Eddie and me at a restaurant in New York City

I was first introduced to Edward Hemingway at the July 4 fireworks celebration in Bozeman, Montana, in the summer of 1994.  We were introduced by Sling, who’d taken an interest in me when we met at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.   HIs grandfather, the great American writer, Ernest Hemingway, has always been one of my favorite authors.  His book, The Sun Also Rises, touched me more deeply than any other piece of literary work.  Therefrore, I was so excited to meet his grandson. 

As soon as I saw Edward, I felt a strong connection with him.  He was also an urban transplant in Montana and the two of us just sensed that we had many commonalities.   After meeting at the fireworks celebration, we made a date for coffee a few days later.  Even though I sensed the two of us would have a strong bond, I never dreamed how serendipity and the wonder of being a member of a connected world would play a role in the direction our friendship was destined to take. 

As we settled in for coffee at The Leaf and Bean  in downtown Bozeman, we both realized how very much we had in common.  Only occasionally, have I met a person that I instantly felt such a strong connection with and almost as soon as we met, I felt as though I knew Edward all my life.  In fact, I started pouring my heart out to him that first day, talking about some of the big regrets I had finally begun to realize from my wasted life.  I told him one of my biggest regrets was losing touch with some amazing people—and one, in particular—a woman named Lori Ayers, who I mentioned lived in New York City. 

As soon as I uttered her name, Edward’s face lost color and he whispered, “I know a Lori Ayers who lives in New York” and as soon as he said it, we both knew it had to be the same Lori Ayers.  We both understood it was not possible we would each know a different Lori.  What made this even more amazing is that Edward had not met Lori in Montana or even in the United States!  He had met her while on a safari to Africa in the late 1980’s!  Moreover, this particular woman was very dear to both of us—she wasn’t just an 'acquaintance' or someone who was a friend of a friend:  Lori was someone we both loved.  This happy story became even better when we tracked Lori down through an address Eddie still had, which resulted in a wonderful reunion the three of us shared in trekking down to West Yellowstone and becoming one with Old Faithful.  Good times. . . good times. 

I loved being in Montana from 1994 – 1998; these were truly some golden years.  And one of the biggest reasons why they were so magical was because of my friendship with Edward.  We became lifelong friends over the time we lived in Bozeman—and we were even roommates for quite a while! 

After I left Bozeman, Eddie followed suit not long after when the well-respected School of Visual Arts accepted him to their graduate program (he received his undergraduate degree from the Rhode Island School of Design).   It  was in SVA that Eddie began working toward his lifelong dream of becoming an author and illustrator.    Eddie’s most recent publication is the children’s book Bump in the Night.  His newest children’s book, Bad Apple, will be available in bookstores and online in 2010. 

In addition to authoring children’s books, Eddie illustrated the highly touted Hemingway and Bailey’s Bartending Guide.  The sequel, Hemingway and Bailey’s Drinking Guide to Hollywood will be available in bookstores and online soon.   His work has also appeared in Nickelodeon Magazine, GQ, Gourmet, The New York Times and more.

As I mentioned in the last post, Eddie did the artwork for my blog's new header—and I cannot tell you how thrilled I am with (I keep opening up the page to look at it!).  I feel this new header has taken the aesthetics of my blog to a new level and has given my blog a brand that is truly personalized to me.  In the process of creating this header, Eddie realized how much he enjoys doing this kind of work and wants to do more artwork for websites and blogs.  Therefore, if you are interested in hiring Eddie to create one-of-a-kind, distinctive artwork that will create an unforgettable branding for your website, please contact him using this form.  Edward will arrange a meeting for a free consultation on how his unique illustrations can personalize your website or blog as standout. 

Plus, I can tell you this—you will have one hell of a  good time working with and getting to know my best friend, Eddie!

Peace,

Melinda 

Played: 0 | Download | Duration: 00:04:33

Things have been as hectic as ever around Melindaville and it has been hard for me to juggle all the balls that are up in the air.  I’m afraid if I keep up this pace, a few are going to fall! 

When I first put up this post, I asked for reader input regarding my blog's new header.  Obviously, as you can see now, I have chosen the one that spoke to me (and to all of you) the most.  One of my closest friends, Edward Hemingway, did this header.  Eddie is the youngest grandson of the great Ernest Hemingway and he is such a gifted artist in his own right.  When he offered to personalize my blog by creating this header, I jumped at the chance.  I think he did a marvelous job.  My next post will give more information on Eddie and how we met but for those of you who are interested in hiring him to make your own blog (or website) interesting and personalized, you can contact Eddie through this form, here. 


One of the things I was considering in the new blog header, was removing the “wild women don’t die—they simply dye their hair’ tagline.  However, as often happens in the universe (if we are listening), I seemed to be receiving a few gentle messages that perhaps I should not remove it.  I do like the wild women tagline because I am so proud of my survival.  In fact, a few things have reminded me of my good fortune in the last couple of weeks.

Through the miracle of FaceBook, I recently got in touch with two of the former wild women, Patti and Susan, who are like sisters to me.  They both survived as well and it has been interesting comparing how our lives have gone.  We all were heroin addicts together, yet we lost touch after Patti and Susan became pregnant, prompting them to get clean in their hometowns, in Southern California.  I remember being so proud that they each did the right thing by their children, by giving up drugs while they were pregnant.  Not every junkie does. 

Susan, Patti and I all lost touch after they moved south and I spent several more years in the gutter before nearly losing my life.  In comparing our post-heroin lives, in many ways, Susan’s life took a remarkably similar path to my own: it is almost as though we have been twins in a parallel universe.  We both made the life-changing decision to go to college, we both excelled in school, we both went all the way to earn advanced degrees, and we are both college professors, today.  After comparing notes last week, we were both so proud of each other’s accomplishments. 

I am also proud of my good friend, Patti, who has always been one of the most creative people I have known.  She’s had her own challenges and her the last fifteen years have been more difficult than mine has been but she is a sister and a survivor.  It is so great to catch up with people from my past and it’s been fun it has been to compare our life’s twists and turns.

I also have decided a name for my book—although that is going to remain a surprise for now.  I don’t want to let this slip out of the bag because God forbid someone else should decide to use it before my book comes out (and yes—this actually happens!).  I’ve been thinking about the perfect title for so long and all of a sudden, I realized the perfect one was right there all along.  It is only four simple words; it is clean, simple—and sums it my life up (I hope I have piqued your curiosity!). 

Speaking of the book—it’s been very slow going but exciting too.  I’ve made some major (big) changes in the style and substance of the book—all of which I think will lend itself to being a piece that is much more strongly written and one that I am really proud of. 

I was in New York last weekend for business and pleasure and had a wonderful time with Eddie and another friend from my past, Sally (of Mutant fame).  As Sally and I visited and talked about some of our old friends (both dead and alive), I sensed the gratitude we both felt for having made it out alive.  We were a bit of melancholy as we became lost in our memories of those friends that were not as lucky as we are.  It could have so easily been us—in fact, it almost was us on a few different occasions.  Sally was with me when I nearly died of a heroin overdose and I saw Sally come close to real peril through her own hard lived world of parties, pills and booze—never a safe combination.  Nevertheless, we are here—this “tribe of survivors” and I am so proud to be a member of this group. 

As I look at my close friends, I see our strands of gray hair and the tell tale lines marking the passing of years; sometimes a flash of memory occurs—so vivid it is almost like a photo; the memory takes me back to the way we looked in our wild days.  Then, just as quickly, the memory fades and I see the person in the present.  Yes, we are all a little older (okay—a lot older) but we are all a lot wiser and best of all, those of us who are still partying at life’s table are Goddamn lucky to be alive.  Personally?  I love the fine lines that show the passing of time and I honestly celebrate every gray hair—God knows I have earned them all.   And the bottom line is that aging is so far preferable to the alternative!  

Peace,

Melinda

Played: 3 | Download | Duration: 00:06:05

Rarely does a person's physical appearance take me aback; however, seeing the Medicine Man’s face caught me by surprise.  I’m certain most people found it hard to wrench their eyes away from the ugly, jagged scar tearing, diagonally, from high upon his brow to well below his jaw line.   The scar drew me in as well, although I was not repulsed as I am sure many people were and probably still are.  The scar drew me because I so identified with the pain the Medicine Man must have endured as a result of it; therefore, a profound sorrow washed over me and I felt enormous compassion for this stranger whose life must have been so dramatically altered with that one slash. 

Initially, I wondered what the story behind such a terrible scar might be.  Later, I would learn the story but by then, it was insignificant to me.  I had grown to love the Medicine Man by then and besides, what does it matter how we get our scars—either the visible or those that are concealed?  My friendship with Jim, the Medicine Man, is one of my most notable and often, I remember his words, particularly when I am struggling. 

As I looked into his incredibly gentle eyes, the scar seemed to fade away, as I began to see the true beauty of his soul.  The violence of the scar might cause some people to turn away in fear or disgust and never allow themselves the opportunity to get to know the true beauty of this most amazing man.  In Jim’s eyes, I saw kindness, understanding, and acceptance.  When I looked into those eyes, I felt I could trust him with my life.  

With curiosity, I glanced around the area where we would all be participating in a Native American ‘Sweat’ later that evening.  It was the middle of the afternoon, the sun glittering high onto a clear azure sky; already, there was a huge bonfire with red-hot rocks blazing amidst the flames, in preparation for the night’s ceremony.  Directly to the right of the fire was a smallish tent, made up of tarps and animal hides.  Close to the tent was a trickling creek. 

After the sunset, the elders of the group would place the rocks in a deep pit inside the lodge, dousing it with water and spiritually significant herbs.  The steam from the rocks and herbs created the sweat, which was something like a ceremonial sauna.  As soon as I heard about these ceremonies, I wanted to participate in one.  One of my first friends in Montana—a man named Sling who had been free from alcohol for close to ten years—was a frequent guest of the Native American sweat ceremonies.  When I told him of my desire to attend one, he managed to procure an invitation for me. 

I was clean from heroin for going on nine months and had returned to Montana about three months earlier to begin classes at Montana State.  Since returning to Montana, my journey of recovery had taken a spiritual direction.  I’d had a spiritual awakening while I was still going through detox for heroin addiction and since then, I was on a quest to understand myself spiritually.  Heroin addiction had robbed me of my soul, thus I was in search of reclaiming it; I felt my answers could be found along a spiritual path.   

I could sense that Jim knew I was on such a journey.  Wandering around the grounds, I could feel his eyes on me.  Finally, he motioned for me to sit with him in a lovely, grassy spot, about twenty-five feet from where we would be sweating later that night. 

“You are seeking your path to the Creator, “he stated, simply. 

“I don’t know if I believe in God,” I smiled, “I was not raised with religion.”

“Melinda,” his kind eyes now twinkling, “religion is for those who want to get into Heaven.  Spirituality is for those who have been to hell.”  He took both my hands in his own.  “You and I know Hell.  Now it is time for you to know spirituality.”

With that, Jim became one of my greatest spiritual advisors.  I told him all about my past—about how my years of heroin addiction had driven me to a point of hopelessness and homelessness, where I was forced to sell my services to any stranger who would spring for a twenty-dollar bag of smack.  Jim understood.  He has traveled much of the same road I have—not the exact road, but he’s also known the darkness of a life driven by nothing but addiction.  Jim has been to hell too. 

As the evening approached, I began to feel a certain amount of trepidation.  Only one other female was present—a motherly woman probably twenty years my senior.  Sweat ceremonies are done in the nude—which makes sense, of course—but the only time I had ever been naked with men I did not know well was when they were paying me to be naked.  Until this moment, I had always viewed nudity only in terms of sexuality—and sexuality that was bought and paid for at that.  I was nervous to remove my clothes in the presence of so many men.  I wondered if they would be looking at me.  Heck, I wondered if I would be caught up in looking at them. 

I wondered if the sweats ever brought forth any sexual tension.  It seemed likely that they might—after all, we are all only human and our sexuality is as central to our beings as breathing, sleeping, and eating.   Montana has long summer days—the sun would not set until close to 10:00, which meant I would not have the night to shroud me.  I have always felt completely comfortable with my body, naked.  However, in terms of being a spiritual, enlightened being and having to be nude while doing so—well, it was a little unsettling. 

Finally, the sun began setting and Jim announced the sweat was about to begin.  Before we entered the lodge, Jim asked that we each give a small gift as an offering to the Creator.  People gave things such as a meaningful carving or beautiful stone, however, the most common offering was tobacco, which was my own gift (I was still a smoker in those days).  After placing my gift on the small altar at the entrance of the sweat, I kept my head downward, quickly removed my clothes, and then dashed quickly inside the sweat hoping no one would realize my discomfort. 

As soon as I entered the sweat, all feeling of awkwardness vanished; the firelight and mysterious ambience of this exciting new experience captivated me.  I hadn’t really known what to expect before I participated.   I was in awe of the sounds of the drums, the firelight, and the scent of powerful herbs.  Within a short time, Jim and the rest of the regulars entered the tent as well and we began the sweat.  Jim told the others a brief version of my history with heroin addiction and my short journey into recovery; he asked for their prayers and as my new friends circled around me, I felt an amazing feeling of support, strength, and unconditional positive regard for my being.  I have rarely felt as accepted anywhere as I did in the sweat that day. 

I have taken many saunas and steam baths and have always loved them but the Sweat was hotter than anything I have ever experienced.  Its searing heat was almost to the point of being painful—in fact, it was painful, but the prayers, the steam, the beating of the drums all took the focus off the immediate pain of the heat.   Sling had warned me that the sweat got very hot and he said most newcomers could not last for the entire ceremony because of such searing heat but I could not imagine leaving.  I was caught up in the ceremony, the love, the power of the prayer and the purifying cleanse of the blistering steam. 

When the ceremony was over, I staggered out of the lodge and immediately doused myself in the frigid waters of the creek located close by.  I have done some amazing drugs in my life—I have been as high as a person can be on substances but nothing prepared me for the absolute high that the sweat brought forth in me.  I felt calmer, more serene, and had a peace I had never experienced before.  No one said much as we gathered our clothes and prepared to leave. 

Before Sling and I left to go back into Bozeman, I found Jim and gave him a heartfelt hug.  I didn’t need to tell him how important the experience had been to me; he could see it in my eyes.  He told me I would be welcome to visit the sweat again and that he appreciated my endurance through the pain of that first night. 

One of the loveliest aspects of living in Montana during my early recovery was getting to know so many key members of the Crow tribe and being able to experience so many of their special ceremonies.  I participated in quite a few sweats throughout my undergraduate years in Bozeman but none was ever as intense. . . or miraculous as that first sweat.  I will never forget this experience.

Peace,

Melinda

Played: 5 | Download | Duration: 00:09:33

I know—all of you read what I wrote on the Melindaville List of Pet Peeves about how one of them is talking in hyperboles.  Nevertheless, some hyperboles, warrant their existence (such as this one)!  After all, it was My. Best. Day. Ever.  Actually, I have had several "Best Days" in my life (ahem, I am rather old), but I thought I would share one of the best.  Things have been a little dark around Melindaville and I've been feeling that effect.  Whenever I need a little 'pick-me-up,' I reach into my brain's memory files and pull uot a particularly delicious memory.  This is one of my favorites. 

My first Best. Day. Ever. was the day I graduated with highest honors from Montana State University.  Most people seem to think that graduate school is a greater success but in my case, earning an advance degree actually paled in comparison.  For one thing, when I was a grad student,  I had some idea that I might actually succeed but when I started taking classes at Montana State University, it was really out of desperation.  I had barely graduated from high school (I graduated 428th out of a class of 442—not too good!   I'm glad I didn't realize this until after I had successfully completed all of my education).  At the time I started college,  I simply didn’t know what else to do.  In the first class I took, I worked harder than I had ever worked in my life, studied probably ten times harder than I needed to,  and was rewarded with an ‘A’ for my effort at the end of the term.  That small success bolstered a tiny flicker of determination that had been lurking somewhere deep inside of me and I kept on . . . succeeding with every class, every term, and every year that passed.

I have always been the ‘Queen of Instant Gratification’.  In fact, I am surprised Wikipedia doesn’t have that listing with my name in its honor.  Never in my life had I been interested in delayed gratification because that just took so damn long (I think a big reason why instant gratification always appealed to me so much is that I honestly never thought I was going to live long enough to benefit from delayed gratification!).  However, when I began school, I knew there would be no instant gratification.  Somehow, I placed a small bit of faith in the powers that be and trusted that if I just kept taking one small step after another, one class at a time, and one year a time, that it would somehow work out.  And it did!

I didn’t even realize I would have enough college credits to graduate the following year until I was well into my junior year—it honestly snuck up on me.  Those absolutely joyous and wondrous days of education and self-discovery had all passed so quickly—Montana had enveloped me in a blissful cocoon of innocence that removed heroin from my life—and without that demon, I would realize a success I had never dreamed possible.  I had not even realized how hard I had worked while I was doing it; my motivation drove me like a maniac. 

And all of a sudden, it was there—that Red. Letter. Day.   The culmination of all my hard work was about to be realized.  My mother was in the audience of the field house, waiting to see her youngest daughter—the one who had been a junkie whore only a few years earlier—cross the stage with her golden tassel that indicated graduating with highest honors.  It was a Red. Letter. Day . for my mom, too. 

As I passed across the stage, I felt all the strength of the many people who had inspired me, both from my time in the treatment center and the mentors who had nurtured me throughout my college career.  I had done the best drugs in the world (heck, I had sometimes sold the best drugs in the world) but I would never felt a high as profound as when the Dean of the College handed me my diploma and said, “Congratulations, Melinda.”   It was an unbelievable feeling. 
I had done it.  I had climbed Mt. Everest.  I felt like Rocky as he raced up those steps or an Olympic athlete as he gets his gold medal.  This really was The. Best. Day. Ever.

Often, something will trigger a memory and I find myself lost in the pain of the past; however, just as often, I will reach to find a particular fabulous memory and savor it slowly.  My graduation day was one such.  I have many, actually.  For example, another Best. Day. Ever.  was the day my beloved husband Les and I were married; we stood outside in the pristine beauty of Montana and I felt an awe I had never imagined before.  I realized at that moment that this was my greatest accomplishment:  becoming the type of person that such a wonderful man would want to marry.  But, that Best. Day. Ever. is a story for another day.

So, now—what was your Best. Day. Ever?   It might very well feel great to take that memory out and savor it for a while. 

Peace,

Melinda

Played: 15 | Download | Duration: 00:04:44

I finally confronted my father in 2005 and this was long overdue.  I have written about this experience before but it has been a while and it was so profound that I feel it is worth visiting again. 

I never had the courage to confront my father, even though the scene played out in my imagination for literally years before I made it a reality.  I was finally able to do this after being inspired by the documentary film,' Searching for Angela Shelton', in which the filmmaker (Angela Shelton), set off on a cross-country journey to meet every person who shared her name: Angela Shelton. 

What Angela found was an inner journey, where she came across far more than women who shared a name.    As she made her way across the country, Angela met forty women, also named Angela Shelton.  However, upon meeting them, she learned they shared more than a name:  all shared shameful secrets from their past, just as Angela did.  You see, Angela is a survivor of childhood molestation and incest, just as I am.  Out of the forty women she met, twenty-eight of them had survived a sexual assault at one point of their lives.  Some, like Angela and me, were molested at the hands of their fathers.  Others were raped by friends, acquaintances, or strangers; all shared the same pain. 

At the end of Angela’s journey, she made a final stop at her father’s home, where she confronted him about her childhood.  As I watched, I knew I needed to take strength from Angela and confront my own father.  It was a life changing experience.   

Les and I made the trek to see my father at the assisted living center where he was residing with his second wife.  Growing up, he had always seemed so huge to me but seeing him so old and withered, his face grim and inscrutable, he looked weak and helpless—so different from the tormenter of my past.  It had been so long since I had seen him that he did not even recognize me but upon realizing who I was, he looked at me with real hostility and demanded, “What do you want?”  (It was not until after I left that I realized he had not even pretended to seem happy to see me). 

I looked him squarely in the eye and simply said, “I want to talk to you about my childhood,” and for that one minute, we shared the painful truth of my childhood when he responded, “That was really bad.”  However, as quickly as that, the moment vanished forever, once again clouded by the comfort of the denial he had long held onto and once again and as usual, he tried turning the tables on me.  “You were a bad child,” he screamed out!  And that’s when Les really lost it.  Les stormed over to the couch where my father sat and spat out his words, “She was a child!  You molested her!  How could you do such a thing to your child?” 

Then he threw us out.  We hadn’t been there longer than a few minutes but those few minutes were enough to help ease a lifetime of shame, self-recrimination, and doubt.  We had locked eyes for that one moment.  And what a moment that was. 

I haven’t forgiven my father for what he did to me as a child.  To be honest, I don’t know that I ever will.  I know today that forgiveness is not about the person we are forgiving, it is about taking measures to make our own lives more peaceful and serene.  I have found acceptance with what happened to me as a child but I haven’t found forgiveness per se.  I am not saying that I will never get to that point—but I will say, at this point, acceptance and self-forgiveness are good enough. 

It took me many years and much soul searching before I really forgave my mother—and she played a big role in my own self-forgiveness process.  Seeing my mother come to terms and accept what happened under her watch, as a mother, was a big part of forgiving her for what happened to me.  Forgiving my mother was so necessary—not just to our relationship but also to my sense of inner peace. 

I am still wrestling with forgiveness of another person, which is the focus of this brutally honest post.  My relationship with my sister has deteriorated in the past several years and I know the reason why.  Even though my mother and I have thoroughly discussed what happened to me in my childhood and she has finally accepted the awful truth, my sister and I never have—and I am saddened to believe that it is very possible we never will. 

I do see my sister as another victim of my father and I truly believe, based on both my own memory and some stories my mother recently told me, that she was also molested by our father.   She has refused to talk about the past, has never visited my blog, and will never read my book—and this silence has stifled our relationship even further.  Moreover, it has led to a great deal of resentment on my part. 

My sister and I were never close growing up.  In many ways, she was extremely cruel to me as a child.  I can forgive her for that:  after all, we were both products of a very dysfunctional environment.  What I am having a harder time forgiving is her ongoing denial and her absolute refusal to have a real conversation with me, which I believe is imperative for us to have any kind of health relationship.   Throughout my entire childhood, denial was the overriding theme and to have to deal with my sister's denial, today, is simply gut wrenching.  Her denial and my subsequent resentment have built a huge and terrible wall between the two of us. 

How do we break down this wall?  How do I ignore the denial and once again allow a family member to live in the 'over the rainbow' fantasy existence of what we wished our childhoods had been?  I know I need to forgive my sister and somehow ignore that wall of denial in order for us to have any kind of relationship at all.  I am soul searching.  Is a superficial relationship with my sister one that is worth the pain of having to deal with the ongoing denial?  Or will it keep tearing me apart inside?   I have often wished that we could choose our family members as we choose our friends. 

I know I need to find some resolution because I feel I am no more than a ghost in the relationship with my sister.  We send cards; we perform the exterior niceties that are expected of each of us. . . . yes, we act out of duty because we don't have any control over who our family members are.  Sometimes, I wish I were more perfect than what I am—but I am very flawed.  Certainly, if I were so enlightened, I would be able to overlook this wall and accept that my sister cannot give any more.  I hope I can become so enlightened because my resentment and her silence are ruining our relationship. 

I often try to look at how far I have come and not focus so much on far I still have left to go.  However, in the case, I have to acknowledge that I still have quite a ways to go. But I will get there. 

Peace,

Melinda

Played: 10 | Download | Duration: 00:06:37

I think many of us grew up with the misconception that a perfect family exists.   

I used to come home from school and watch old reruns of Leave it to Beaver and The Brady Bunch.   We never really took them seriously—in fact, we mocked them unmercifully.  My friends and I would sneer, making fun of Florence Henderson’s ‘dippity-do’ hairstyle and the ‘goody-goodiness’ of the children.  We ridiculed the vapidly stupid plots of both shows.   When Ward would tell June, “We need to have a little talk about “The Beaver,” we would snicker, knowingly. 

Sure, we knew this was television but deep down, there was a certain allure of the simple innocence of these caricatures of ideal families.  I inhaled their blissful perfection. Yes, intellectually, I knew this was television and that television is scripted.  I learned this from a very young age, after my mother explained there were no tiny people living in the big box in our family room.  I understood acting because of my involvement in the theater, which began at a very young age.  

However, I did see examples of what I believed were perfect families at many of my friends’ homes when I would go to visit after school or on the weekends.  My best friend, Allison, had a strong relationship with her younger sister.  I would dream that my own sister would treat me with such loving camaraderie.   Moreover, of course, I blamed myself that she did not. 

However, I was most envious of the father figures in many of my friend’s families.  I would look on with incredulity as I saw the fathers gaze lovingly at their daughters, speaking to them with real interest and devotion.  I fantasized about having such a father—and in fact, when I described my dad to people who didn’t know him, I made him sound like he was one of those fathers I yearned for.  I would brag about how he spoiled me and catered to my every whim.  In reality, I don’t remember my father ever telling me he loved me.  I don’t recall his ever asking about my interests—other than to scoff at my lofty dreams of becoming a great stage actress.  He told me that only whores became actresses.   I grew up thinking I was a no-good whore; therefore, like many self-fulfilling prophecies, I became one.   Here he was, molesting me on one hand and yet railing against me for being a whore on the other.  It was very confusing to me, as a young child.

So, at least on some level, I did believe that the perfect family existed—and many people do.  We believe it exists because we want to believe it does.  Unfortunately, this ultimately colors our perception to view others in a less than realistic fashion.  We end up yearning for an ideal that is impossible to attain; just as young girls view the airbrushed beauties that grace the pages of glossy magazines and convince themselves of their existence, we do the same thing.  Neither is reality:  perfection is simply not possible to reach. 

Of course, some families are more functional than others are but no family is perfect.  Years after my childhood passed, I ran into a former high school classmate who, like me, was an over-traditional college student at the same time I was.  I had not known her well when I was in high school—she was far above my social class in high school.  I thought she was perfect!  She was a cheerleader—one of the most popular girls in school.  I’d seen her family and they were one of those examples of perfection I coveted so much.  What a shock it was when we compared notes at this later date; Mary Jo had also been molested by her father.  I was so shocked to learn that her perfect family —- well, they hadn’t been so perfect after all. 

You see, I always believed to be isolated in my misery.  Just as I had shared stories with Mary Jo, the same occurred when we talked about our childhood experiences in AA and NA meetings. I was astounded that so many others shared pain from their childhoods; I had always felt that pain was mine alone.  I finally gained the courage to share some of my own pain with them and as I did, I’d glance around the room and see others nodding knowingly.  So many, like me, had known unspeakable pain.  While our experiences differed, the underlying human emotions of pain and trauma were the same for all of us and it connected all of us on such a deep and human level.  Finally sharing my pain felt good—because the burden of carrying it alone was no longer my own.  I learned that a load of pain is not nearly as heavy when you have others to help you carry it. 

It was also a relief to share my shame with others—I had always felt so alone in the disgrace of what happened to me as a child.  I blamed myself—yes, for the things I did have control over—my addiction to heroin and my self-destructive lifestyle.  However, I had also always blamed myself for things over which I had no control:  my family relationships and most notably, my father’s molestation of me.  In group therapy for survivors of incest and childhood sexual abuse, I was able to share that terrible burden with others who belonged to the same club as I did—the one no one wants to be a member: survivors of abuse.  When we interlocked our arms in support and strength of one another, we became stronger as individuals—because it takes strength to overcome a trauma-filled life. 

No, that ideal family does not exist in reality— because perfect people do not exist and realizing that has been a relief too.  Early in recovery, I thought I had to be a faultless person—and this perfectionism was very hard on me.  It has been a relief to realize I don’t have to be perfect.  It reminds me of something an old friend once told me, “This is life, not heaven, Melinda—you don’t need to be perfect.” 

And I’m not. 

Peace,

Melinda

Played: 18 | Download | Duration: 00:06:38

I recently read the book, The Lovely Bones, which was both hauntingly tragic and wondrously hopeful—a combination that has been omnipresent in my own life.  I highly recommend this book as it is beautifully written, with a compelling story:  the author, Alice Sebold, takes us through a family journey through the eyes of a dead fourteen-year-old girl named Susie Salmon, who was raped and murdered in the 1970’s.   Although the rape and murder of Susie is a major theme in the book, I would argue that it is less important than other themes:  the most important is both the fragility and strength of the human spirit, which she artistically weaves throughout the book.

One of my favorite aspects of the book was Susie’s version of Heaven, which was not at all what she expected while alive—and one that I am quite sure that most of us would not expect either.  Interestingly enough, while Heaven is a theme—there is not a mention of Hell of any kind—not that you would expect Susie to wind up in Hell—after all, she was an innocent fourteen year old.  However, you would expect that there would be some revelation of Hell of some kind—particularly in relation to the darker elements in the story:  those who do unspeakable deeds, such as rape and murder—particularly to a child.  However, there was no mention of hell, which I appreciated because I always felt that life on earth forces us through our own personal hells—which we must learn to escape while journeying through life.  This was certainly true in my case. 

I don’t really believe in Heaven—although I am hopeful that I will be able to connect on some spiritual level, the people I've loved in this life.  However, it was interesting to read Sebold’s take on Heaven.  In The Lovely Bones, everyone has their own version of Heaven, which makes sense to me.  Why would my Heaven be the same as an NFL player, after all?  While he may enjoy the violent mashing of bodies and brain injuries—well, let’s just say that might actually be my own version of Hell. 

In this Heaven, anything we desire is possible—except of course, becoming alive again.  Therefore, in my own Heaven, I might become that famous actress I once set my sights on.  Alternatively, perhaps I would win a Pulitzer Peace Prize.  Or perhaps I would finally have that happy childhood I always desired.   In the book, if you concentrated hard enough, your personal Heaven would give you those desires. 

The book made me think of death also—which was final but comfortingly, not so final.   In Susie’s Heaven, she met up with her grandfather upon his death and this is something I have always hoped for:  that I would once again meet up with all the lovely people that meant so much to me at one time.  During the 1980’s, when so many of my friends died from AIDS—as well as from overdoses and suicides, the only way I could cope was through the belief that I would one day see them again.  Rationally, I am not sure I ever really believed this would be so—but fantastically, I wished so much that it would be so.  In fact, I talked myself into believing that would be the case because it made letting go so much easier. 

I think for some, that this book would help comfort them in the uncertainty of what lies beyond our life on earth.  For me, I need no comfort here, as I am not afraid of death:  I have been faced with death on too many occasions.    Once, when I overdosed on heroin, I was told that I had stopped breathing and my heart had stopped beating:  I was dead.  In that experience, as soon as the heroin hit my veins, my last thought before lying on the couch was a great sense of peace and warmth.  I expect it to be that way when I finally do leave this earth.  Until then, I plan to wring out all I can out of life and appreciate it for the gift that it is.  Susie’s story can remind all of us that life can be snuffed out so unexpectedly and that all of us should work toward having no regrets when our time does come.

Peace,

Melinda

Played: 32 | Download | Duration: 00:04:22

I think I should have started a ‘Pet Peeves’ category a long time ago.  We all have pet peeves and it always feels good to be able to rant about them.  And what better place to have a rant than your own personal blog?  
Since things have been unusually hectic, stressful and even downright dark here at Melindaville lately, I thought I would cheer things up a bit with some light-hearted banter about some of my biggest pet peeves, which are (in no particular order):

1. Rushing in to use a toilet and finding the roll of toilet paper is empty!  And going along with this is (#2)

2. Toilet paper dispensers that do not allow the roll to move freely, meaning you can only break off one tiny (and insufficient) square at a time.  Most rest stops are guilty of employing this tactic as a toilet tissue cost saving measure.   But this annoys the hell out of me. 

3. Believe it or not, men, you aren’t the only ones who pee while standing up!  A huge segment of the female population does this, leaving their little ‘gift’ of urine drops on the seat for the next unsuspecting toilet user.  This really drives me nuts!  I have scolded women for doing this when I catch them in the act.  I feel so strongly about this one that perhaps this even warrants public service campaign—the slogan can be, "If you sprinkle while you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat.”

4. Automated telemarketer calls!  What. The. HELL?  You nearly kill yourself, rushing from the shower, wet, naked, and slipping on the floor to get to the phone in time, only realize it is not even a human being but some automated telemarketer who has put you on hold!  For SHAME!

5. Finding an item you can’t live without and then seeing there is no price tag attached.   

6. Standing in queue behind someone waiting for a price check on items with no price tags.

7. Being called “Ma'am.”  I know I am old.  And yes, probably old enough to be called “Ma’am” but please, humor me and call me “Miss” (for those of you in the service industry—this automatically bumps your tip up (or down) a few dollars).

8. Dressing room mirrors that deliberately make you look thinner.  You find that great dress that makes you look thinner in the dressing room mirror, only to return home to your own (realistic) mirror and find it makes you look as chunky as you really are!  These should possibly be illegal.  Or at least regulated by the government. 

9. Poor Drivers in general—but several offenders actually deserve their own private category and I feel it is my duty to pay homage to each group of annoyers in their own showcase. 

            9a. Drivers that pull out in front of you at the last minute, causing you have to either slow down or hit them.   Most annoying are the ones who watch as you approach, then at the last minute, pull out.  Why?  Do. You. Do. This?  Also, adding to the peeve is the fact that most of these folks usually drive as slow as molasses once they do this, too (are you listening Commonwealth of Massachusetts?).

            9b. Going along with the previous:  Drivers that pass you and then slow way down. 

            9c. People who drive well below the speed limit—in the fast lane. 

10. People who answer their cell phones and then hold long conversations when you are out at dinner with them.    Perhaps the caller is more interesting than I am—but this is just so blatantly rude

11. When smoke  alarms go off when I am cooking  (unfortunately, this happens a lot). 

12. Being selected for extra screening by the TSA.  I particularly loathe the TSA officers who like to pretend they are cops.  It’s gotten even more annoying since they all got new cop-like uniforms.

13. Windows automatic updates.  You come back to your computer to find it has restarted and you lost all the work you were doing when the automatic update kicked in. 

14. People who say, “I know how you feel” when they clearly do not. 

15. Losing work due to computer crashes (that blog post that was lost was my best EVER—and now it’s gone, FOREVER!).

16. People who talk in hyperboles:  “that blog post that was lost was my best EVER—and now it’s gone, FOREVER!”

17. People who talk in the third person:  “Melinda has some pet peeves she’d like to tell you about.”

18. People who tell me how wonderful bats are for our environment after I tell them about my terrible bat phobia.

19. Putting on a new pair of expensive hosiery and seeing an immediate runner appear (I will never buy Spanx sheer stockings again!). 

20. The government’s Emergency Alert System (you know, the “This is only a test” thingy).  It always seems to pre-empt the most important moment in the television show you are watching.   I saw a report on this on 60 minutes—they mentioned that the alert system had never actually been used! Not even during 911!    Our tax dollars at work, folks! 

So, that’s my list (for now).  What annoys the hell out of you?

(This was fun!)

Peace,

Melinda

Played: 22 | Download | Duration: 00:06:03

I think none of us can truly understand how the people of Haiti are feeling.   I have experienced an earthquake—one of the bigger ones in recent history; I was living in San Francisco in 1989 when our little piece of the world shook—and I will never forget it.  

Michael and I had just moved into a brand new apartment, built with the possibility of an upcoming earthquake in mind—the architect placed the building on huge sliders, meant to ‘go with the flow’ of the quake.   These sliders caused the entire apartment to move dramatically back and forth when the quake began; it was so severe that it knocked the television off the stand, shook the glass wear out of hutch, and even blew the pictures off the nails that fastened them.  Michael and I had no idea of how severe the earthquake was—but we thought it might very well be ‘The Big One’ due to the extreme sliding and shaking of that apartment.  Those of us who live In San Francisco know that it is not a matter of if there will be an earthquake—it is a matter of when it comes . . . and how devastating it will be. 

The San Francisco quake was not The Big One—except to the few who lost their lives but it was a stark reminder of nature’s immense power of nature—and how powerless all of us are when forces strike hard. 
Haiti is devastated by this earthquake; however, their world was one filled with distress and hopelessness even before being overcome by this terrible disaster.  Now, in the aftermath, it must be a terrible burden to look to each new day with hope.   None of us—particularly those of us living in relative luxury and security here in technologically advanced countries, can fathom the type of life facing the Haitian people.  At best, their situation was very difficult before, now, it is untenable— and unbearable. 

Seeing the wonderful response to the crisis in Haiti has really restored my faith in humanity.  One of the things I love best about being an American is the generosity and spirit that the American people show—we always respond to our own fellow citizens when in crisis, but we also respond others when their country is in crisis.  It has been heartwarming to see the great response of so many people who care so very much.

I am writing this blog post to remind everyone that it is not only in the first few weeks that we need to respond to the crisis in Haiti—but after the news crews leave, when we will no longer be subjected to viewing the great suffering.  Nevertheless, that great suffering will continue—next week, next month—and likely next year.  Let none of us forget that we are all much more similar than different—that we are all connected by the common blood of humanity that flows through all of us.  When the camera crews have gone and we no longer see the devastation of this terrible earthquake, let  us remember the great words of Jon Donne’s and continue to act with the same great generosity and humanity that separates human beings from all other life forms.

"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated...As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come: so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

                                                                                                                                             —Jon Donne

Please continue to help the plight of the poor Haitian people; you can help with the relief effort by visiting and donating to the following:

The American Red Cross

Unicef 

Doctors without Borders

Peace,

Melinda

I took a class in near death experience (NDE) as an undergraduate student, after I had been in recovery for about two years.   I had been looking forward to taking this course since I first discovered it in the University catalogue—the psychology department at Montana State did not offer it often, so as soon as it appeared on an upcoming summer session schedule, I signed up right away.   Dr. Bill Serdahely taught the class; he is a leading researcher in near death experience.  I remember feeling incredibly fortunate to have the opportunity to take such an interesting class taught by such a well-qualified professor.  It was almost as though this class called to me on a deeply psychic level: ever since my attempted three suicides, which precipitated my final successful foray into recovery, I yearned to understand more about what had happened while I was in that coma. 

Therefore, taking this class was part my insatiable thirst for self-understanding and knowledge:  I was hungry to learn as much as I could about so many of my life’s experiences.   Why was I given a second chance at life when so many people close to me, including my first husband, Michael Roberts, had not lived through the drug wars we had all been fighting?  

My need to understand my own psyche drove my interest in psychology—which I am sure is why I decided to go in that direction, academically.  Not only did I want to understand myself, I wanted to figure out why my father had hated me so much and why he had abused me.  I wanted to understand why my mother had failed to recognize his abuse and had not protected me and why my sister had not warned me of what would happen. 

I realize now how unstable I was during those early days of recovery.  Early on, terrifying nightmares interrupted my sleep nearly every night, which was something new for me to deal with.   I had not experienced nightmares since I was a child because drugs camouflaged my emotions—and my pain.  I know now that my primary reason for abusing drugs was to escape those emotions but after recovery removed the drugs, I was vulnerable—naked in the grief of my past.   I was not ready to face all those raging emotions in consciousness; therefore, they came forth in my nightmares.  Almost every night, I would awaken terrified, angry and shaking from a horrifying nightmare.  I was still lost in those early days.

As I sought to understand my father’s abuse of me, I also needed to know why I felt the need to continue his destruction on my own when he no longer had the means or the power to hurt me.  He had passed the abuse torch on to me and sickeningly, I gladly took it—to the extent where it nearly ended my life. 

However, slowly, throughout the miracle of recovery, I was finally ready to look into my life’s mirror and begin to face myself.  I needed to know why things had gone so terribly wrong in my life to drive me to a desperation so severe it led me to three very serious suicide attempts—and why I had believed this was the best solution for my life.  

After surviving that final suicide attempt, I needed to understand what happened to me when I lie in that coma for three long days, caught between life and death—because it was clear to me that when I regained consciousness, I had undergone a true transformation—a change so deep that my life would never again be the same.  I cannot even say how I knew it—I had been a heroin and crack addict when I entered the coma after drinking an entire bottle of furniture polish (and yes folks—you did read that right).  However, after I came out of the coma, I was a changed woman:   somewhere deep inside of me, I knew that I would never be a drug addict again.  On an innate level, I realized I was not supposed to die and since I was not supposed to die, that meant I had to live—and the only way that proposition was bearable would be if I changed—because I could not bear the idea of my life going on as it had, homeless and desperate on the street. 

The course in near death experiences was as amazing as I thought it would be—and it helped me piece together what might have happened in that dark cocoon of a coma, where something spiritual was nurturing my psyche to heal,  just as the doctors were working to save my physical being.  Certainly, I’d had a ‘near death experience’ although it was not the same as you read about.  As I read the stories of those who had the typical NDE we all have heard of,  I felt somewhat cheated: I never walked down a long tunnel toward a light and I never experienced the pain and happiness of every life I had touched along my life’s journey the way you read of others’ doing.  However, there was no doubt that it was a near death experience because certainly, I had almost died that night I drank the furniture polish. 

The psychic change. 

This was what I experienced:  a psychic change.  My transformation was drastic and deep-seated; it   changed the way I viewed the world around me,  how I interpreted my own life’s experience, and most particularly, how I viewed myself as a survivor rather than a victim.  Although it would be many years before that psychic change would crystallize the person I was to become, the blueprint for the ‘new and improved Melinda’ was drawn up somewhere during that three day coma.   I wanted to understand how this happened.  I realize now that I likely never will; moreover, I realize that it is not even important that I do. 

I’ve fantasized that perhaps it was my guardian angels—whose presence had never seemed that outlandish to me—after all, I had survived much more than most people would in my same position.  There was even a spooky experience where I once came extremely close to being hit  by a Muni bus in San Francisco; I literally felt a hand push me down to the ground, away from the bus—but when I  looked around to see the hand, there was no one there.  I even remember thinking at that time:  “Oh!  That was my guardian angel again.” 

Although I am a scientist, I know there are mysteries in life that science can never explain—and my psychic change is one of those.  I don’t understand it but I do believe it—and more importantly, I am so grateful for it.

Peace,

Melinda

p.s.  I apologize once again for not having a podcast; I will be back in MA by the end of the week and will have my recording equipment again then.