. 

The power to the house was (and is) on so we did have electricity but the fallen tree had also taken out our DSL and phone lines so Les and I (two people dependent upon the Internet if there ever were two!) have been without Internet service for the last several days.   Furthermore, we found out just today that they are not able to have DSL restored until after we have to return to Boston. 

So, right now, I am sitting in Denny’s restaurant in Ellsworth, Maine, which is the nearest town—but nearly 30 miles from our house on the coast.  I needed to submit my final grades—and I wanted to keep all my lovely readers up on the vicissitudes of Melindaville.  I apologize for not having a podcast for this entry—but it is far too noisy at Denny’s to do a recording here. 

So what do you do when life throws you a curve ball?  My advice is that one needs to go ZEN.  Les subscribes to this same philosophy, which is just one more way that we are hugely compatible.   When you travel as much as we do and are at the mercy of weather, mechanical, and (occasionally) airline personnel incompetence, you have to learn to go Zen—because if you don’t, you will be miserable too much of the time!

I will say that I really love it here—even without power and without Internet.  Besides—not having Internet is not the worst thing in the world, right?   It is a good reminder that not only can life can be lived without technology—but also that life can be pretty wonderful without it.  I am enjoying watching the tides come in and out on our back porch, feeling the absolute stillness of the surrounding forest, and seeing the startling number of stars under the clear night sky. 

Speaking of which, I am finishing up here at Denny’s and will head back to my cottage by the sea and enjoy all the non-technological gifts that life has to offer.

Peace,

Melinda

Bloggers Unite is an attempt to harness the power of the blogosphere to make the world a better place. By asking bloggers to write about a particular subject, a single voice can be joined with thousands to help make a difference.

This post is my contribution to Bloggers Unite to Free Iran.  

Since I began this blog, I have centered a few posts on critical crossroads in my life, where a single decision altered my life—often dramatically.  However, one of the very first crossroads of my life came at the decision of my mother, who wisely saw that Egypt was no place to raise female children, after spending nearly seven years there.  She knew that my sister and I would never achieve more than second-class status if she raised us in the Middle East and that we would not have the same opportunities to reach our potential.

Therefore, my mother gave my father an ultimatum when I was a only two years old:  either return with her to the United States to live there permanently or stay in Egypt alone, while she returned to the United States with her daughters.  It must have taken my mother so much courage—to stand up to my father, who was a brutal dictator in so many ways.  

I am so grateful that my mother made that critical decision to raise us in the United States—where despite our problems as a nation, we enjoy freedoms that people of so many countries can only dream about having.  How lucky Noelle and I were to have the freethinking mother we did, who had the foresight to understand what raising daughters in such a place might have meant to us. 

The events that have taken place most recently in Iran, due to the likelihood of a fixed election, really drive home just how lucky we are to have the basic rights and freedoms that we so often take for granted. 

            Since the election in Iran:

• Hundreds of arrests have taken place, including the arrests of prominent and respected citizens, whose only crime was protesting the results of a bogus election.

• The militias have broken into the houses of innocent citizens and they have been filmed shooting randomly into crowds of students and other protestors. 

• The government has admitted to twenty-seven casualties, which undoubtedly is a conservative number. 

• The media has been censored to the extreme, which is a form of terrorism in and of itself. 

• Access to the Internet has been either extremely limited or cut off completely, giving the Iranian people no connection and voice to the outside world. 

Since the election in Iran:

• Spend time blogging or on social networking sites to raise awareness about the terrible human rights violations that are occurring in Iran. 

• Send letters and emails to the democratic leaders of the world, asking them to unite their people in support of the people of Iran. 

• Let the people of Iran know that we are supporting them in their fight for freedom.

• Talk about the disappearance and inhumane treatment of Iranian citizens.

• Call for an end to violence in Iran.

What affects one people in the world affects all people of the world.  We are all citizens of life and we are all connected through the thread of humanity.   I hope you will take some time today and do what you can—in any small part—to help raise awareness of the great suffering that is occurring in Iran today. 

Peace,

Melinda

Our Beautiful Backyard in Maine

It has been a crazy spring and early summer.  Try as I might, I am the perpetual ‘people pleaser’ and have much difficulty saying ‘no,’ which often results in being swamped with more on my plate than I should have.  I have been teaching a heavy load of classes for the last several months, which means my book has been put aside during that span.  Don’t get me wrong—I love teaching.  In fact, teaching is an avocation rather than a vocation—from the moment I stepped foot in front of my first class at Penn State, it became a passion. 

However, as much as I love teaching, I am also looking forward to my upcoming summer break—a chance to breathe more easily, to sleep in a bit more , to having time to read for pleasure, and to work on other projects (notably, the book).  This Sunday, my classes will end.  Later in July, I will be teaching one class for summer session but this will be far more manageable than the seven classes I have been juggling the past few months. 

On Monday, Les and I head up to Maine, for a brief and blissful vacation at our lovely house on the coast.  I am so looking forward to Maine; I love hearing the sound of waves crashing against the rocks in dramatic anger or lapping as soft and soothing as a newborn's cradle.  I enjoy awakening lazily to the sunlight streaming in from our bedroom's skylight and noticing the salty freshness of the crisp sea air.  In the distance, I can hear sounds of the lobster boats in Gouldsboro Bay.  Maine is like a nurturing cocoon, and I love it as I love Montana—and they are similar in many ways.  Both Maine and Montana posses a purity that transcends time; whether you are deep in the Maine woods or in the Montana mountains, life is frozen in each pristine wilderness.  Montana and Maine recharge my battery, leaving me refreshed, centered, and content.  Nature soothes our souls, teaching us the importance of the most simple and eloquent of the earth’s gifts—and if we listen, to be appreciative and protective of them. 

In Maine, I plan to roll up my sleeves and get cracking on finishing the edits on my book (yes, I am still editing). I haven’t given an update on my progress lately—well, because there has been little to report.  I am so close to completing the first edit but haven’t that I wonder if I am dragging my heels a bit.  Once I complete this revision, I must pass it on to others for their edits.  I will give it to my best and closest friend, Eddie, in New York and to my husband Les; I trust both beyond question, as I know they love me and want the best for my book.  They are both accomplished writers themselves and each has a fine eye for editing.  After finalizing those edits, the manuscript will go to the agent—and it is there I am much less sure.  The thought causes my stomach to somersault!  When he receives it, what will he think?  Will it be rejected?  Is it as good as I think it might be?  Or am I fooling myself?    Funny . . . even with the accomplishments I have enjoyed in the last fifteen years, I still have major insecurities. 

Along with this is a certain amount of trepidation as to what might happen with my position at the university. At some point, I am going to have a frank talk with my department chair, filling her in on the book and my reasons for writing it.    As far as I know, the university knows nothing of my past.  Therefore, along with the worry of wondering if my book is good enough—is the concern I might not be asked back to teach again.  It’s always hard to tell what reactions will be because addiction is a highly controversial issue; many people still view it as a moral/criminal concern rather than view it as a health problem, as I believe it should be viewed. 

I have placed a new deadline for completing this first round of edits—one that I believe is realistic.    I hope to have all the edits/major revision of the first draft completed by July 31.  Then—regardless of the outcome—whether it is accepted or not—whether it affects my teaching position or not; it will be out of my hands.  I have to believe that I am doing the right thing—to go public with my story.  I truly do believe it is important for people like me—who are success stories—to come forth and be vocal about our past, our struggles, and our triumphs.  The world has to believe that treatment can and does work—and it is only through our voices—the voices of recovering addicts, that we can enlighten others. 

Peace,

Melinda

Download | Duration: 00:05:06

I saw an interesting movie while attending graduate school in the late 1990’s.  Although the movie was not quite as good as I hoped it would be, I loved the premise of the film and I have thought about the idea behind the plot many times since I first saw it more than ten years ago. 

A brief synopsis of Sliding Doors is this:   the film opens in London, when a young woman (Helen), is returning to her home after her boss fires her from her job at a PR company.  On the train, an amazing thing happens! Time reverses itself for a few seconds, which results in the creation of an alternate reality.   For the remainder of the film, we follow Helen through these two realities.    In one reality, Helen catches the train, meeting a man named James on the way, then arrives home to find her lover (Gerry) cheating on her with an ex-girlfriend.  In the other reality, Helen misses her train, which means she doesn't meet James at all.   After missing the train, a thug mugs her, resulting in Helen going to the hospital.  After leaving the hospital, Helen returns home to find her lover, Gerry, alone, in the shower—she has missed catching him in bed with the ex-girlfriend. 

The two realities move forward together; in one, she leaves her cheating lover and forms a happy, new relationship with the man she met on the subway, James.  In the other reality, Helen’s lives becomes more and more wretched as she takes on two jobs to support the worthless, cheating boyfriend.  This one slight variation in events dramatically alters the course of Helen’s life—as well as her emotional state.

How many random occurrences might exist in our own lives, which has altered each of our paths?  How intriguing to think of our lives through the lens of ‘sliding doors.’ Wouldn’t it be amazing to view each potential ‘alternate reality’ before we make crucial (or seemingly inconsequential) decisions.  If each of us had such a looking glass, how would we change our decisions?  How might our lives be so different if a seemingly minor, random act beyond our control caused a very different reality? 

After I saw that film, I started thinking of my own life in terms of sliding doors—and there have been many.  In my case, I made some crucial poor choices.   I would love to see a movie of my own life—with my own sliding doors to see how very differently my life  might have turned out had a crucial decision been changed—or perhaps even a random act that was beyond my control.    What might have my destiny been?

Yes, I admit it—I have one wild imagination.  And perhaps I waste too much time thinking about those alternate realities—those 'WHAT IF's.' 

We can only work with the decisions we make—we get no alternate view of what might have been.  Whether deliberate or by chance, each of us is only given one reality and each of us must live with the results of our actions (either intended or unintended). 

However, one thing I do know is this.  I have learned to at least try to view an alternate reality before I make a crucial decision that I will be unable to reverse later.  These days, when faced with a choice, I try to play that choice out in my head; what effects will this decision have on me today, next week, next month, next year, and five years down the road.  I believe this strategy has saved me some poor decisions.  Rather than making a quick and rash decision and hoping the decision turns out ‘okay,’ I try to analyze what the effects of that decision will be—not only in my own life but in the lives of every person who might be affected by a choice I make.  

There are no sliding doors; no magic looking glass in which we can see our realities.  We only have one to work with—so we should each do our utmost to insure that the one reality we have is one we can rest with when the curtain closes for that final time.  

Peace,

Melinda

Download | Duration: 00:04:46

You go along in life—feeling great, life is optimal, you feel as though you have really worked your way through those taunting demons from the past, when all of a sudden, you are knocked down just a peg or two.  Life needs to remind you that you are human—that you are still learning—that you are still growing . . . and that you still are prone to making mistakes. 

Up until fifteen years ago, I lived a most destructive life.  In fact, looking back on those dark years of isolation, addiction, and terror, I am convinced I was on a suicide mission.  I tried in every way possible to kill myself—and I very nearly succeeded. 

In early recovery, I became ‘drug free,’ but all the mess that had been festering away inside of me—well, it was still there.  Drugs are never really the root of the problem—but merely a symptom of a much larger, more complex problem, usually one that is deeply imprinted on one’s psyche. 

You can only live with those deep psychological wounds for so long, sober.   There comes a point where you finally surrender those pains you hold so deep in your heart.  For me, surrender meant finally seeking the help of a psychologist, who would help me finally face and begin to conquer those many demons, which had haunted me and kept me captive in my own private prison. 

Going through therapy was hard.  Damn. Hard. Therapy throws off the comfortable cloak of denial and brings you face to face with your raw and screaming emotions, naked in the harsh lighting of truth.    After each session, I was exhausted—feeling as though the demons were literally being pulled from deep within me.  At times, I became nauseous;  thinking about my past made me sick.  At times, I became full of rage, which I would work out by spending long and punishing  nights at the university gym.  It was the most painful thing I have ever been through—but one of the most important things I have ever done.

After a year and a half of intensive therapy, I began to really feel the sunlight of life.  Slowly, I began to forgive myself, to accept my past—but even more importantly, to see hope for a bright and happy future.  I somehow knew that I had weathered through a tough, psychological storm and once again had survived the test.  I was ready to live. 

Since that time, I feel I have made a lot of progress in my life.  I have grown as a person—I have become a better person, yet sometimes things happen that make me realize that I still have a long way to go.    I am an unfinished version of Melinda.  Yes, I am a better person than I was fifteen years ago—however, I am not the person that I ultimately want to be.   The good news is that I recognize my failings much more quickly and I am no longer afraid to try to make changes for the better.  

I had an experience very recently where I was tested on my impetuous nature—that impulsivity that is so a part of my core that it might just be written into my DNA.  The urge was very strong and I came very close to acting on it (do not worry—I wasn’t thinking about heroin or any drug!).  But!   I didn’t make that tempting, rash decision.  The “New and Improved Melinda” took a step back, evaluated the situation realistically, listened to the truth in my heart—which always wants to be my guide (if I allow it), and ultimately, made the right decision. 

As I’ve said before, sometimes you have to pause while you are climbing that steep mountain and even while acknowledging how much further you have to go, be able to appreciate just how far you’ve come. 

Peace,

Melinda

Download | Duration: 00:04:19

This photo collection will center primarily on the theater.  I have not been able to locate the few pictures I have from The New Shakespeare Company yet (they are still packed away in a box up in my office) but I did find some others, while going through the family album at my mom’s last weekend. 

Some of my happiest memories were ones when I was working on theatrical productions.  I absolutely loved the theater.  I remember going to my first Shakespearean play at around age six or seven; while I didn’t understand the context of the scenes or what the language even meant, I remember sitting, enthralled, at the magic on the stage.  The theater bug first bit during that Shakespearean play—and it did not let go for a long time!

Inspired by Shakespeare, I began writing, directing and starring in my own neighborhood plays not long after.  I also loved movies and became inspired after seeing the movie, The Perils of Pauline; as soon as the film ended, I went home and wrote a ripped off version, The Plight of Penelope, a production with loosely the same plot and characters.  My own special twist was turning it into a musical with original lyrics (again ripped off to the music Oliver!), which I’d also seen around that same time). 

I was even somewhat of an intelligent young businesswoman.  When most kids were charging a penny or nickel for their neighborhood plays, I drove a hard bargain and stuck to my price of one-dollar admission.    After the production ended (which was the same day the play opened), I would split the money we earned with my cast members and we would all go to the corner market to buy as much penny candy as we could.  I was a popular director—and because of my astute business sense (and likely the candy), no one ever questioned casting myself into each leading role!


These two photos are both taken at The Virginia City Players, a Montana summer-stock theater company.  On the left, I am standing with my mother before the play; on the right, I am backstage putting on makeup before one of our performances.  

I have often wondered what might have happened if I had not gotten so disillusioned with the theater.  San Francisco provided me an abundance of theater work.  From almost the moment I started auditioning in San Francisco, I landed amazing roles any actor would covet.  On only my third audition in San Francisco, the Eureka Theater cast me in the leading role of Maid Marian in an original production of The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood.  From there, The New Shakespeare Company hired me as its leading actress, playing roles such as Titania and Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Gertrude in Hamlet, Rosalind in As You Like It, and my personal favorite role, Pirate Jenny in The Threepenny Opera.    No doubt about it; these were heady times for a nineteen-year-old girl. 

These two photos are from my first acting portfolio.  I did a small amount of modeling when I first arrived in San Francisco.   

What I loved most was being able to immerse myself in other characters, which is not surprising since I was never happy with myself.  I would delve so completely into each role that I would actually become the characters I played! This was fun and wonderful when I was playing Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream but problematic when playing roles such as Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire.  


My first major role in San Francisco was playing Maid Marian in The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood at the Eureka Theater on Market Street.  

Performing was a huge love but I loved every aspect of the theater.  I loved belonging to a cast.  Working on productions—particularly those done on shoestring budgets, requires that each cast member contribute to every aspect of the play, including the designing and building of sets and costumes.  We spent long days rehearsing and even longer nights building our productions; during the course of each play, the cast was as close as family.  I loved the camaraderie I felt with the other actors—I never had closeness with my own family but the theater crowd quickly took me under its wing in San Francisco.  I felt support and love from my theater family that I had missed growing up. 


I always worked hard on every aspect of the theater.  Here I am working on the set of The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood

I knew that San Francisco would never give me the opportunities of New York City or Los Angeles and as committed as I was, I knew I had to test the waters at the “Big Show” so I moved to New York.   I never felt comfortable in New York’s theater scene—but I also know that I never really gave it the chance I should have.  I simply did not have the thick skin I needed to blow off the dismissal of the casting directors.  When I was not called back, I took it personally; I always felt insufficient after each failed audition.   Moreover, with each failed audition, I believed in myself and my talent just a little bit less until soon, I had little of the confidence that the San Francisco theater scene had instilled in me.  As I have blogged about before, I lost belief in my dreams. 

Of all the crossroads I have found myself at during the course of my life, the one that strikes me as most pivotal was the day I decided to stop going to auditions and to try exotic dancing.  Without a doubt, that opened up Pandora’s Box of destructive lifestyle choices.  As I started down the path of working in the sex industry, I realize now that I never stood a chance.  

For many years, I felt betrayed by the theater—but I realize now, I betrayed myself.  The theater gave me some happy years—some of the happiest times of my life, including my present life today.  Another gift of writing my book has been to view all my life experiences in a much more objective manner and see the gifts as well as the pain.  The theater did give me many gifts.

Peace,

Melinda  

Download | Duration: 00:06:02

It had been many years since I’d opened the tattered family photo album I’d known since childhood.   I never took much interest in it as a child and never wanted to be reminded of my early years as an adult.  Early in recovery, my mother wanted the two of us to stroll through those captured memories—a sentimental bonding experience, I suppose.  I’d always refused.  Although there are definitely happy memories, on the whole, my childhood was not a happy one.  I was afraid the photos would open emotional doors of anguish so I did everything possible to insure those doors remained tightly shuttered.  Some doors . . . or photo albums are better left unopened, right? 

Wrong. 

When I began writing my memoir, I had to reconstruct images of my experiences from memory, so in a way, I had already gazed deeply through images stored in my memory; that internal photo album that exists in each of us.  Indeed, some of the images I’d awakened from their slumber were so vividly horrifying, I would put the memoir away until I’d exorcised their power.  Intellectually, I knew the album from my mother’s home—one consisting of primarily happy photographs (either authentic or strained) would be far less threatening to my serenity than the graphic, raw, and uncensored snapshots of my mind.    Therefore, along the journey of writing my memoir, I found myself ready to confront all aspects of my past, regardless of how difficult. There is a readiness for everything, just as my beloved, late mother-in-law often said. 

I have very little documentation of my life.  Always so careless, I moved from place to place—often leaving entire households in a sudden escape in the middle of the night.   I didn’t care about belongings. Wanting no identity to tie me to anyone or anything, I never collected or cherished possessions in the way that most people do.  I never sought to build memories . . . or roots for that matter.  I was happy to be a perpetual transient. 

But writing my memoir has made me hunger to reclaim my past.  It has become almost an obsession to immerse myself in the experiences I have been writing.  So the journey of writing this book has been as much about embracing my past as it has been to inspire others to change their lives.  To write this memoir, I have had to think deeply about people, places, and things I’d previously kept locked tightly away—those too painful, too shameful, too humiliating, and too traumatizing experiences that nearly destroyed me. 

I began yearning for photos—and they have been hard to come by.  I spent the past weekend visiting my mother in beautiful Bozeman, Montana.  Of course, I was looking forward to seeing her as I always do—but I was also looking forward to finally opening up that tattered cover of the old family photo album.  I was very glad I did.   Going through these albums made me remember even more vividly some of the experiences I’d written about—it helped sharpen the focus and adjust the colors a bit more.  Going through the pages of photos also brought back the recollections of people who had vanished in the smoke of memory decay. 

For the next few blog posts, I will be sharing some of the photos that brought a particular story or experience to mind.  I will go through these in a chronological manner, starting with the earliest days of my childhood up through the early years of my young adulthood.  Perhaps these photos will help you perceive some of my personal stories more sharply and vividly.  I hope so. 

Here I am, a tiny babe in my mother’s arms; my likeness captured for the first time.



I like these two photos because of the memory they represent. 


On the afternoon these snapshots were taken, one of the most profound experiences of my life occurred—even though I was less than two years old (and actually, I think I am about one)!  We had returned to the U.S. from Egypt to visit my American grandparents and my mother and sister had taken me to a park in the small town of Waupun, Wisconsin.   As I was playing (and photos were being snapped), I came to a striking realization.  The realization was that I existed.  I was a being.   It’s difficult to explain—but this is an absolute true memory.  I distinctly remember thinking, “I exist—I am alive.  I belong to the world in general and to the people who are with me here, specifically.”  And as quickly as that, I went from nonentity to a living being.  When I told this to my mother, she was amazed—as she said she didn’t acknowledge her existence as an entity until she was much older.  It was also during this visit to the park that I became terrified for the first time because during the course of the afternoon, I thought I had been lost by those people that I had just acknowledged belonging to.  Of course, once you know you exist, you know you can become lost—and I became fearful that my mother had lost me at the park that day.  Of course, in my tiny world, they had not vanished but were simply out of my immediate view.   I also recall thinking “I will never forget this day”.  And I never have.

I love this photo taken in the Iowa winter, because it is one of the few pictures from my childhood where I look naturally and spontaneously joyous.   We had just arrived from Egypt and it was the first time my sister Noelle (left) and I (right) ever saw snow.  Obviously we took to it!



This was my sister Noelle (right ) and my (left) passport  photo—we shared one in early childhood.  We were returning to the U.S. for the second time and final time, as we said goodbye to Egypt and made the U.S. our home.  What strikes me about this photo was the look of wariness and distrust in my eyes.  I feel it is rather telling—I feel a look exists in my eyes that should not be present in a young child. 



I think this photo is quite representative of how I viewed myself in childhood.   I loved being the center of attention and from as early as I can remember, I wanted to be an actress.  Looks like I am practicing for my future photo shoots!



This final photo of me in the gypsy costume was taken on Halloween.  I imagine I was about five years old at the time.  I always loved dressing up in costumes (and to be honest, I still do!). 

That’s it for this post—but I will be posting some more photos, some from my adolescence and young adulthood—and some from my theater years, as well. 

Peace,

Melinda 

Download | Duration: 00:07:35

In the last two posts, I’ve talked about the deep seated roots that set the stage for my introduction to the sex industry and the first experience I had with prostitution.  What many people, who aren’t well versed in psychological concepts might not understand is the underlying theme of ‘learned helplessness,’ that occurred not only in my situation and in the psyche of the many women working in the sex industry, but in the subconscious of women in general. 

Learned helplessness was one more psychological concept that struck a nerve as I became knowledgeable in psychology as an undergraduate student.  When I learned what learned helplessness was, how it develops, and how prevalent it is in people who have endured abuse, I recognized its theme in my own life. 

When one is forced to endure highly difficult or abusive circumstances, the coping mechanism of ‘learned helplessness’ occurs.  Young children are at particular risk because they are not cognitively developed enough to discern healthy versus unhealthy relationships.  With abuse the normal backdrop of their lives, they learn early on that any attempt to discourage or fight back against their abuser(s) results in nothing (at best) or more severe abuse (at worst).  As a result, they become passive and perhaps even compliant during the abusive episodes.    

Although learned helplessness often takes its roots in childhood, it can develop in adulthood and even late adulthood.  We can see examples of it in every population. 

• Of course this is the case with abused children—although we all push those distasteful and horrifying images into the far recesses of our brains, home to the unthinkable; we tuck those images away so that we don’t have to think of those who are born healthy yet who have become psychologically disfigured due to the evil and cruelty of the worst of humanity. 

• Even if abuse does not occur in the home, children who are bullied in school start to become ‘normalized’ that their existence is such that abuse is warranted, thus never uttering a word to their teachers or parents.

• Elderly people, whose lifetimes of rich experiences should have taught them the moral horror of abuse, can view their own needy circumstances in such terms that they silently endure daily abuse, often most shockingly administered by their closest loved ones. 

• Most well known are the cases of women who stay in relationships that are physically, psychologically, verbally and often sexually abusive and who are assaulted on an ongoing basis.  “Why do they stay?” is the societal outcry of awkward contempt; most are incapable of hypothetically placing themselves in the shoes of those they are quick to criticize and judge. 

• In certain, insidious ways, women have had to battle against learned helplessness as a gender.  Female stereotypes, perpetuated by greedy media often portray women in ways that hinder a positive self-image or strength.   I will never forget an ad that was pointed out to me as a young woman in the 1970’s, by a feminist friend of my mother’s.  It was a flooring ad that showed a woman’s legs (with high heels on her feet) sprawled out on a beautifully tiled floor; the caption read, “Born to take a beating.”  Of course, it was the floor that was born to take a beating—or was it?  Only the feminist movement recognized the horror of the ad—to the rest of society, it was far too easily accepted as benign.  Of course, this was a few decades ago, when women were fighting for the right to be freed of ‘slave and master’ laws in certain states and gender beliefs often included submission and silence in marriage.   And (on this post) I won’t even attempt my analysis of how these subliminal messages might so easily warp the foundational beliefs of men, as a gender. 

Of course, not all people who suffer abuse or trauma grow up to be junkies, prostitutes, or criminals but that is where the crapshoot of genetics comes into play.  What we are born with plays a big role in how we handle the situations we are faced with in our life.  For some, it is very difficult to overcome a tough beginning; just as some people are born physically stronger than others; some people are born psychologically stronger.  Whatever fates were written into my stars at my creation, I thank those lucky stars for at having the psychological constitution that made change come more easily.

Behaviors are learned.  Growing up with healthy self-esteem, a positive self-image, and an optimistic outlook on the world in general, are not the result of fate but are the result of those hasty or gut wrenching decisions that the architects of our development dictate during those crucial years.  This part of our development is  not a crapshoot, folks.  If you put a child in a loving, nurturing and supportive environment, it will most likely result in a healthy, balanced adult who makes meaningful contributions to society.  Likewise, if a child is raised in a aggressive, neglectful or (worse) abusive environment, that child is going to venture into society with a hatred and apathy toward humanity so great that he or she becomes completely desensitized to the basic human emotions that allow us to determine between good and evil. 

However, I truly believe that any behavior that is learned can be unlearned.  No matter what our experiences or circumstances, at some point, we all have to take control of our lives (and our behaviors) and recognize that it is our responsibility alone to do so.  It takes work—for some, incredibly hard work—but I believe that almost all people do have that inner strength to draw upon and that once they find that inner strength, they can find the courage to change.   We do control our destiny.   

Peace,

Melinda 

Download | Duration: 00:06:18

The building was located on East 31st between Lexington and Park Avenues in New York City.  Not the most posh neighborhood in New York but definitely an upper class one.  Standing outside the building, I glanced around the neighborhood, thinking in amazement that I would have never dreamed the luxury building in front of me was home to a whorehouse.  Although I had done exotic dancing at the famed Mitchell Brothers in San Francisco and had been propositioned by the men who frequented the club, I had never been paid for sexual services.   Taking a deep breath,  I walked through the front door, stopping at the reception area desk, where a polite doorman asked which apartment I was visiting.  After confirming I was expected, he welcomed me into the building and directed me to the top floor.

Getting off on the top floor, I walked down the hallway, my stiletto heels digging into the plush carpeting until I reached the apartment number I’d scribbled in my ‘week-at-a-glance.’   Again, I took a deep breath and buzzed the doorbell, where I was quickly greeted with the exact whore-house fantasy I’d imagined on the subway just thirty minutes before.  The carpet was three inches thick and blood red, while hundreds of rectangular mirrors flashed my reflection in every direction.  The room was decorated with indulgence in mind, dimly lit, with crimson patterned plush couches filled with plump, welcoming pillows tossed artistically and carelessly about the room. 

Although no women were in my immediate view, I sensed they were there—hidden from me.  The woman I presumed to be the madam of the whorehouse loomed over me; even though I was tall—nearly 5’9”—she was much taller, I imagined she was over six feet in her stocking feet and she was wearing heels higher than the ones I had on.  She was sleek, gorgeous, and completely comfortable with her height.  She led me to a small, dimly lit bedroom off the main parlor, motioning me to a futon stacked against the far wall.  

 “I’m Kat.  Make yourself comfortable,” she demanded with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, her hands sweeping dramatically over her body as her eyes locked with mine in what seemed to be meaningful contact.

Confused, I tried to think through what the demand and corresponding gesture meant.  Shrugging off my coat, I sank into a lush chair at the foot of the bed.  I was ‘making myself comfortable.’  After what seemed to be hours, but was likely only a few minutes, Kat returned, eyeing me with both exasperation and disgust, repeating, “Make yourself completely comfortable.”  No smile this time—she turned quickly on her heart-stopping high heel, shutting the door behind her. 

A light bulb flashed in my brain.  Even though I’d never heard the expression before, it was suddenly clear—the gesture, the exasperation in the woman’s voice, the meaningful rake of her eyes over my body.  I was supposed to undress.  Duh!  Dutifully, I did as I was told.  After removing my clothes I’d selected so carefully that morning, I settled into the chair again.   

While waiting for her, questions popped into my always curious brain.  Who was this woman?  Was she the madam?  Was she a prostitute?  Did she own this place?  Was she a pimp?  Does she have a pimp?  She’s awfully tall—is she really a woman?  Anything is possible!

Kat returned and seemed pleased that I’d finally understood what getting comfortable meant.  She explained how the service worked, what the expectations would be, and what kind of money I could expect to make.   I would work four days a week, from noon until midnight, seeing gentlemen in both the apartment and on outcalls.  The escort service charged two hundred dollars an hour, which would be split fifty/fifty.  However, Kat explained the initial hundred dollars an hour paid only for my time; it was understood by the men at the outset that there would be additional tips, which I would determine, depending on what the customer wanted. She gave me a quick run through of what were considered ‘acceptable tips.’   She said I could expect to make anywhere from a thousand to five thousand dollars a day, depending on how busy the service was.   I saw dollar signs and if there had been any indecision, it vanished immediately. 

After explaining how the service worked, Kat asked me to stand with my arms out, palms up.  She then switched the light dimmer up high until the room was flooded in harsh lighting.  Confused again, I wasn’t sure what was going on—I wondered briefly if she was going to make me have sex with her for the job.   I could feel her breath on the back of my legs as she examined every part of my body.  After a thorough examination, she said, “It looks like your clean.” 

 “I took a shower right before I came,” I  was shocked and insulted that she would think I would come to the interview less than fresh.   

Kat smiled.  Even though I had told her I’d worked in the business, she later told me that she knew I was as green as they came.  “No,” she explained, “I need to make sure you are not doing drugs and from the looks of you, it doesn’t appear that you are.  We don’t allow any marks on our girls here.  If you do drugs, we better not ever see any evidence of it; however, I will give you some advice.  If you are going to work in this business, run from the drugs because they will be your undoing.   Believe me, it happens a lot.” 

I stayed hidden from the rest of the girls until I turned my first trick.  I learned later that the service needed to make absolutely sure I wasn’t a cop.  Even though I’d passed the first test ‘getting completely comfortable,’ the service needed to make absolutely sure.  I later learned that the first customer I had seen was a regular, who was given an hour with me for free (even though I was paid my hundred, as well as a three hundred dollar tip). 

I was scared and nervous during that first trick.  Closing my eyes, I let my mind wander deep into Melindaville—that always welcoming place in my imagination.  I blocked any feelings before they came to the surface, as I learned to do from an early age.  I didn’t allow myself to think about what I was doing but afterward, I was aware that another little piece of innocence had been shredded away.  Soon, there would be no innocence left. 

Peace,

Melinda

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Download | Duration: 00:00:00

People have often asked me why I became involved in prostitution.  It’s surprising, even to me, to realize how quickly I made the decision to work in the sex industry.  And of course now, as a psychologist, I have analyzed what propelled me, so impulsively, into such a destructive lifestyle (and it is a destructive lifestyle—being objectified on a continual, daily basis).  

My initiation into the sex industry stems from surviving years of sexual abuse—and I am convinced that my childhood had a direct effect on what an easy decision it was.  Women who are not sexually abused cherish their sexuality in a way that survivors of sexual abuse cannot fathom.  Most young girls are taught to cherish this ‘gift’ to our prospective husbands—our virginity is the ultimate gift.   When a woman finally does gift a man with this most treasured part of herself, it is far more than a physical act—or at least it should be.  It should also be an act of trust, respect, and love.   If you are robbed of the ability to cherish your sexuality, it is easy to throw it away, carelessly.

Among other things, survivors of sexual abuse have no understanding that their sexual self is special and to be cherished.  Why would they?  Sex to any survivor of sexual abuse is first viewed as an act of shame, degradation, and humiliation.  Children who are molested by a trusted family member, friend, or even a stranger on the street are robbed, quite simply, of what should be a beautiful, loving act between two people in love.   Growing up believing my sexuality was nothing more of a commodity, the decision to sell myself was second nature.  And in some twisted way, selling this sought after commodity was an empowering act—as soon as I turned my first trick, I made a vow to myself that I would never allow someone to fuck me in a meaningless, once-sided interaction for free ever again. 

There was also the aspect that as long as I sold sex that I was in control.  A man could come into the escort service and pick me—yet the final decision was mine.  I liked the control it gave me.  It was almost as though I thought, "Hey! If I am going to be known and understood only as a creature of sex, I will do so in a situation where I am in complete control".   

I am not judgmental of anyone who works in ‘the life’ (an antiquated term for working in the business of prostitution).  I feel that prostitution should be legalized so that women are better protected.   In the past on this blog, I have recounted some of the frightening and humiliating experiences I have endured as the result of my work in the sex industry.   Although I do not judge women who work in the profession, it breaks my heart to see women work in this business because I understand the path that got most of them to that point.  From my own experiences and the experiences of the many friends I have made in that business, I know that most women who work in the sex industry do so because they view their sexuality as the only aspect of their self-worth.  And nearly every woman I have ever known in business began their trade after being forced into a sexual act at a far too early age.   I am lucky to have recovered from my early childhood experiences—to now be able to experience the love, trust, and respect that should always accompany our sexuality. 

Peace,

Melinda

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Download | Duration: 00:00:00