I rarely have nightmares anymore.  When Les and I first began living together as a couple, I had them almost nightly.  As he learned more about my life and experiences, he understood why I was so haunted but it made him feel helpless, nonetheless.  It’s not easy to watch a person you love suffer, even if it is only in the grips of a dream. 

I stopped having nightmares on a daily basis after I finally confronted my father several years ago.  All of a sudden, I saw the larger-than-life monster of my childhood—the one who’d been the source of so much pain and torment to me, as a weak old man.   When Les and I confronted him, he lost his power over me—and when that happened, I stopped fearing him.  No longer terrified of him, I stopped having nightmares.  Well, I’ve almost stopped having them. 

I had a nightmare last night—and it was vivid.  I’m sure our friend Sigmund Freud would have a field day with the manifest and latent meanings of this particular dream.  I’ve had some fun analyzing it myself. 

In my dream, I was running down a long, dark road.  I was running away from someone or something—I’m uncertain what it was—but I was terrified.    While running down the road, I looked down and saw I had a manuscript in my hands.  I hadn’t realized I was holding anything—but there it was.  I was having a difficult time holding on to the book—I kept dropping it on the muddy ground, which really upset me.  Each time it slipped out of my fingers, it became dirtier and muddier.  I kept thinking—I’m ruining this book!  I have to stop dropping it!  I cared very much about this book in my hands.  I even apologized to this inanimate object.   “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to drop you,” I whispered. 

Suddenly, I’d reached the end of the road and was now at a huge cliff, where below, monstrous waves crashed on giant rocks.  It could have been Schoodic Point, in Maine—or perhaps it was Big Sur.  It was a place of familiarity.  I couldn’t really see the water below—but I could hear it.  Still protective of the book, I kept switching it from one arm to the other—it was so heavy.  All of a sudden, I dropped it.   Helplessly, I watched it go tumbling down into the darkness . . . knowing it was gone forever.  I’d lost my manuscript forever. 

Now, it’s true—I am a psychologist—but it doesn’t take one to realize what the meaning of this dream was.  Saturday, I printed my book for Eddie to take to the literary agent he knows. 

It’s scary to send my manuscript to agents.  Until now, it has been mine.  As long as I held on to it, it was safe.  True, a few of my friends and my mother have read and edited my book—and they’ve all liked it.  But it’s quite different to send out for professionals to review. 

As it dropped into the mail—it did fall off that cliff.  And it’s true—it is gone—that purest form of my book.  Because it will now be muddied with the criticism and opinions of others who will now judge it—and me.  It’s more than a book, really—it almost feels as though it is part of me—a child perhaps—a child I’ve labored for two years to produce.    Giving it up—well, it’s tough. 

But at the same time, it feels good to finally let it go.  It’s out of my hands—and whatever happens, I am ready to accept it.  Writing this book was the most difficult—and the most cathartic thing I’ve ever done. 

I’m on to the next phase now.  And I’ve got to accept that it has left my hands and I can’t retrieve it, even if I wanted to.  It’s hard letting go of something you’ve worked on and that you care about more than any other single person will.  But sometimes we have to just let go—and accept whatever destiny has in store for us.  And you know?  I’m ready for that. 

Peace,

Melinda

Played: 0 | Download | Duration: 00:04:44

My sister and me (she is on the right). 

As I have discussed on my blog before, I’ve had a distant and strained relationship with my sister —pretty much throughout our lives.  I’ve always wished it were otherwise—but one person cannot force a relationship.  Relationships are only successful if both parties participate. 

However, we can never allow ourselves to feel completely hopeless about anything, whether it is about global warming, the situation in Afghanistan, or a simple relationship between two sisters.  After all, when there’s life, there is hope.  And when you hope, you can dream—and anything can happen when you hold onto your hopes and dreams. 

After finishing the major revisions and edits to my book, I felt so ecstatic and proud.  So much so that I sent a copy of the last chapter to my sister. 

Writing my book was an incredible journey on so many levels but one of the most profound effects was the forgiveness I found through writing it.  As I wrote about my family’s dynamics, I had to analyze our relationships and as I did, I felt resentment give way to understanding.  And with that understanding came a greater degree of forgiveness than I’ve ever known:  I forgave my mother even more for the role she played in my father’s horrendous abuse.  And as I wrote on, I felt the iceberg of resentment I’ve always felt toward my sister begin to melt away.  I’d idolized her throughout my childhood, as younger siblings often do to their older ones.  I always yearned for her love and acceptance but never really received it.  While writing, though, I finally realized my father victimized her as he did me.  Even if he didn’t molest her as he did me, she was still a pawn in a terribly dysfunctional family. 

I sent her that last chapter because I know much of my book will be difficult for her to read.  But I knew this one would be easier for her to read because it is a chapter of a reunion between an estranged mother and daughter—but more importantly, it is a chapter of hope and triumph.  I wanted to share that with her. 

Her return email warmed.  In fact, tears came to my eyes. 

My sister told me how beautifully she thought the chapter was written—and how moving it was.  She said she could relate to it because she is a mother and can understand the mother-child bond because of it. 

Emotion overcame me because I honestly couldn’t remember ever hearing my sister compliment me.  Not once.  In my entire life.  I knew I’d succeeded with the chapter—but that wasn’t even the most important thing.  The most important thing was this tiny flicker of flame on a newly lit fire of hope.  And I felt hope for our relationship.  I want to nourish that tiny flicker of a hope. 

I love my sister.  I always have—from the time that I can remember.  I’ve not always been happy with her—and I’ve certainly not always liked her, but I have always loved her and I’ve always wanted to know her on a deeper level.  I don’t know if we ever really will—but I remain hopeful.    

I recently received an email announcing she and her husband had finished building their dream home in Gunnison, Colorado.  I responded, saying how thrilled I was—that I hoped they’d enjoy many years of happiness and success in their new home.  She wrote back with an invitation to visit them. 

You know, I think I will. 

Peace,

Melinda
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Played: 85 | Download | Duration: 00:03:59

Waves crashing at Schoodic Point near Winter Harbor, Maine

Les and I are vacationing in Maine, at our wonderful, “Corea-by-the-Sea.”  It’s far up the coast of Maine—it takes a good six hours to drive here from Boston but the drive itself is lovely and I begin smiling widely, with anticipation, as we get closer and pass familiar signs along the way.  There’s a small scrapbooking shop (I still find it amazing that a scrapbooking shop can survive on its own here), Pete’s creamery, which he advertises as having, “pretty good ice cream,” and Sullivan Harbor Farms, which has absolutely the most fantastic smoked salmon you could ever imagine. 

This morning, I luxuriated in bed until ten o’clock, which I rarely do in Boston or San Francisco—even though I am not really a morning person.  I love awakening in Maine, smelling the salty sea air, and listening to the waves gently slap up against the rocks, while lobster boats troll out in Gouldsboro Bay, which our house sits on.  I feel my battery recharge here—and even more lovely, this is such a romantic get-away, I always leave feeling Les and I have made even more connections, which hardly seems possible to do at this point—but we still manage. 

We’ve spent much of our time doing the usual things we love.  We went to the Corea harbor and bought lobsters pulled fresh out of the sea that morning—so deliciously sweet, you don’t even need butter.  We had a lovely picnic at Schoodic Point, where masterful waves crash on the rocks—and when gazing out at the ocean, you cannot help but be entranced at how huge it is . . . and how small you are.  Tonight, we’ll feast at our favorite restaurant, Le Domaine, which really is a five star restaurant, secretly tucked away in the Maine woods.  Oh the anticipation of that fine meal tonight. 


Corea-By-The-Sea, Lobster Co-op—YUM!

But mostly, we’ve taken walks along the beach, had quiet days and nights of catching up with books that we are normally too busy to read.  Just having time to connect with nature is pretty damn wonderful. 

How I wish I could bottle up the feelings I have for Maine and pass it along to all of you I love so much.  It really is Mainely wonderful. 

Peace,

Melinda

Played: 61 | Download | Duration: 00:02:33

During our brief trip to Cleveland, time passed so fast—too quickly really.  Unfortunately, I didn't get a chance to do many of the things I’d wished to do.  I’d hoped to track down more people who played such an influential role in my early recovery.   I suppose I should not be surprised at the vast changes Cleveland has seen in the last sixteen years. After all, look at the transformation I’ve undergone.  The changes in both Cleveland and in me are nothing short of astonishing. 

However, while in Cleveland, I did accomplish a lot.  One thing I really wanted to do was to bury some memories—memories I’ve not been able to put to rest because they are still frequented in my nightmares.  I needed to see those places one more time.  It was to face those ghosts and demons, knowing that if I confronted them, I could finally put them to rest.   

So, on Saturday afternoon, after spending the morning visiting women residents in the Ed Keating Center , we took the GPS and plugged in several of my former addresses that Mom had managed to hang onto, and took a drive through some key parts of Cleveland—places from my past.  One thing that struck me in virtually every area we visited was how poverty-stricken these areas are.  This alone made me so grateful for my new life.  Today, I never worry about my safety in any of the places I live.  In those old Cleveland neighborhoods, danger was a constant companion.  I never felt safe walking in any of those neighborhoods.

The first place we visited was the Tremont area, which has undergone a huge amount of urban renewal.  When I lived in this neighborhood, it was seedy and drug infested—one of the most dangerous areas in all of Cleveland.  When we first arrived in the area from the freeway, I barely recognized it.  Passing what looked like a newly developed housing area, I commented to Les that I thought the new housing might have replaced the projects, where I once scored drugs.  Quickly, I realized that assumption was correct; the city did tear down those depressing projects, replacing them with beautiful new housing that now accommodates both lower and higher income families. 

At first, I was actually a little disappointed the projects had disappeared—just on a very personal (and even selfish) level.  I wanted to see the exact place where a dealer had once used me as a human shield against a gunman who, while on a crack-induced high-had pulled out a shotgun, threatening to kill everyone in the apartment.  That was only one experience I’d had in those projects.  Any number of things could have snuffed out my life had it not been due to sheer circumstance or dumb luck. 

Further up the hill, in that same area, was where I’d spent the most time during the last two years of my homelessness.  I’d moved into a house with two Sandy’s—both raging alcoholics.  The owner, Sandy, was a drunk whose behavior bordered on insanity when she was in the midst of a particularly nasty alcoholic binge.  The other Sandy, an Alaskan native, was just as much a raging alcoholic but less violent and insane than owner Sandy. Eskimo Sandy was sexually out of the control, often bringing home complete strangers to have sex with in front of her three little boys, ages three to ten years old. 

Sandy's condemned house was torn down; it would be in between here. 

During the summer of 1993, my final summer in Cleveland (I would go to treatment in January 1994), the city of Cleveland finally condemned Sandy’s house.  That last summer there, we spent without electricity or a phone.  It was not too bad during those months because heat wasn’t such an issue.  I remember a few November days, awakening shivering in the frigid cold, with every blanket or coat I could find wrapped around me for warmth.  I’d had no other choice to leave because I would have died from hypothermia had I not. 

For me, the most traumatic place in Cleveland was the intersection, where one of the worst experiences of my life occurred.    

In late October of 1993, while out ‘hitchhiking’ and looking for tricks, a van of three young men pulled up and asked if I was "working."  They looked well dressed and preppy, like college students.  An agonizing episode of heroin withdrawal drove my decisions that day. 

Normally, I never got in a car with more than one man.  That’s a fundamental rule of the street.  One man with bad intentions is hard to fight off but more than one is impossible.  But that night, I was dopesick and desperate.  Sizing up the situation, the young men seemed nice enough and I was in the throes of a torturous withdrawal.  Against my better judgment, I got into the car. 

As soon as the van’s door slammed shut, a fist that seemingly shot out of nowhere caught me off guard and slammed into my right eye.  Stunned, I tried catching my breath but before I could begin to fathom what was happening, I felt hands ripping my stockings and skirt, as they pushed me to the floor.  These three “nice” men took turns raping and sodomizing me for two solid hours.  After they finished, they slowed down, opened the side door, and pushed me out onto the road.  In agony, I managed to crawl to the side of the road, beaten and more disgraced than ever. 

Even then, though, I had guardian angels that seemed to protect me through the worst experiences of my life.  After lying on the side of the road for several hours, I felt a hand on my shoulder just as dawn was breaking.  “Girl,” a voice whispered, “Are you okay?  Who dotted your eye?”  Looking up, I saw a concerned black face looking me over. 

“I seen you every day, girl—I know you—you always walking around.  Come on, girl—let me take you home and I’ll help you clean yourself up.  You look like you could use a friend right now.” 

And that was my introduction to Sweet Lou, who helped me the best he could during what were to become my last hopeless months of addiction. 

Driving around the Tremont area, that place of so much pain and trauma during those last hopeless days of addiction, it began dawning on me:  this place cannot ever hurt me again.  In fact, no place can hurt me again.  This is just a place—we cannot hold a place responsible for the pain or trauma of an experience.  We keep those memories alive ourselves. 

I realized then, with clarity, that Cleveland is a city where I happened to reach rock bottom.  I could have reached that bottom anywhere I’d lived—in San Francisco, New York—anywhere.  Places (or people) aren’t responsible for our unhappiness.  We must take ownership of our lives and our experiences.  And when we do that, we can free ourselves from our pasts. 

Peace,

Melinda

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Played: 130 | Download | Duration: 00:07:56

While I was in Cleveland this past weekend and talking to residents in the Ed Keating Center (a substance abuse treatment center), some of the women wanted to know what my life was like now, after so many years of recovery.  Some wanted to know what meetings I went to and I answered those questions honestly and directly.   In answering their questions, I realized I needed to clarify something about my recovery and there’s no better place to do that than on my blog.

When I entered treatment on January 18, 1994, life had defeated and beaten me to the point where I was hanging on with the most fragile of threads.  I was at rock bottom.  I had nowhere to go but up.  Fortunately, though, I had reached a point where for the first time, I listened to others — people who seemed to have a much better clue about how to live life than I did.  For the first time, I was willing to follow others’ directions to change the direction of my life. 

Freedom House told me to attend Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meetings, which I gladly agreed to do.  Now you should know that while I had certainly done my share of drinking, drugs were always my main thing.  It probably would have been more appropriate for me to attend Narcotics Anonymous (NA), but meetings connected to Freedom House centered on AA, not NA.  After a couple of years of arrests, homelessness, and working on the street as a prostitute, I was desperate to change my life.  Freedom House gave me a warm and safe place to sleep and a sliver of hope at a second chance at life.  Going to meetings seemed a small thing to do in return. 

I learned so much through AA (and later NA when I also attended those meetings).  Through the programs, I learned to find the courage to face my past, to make amends to the people I’d wronged over the years, and to live one day at a time.  I cannot tell you how many times the serenity prayer kept me from going out on the street to score drugs.  “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”  

Freedom House provided my initial opportunity and planted the first seeds of hope but it was in AA and NA that I began the long healing process.  As a result, I am very grateful to both programs. 

Now, as much as they helped me, even in my early days, I was never completely comfortable with certain aspects of AA and NA.  However, I had begun to learn that with everything in life, you have to weigh the negative aspects of things against their benefits.  For me at that time, the benefits clearly outweighed the detriments, and so I embraced the AA and NA philosophies and followed their teachings.

As time went on, though, I began feeling less comfortable with AA and NA and I honestly began questioning whether I really needed to be there.  Listening to others talk about drinking and doing drugs, I found it so hard to relate.  Unlike most of members, when I shared in meetings, it was not about drugs —in fact, I rarely thought about drugs at two years clean.    

After my third year of recovery, I knew I never wanted to use drugs again.  In fact, my reaction was the opposite—the mere thought of doing drugs made me feel physically ill.  I had no euphoric recall.  I only remembered the misery and I never wanted that misery again. 

My world had changed drastically while I was in Montana and I embraced my new life.  I was in school—a straight ‘A’ student, my life was rich with new experiences and the doors of education had opened up an exciting new world.  I felt I’d moved on—my old life was becoming a distant memory.  I knew I’d never return to my old life, no matter what. 

My discomfort with the programs of AA and NA continued growing.  I began questioning some of the beliefs of AA and NA.   Certainly, with all the variability in people and experiences, there must be more than one path to a successful recovery.  I began wondering whether all people must adhere to complete abstinence for the remainder of their lives as proof of a successful recovery.  I’d met people who had recovered from addiction but weren’t completely abstinent. 

Now I knew then, and still know now, that for some people, complete abstinence is mandatory to manage their lives. 

But not all people are the same. 

The reasons for becoming an addict or an alcoholic are as varied as the people who end up as addicts or alcoholics.  In therapy, I began facing the root problems from my childhood.  I realized these were what drove my own desire to use drugs. 

Perhaps not surprisingly given my history, I was studying human development and psychology at Montana State University.  I learned of the influential role genetics play in nearly every aspect of our beings.  I researched further—looking at every study I found on addiction and genetics.  Then, I looked at my own family tree; no one on either side of my family had a history of substance abuse or alcoholism. 

I became convinced there are two different root causes for addiction: one is genetic (or biological), the other is situational or psychological.  (This is the old “nature vs. nurture” question applied to addiction.  And, like the answer to that question, the root causes for addiction are usually some combination of both: like most things in life, there’s a continuum between these two extremes.)

I believe a genetic addict likely must never drink socially or in moderation.  For people like this, I believe AA is a solid island of sanity in a storm-tossed ocean of temptation.  It’s not only a lifeline in early recovery but to keep a manageable life, AA must remain a constant.    For genetic addicts, once problem drinking begins, it’s as if they’ve flipped a switch that once turned on, they cannot turn it off again.  After that pattern has been established, even a single, social drink sets off a repeating pattern of abuse.  For these people, usually, a drink does mean losing everything.  And, while, a genetic addict may have experienced a trauma, psychological problem, or situation that triggered their addiction, their addiction, once started, becomes an end in itself.  For them, the worst problems in their lives most often begin after they begin doing drugs or drinking. 

However, a psychological/situational addict is different.  I believe these types of addicts also need a program such as AA or NA, particularly in early recovery.  I also believe abstinence is essential for every recovering addict in his or her first year(s) of recovery.  But this is where the prognosis can change between the two because some of these people can and do learn to drink socially, once they deal with the psychological trauma. 

I came to believe that I was a psychological/situational addict.  I knew in my heart that if I had a glass of wine with dinner, it would not ruin my life.  My problems began long before I began doing drugs—they began in my very early childhood, stemming from years of sexual abuse, insecurity, and shame.  For me, drugs masked the fact that I hated myself.  In Montana, clean of drugs, and with the help of a great therapist, I faced the early problems that I’d been running from.  When I did that, my attitude, my thinking, my very life changed, and I no longer felt the need to destroy myself.  And once I no longer wanted to destroy myself, the temptation towards drugs vanished. 

So, thinking that perhaps AA and NA weren’t right for me, I questioned people who both stayed in the program and those who left.  I talked to those who learned to drink normally in social situations and I also spoke to those who took one drink and whose lives really did return to hell.  I discussed my findings and beliefs with friends, professors, and particularly my mother.

And, so after three years after leaving Freedom House, I decided I was going to have a glass of wine with dinner that night.  I was taking a risk and I knew it—but I’ve always believed in following one’s heart.  After much soul searching, I was doing just that.  It was a red-letter day when I told my plans to Mom and she replied, “Honey, I trust you completely.” 

That night, I went out to dinner with my good friend Eddie.  We each had a glass of wine with dinner.  We had a great time—wonderful conversation and fantastic food.  Nothing else happened.  It was truly anticlimactic.  After dinner, Eddie and I both went home; I did a little studying, before going to bed.  I woke up the next morning to head to the MSU gym at 5:00 a.m. as I normally did for my work out.  Life was pretty much the same, except that I could add a glass of wine now and then to a meal. 

After that, you know the rest.  I graduated with highest honors from MSU, and then went on to graduate school.  Since college, I began teaching, wrote several articles and a textbook.  I married the love of my life and am in a wonderful, fulfilling relationship.  I’ve now finished my memoir, which I hope will be published soon.  I still drink socially on many occasions.  Les is pretty knowledgeable about wine, so we have a wine cellar.  We routinely have a glass of wine with dinner (we’re somewhat partial to California Cabs).  Otherwise, and except for all that significant (and very satisfying) personal growth, life has remained pretty much the same for me as it was since walking out of the Freedom House.  And, by the way, I haven’t touched heroin or cocaine since I was checked into the hospital after trying to kill myself.

So, when people ask, “Melinda, are you in recovery?” I answer with certainty “Yes, I am in recovery.”  For nearly seventeen years, I have been in recovery, healing from a past of sexual abuse, trauma, and addiction to heroin and cocaine.  For me, recovery is not defined by my abstinence from alcohol but from the success of my life and my personal growth and happiness. 

And, this is consistent with how mental health professionals define recovery.  When you ask substance abuse counselors to define addiction, they say that if your life is unmanageable as a result of a drug or alcohol habit, then you are addicted.  And of course, that should be the definition. 

Many paths to recovery exist.  Ultimately, the life one lives is the ultimate measure of a successful recovery.  A successful recovery is not defined by the programs to which a person belongs, or even by adherence to the teachings of a particular program.  I continue in my recovery—learning, growing, and changing all the time. 

I must give a word of caution, though.  My own experiences are my own experiences.  We are all different and each of our individual paths of recovery can be very different.  My path of recovery may not work for another person; it all depends on one’s own unique circumstances.  We should all be thankful that there are so many different paths to a successful recovery.  If you are addicted, you must find the right one for you, and I wish you the best of luck in finding your right path.

Peace,

Melinda

Played: 137 | Download | Duration: 00:12:51

I’ve spent much of the last sixteen-plus years trying to forget the misery that was my life when I lived in Cleveland, Ohio.  This weekend, I decided to face that past when Les and I took a Friday evening flight there. 

I haven’t stepped foot in Ohio since I left Freedom House—and I even went to great pains to avoid it while driving to graduate school from Montana.  Right before heading off to graduate school, I remembered that I might have warrants for my arrest in Cleveland and this threw me into a panic.  I called Cuyahoga County’s CJ system at that time and learned I did indeed have warrants.  Moreover, there was no statute of limitations—not even for the misdemeanor charges of solicitation of prostitution (which is what the warrants were for). 

As soon as I heard about the warrants, I was terrified of getting stopped by a cop for some innocuous reason, while driving through Ohio on my way to graduate school, getting locked up in jail, and missing my first day of grad school.  I couldn’t let that happen! 

Now, of course, I started working on clearing up those warrants immediately, but it took several months.  Mom hired an attorney, who represented me to the judge.  My Mom sent a letter to the judge bragging about how great I was doing (thanks Mom!) and she even included a picture of me graduating from MSU—pointing out to the judge that the gold tassel on my cap indicated highest honors (I love you, Mom). 

But in the meantime—I had to avoid Ohio.  So, I actually took a looooooong detour, taking a ferry across one of the Great Lakes, driving up into Canada, and then dropping down into New York. This was all done just to avoid Ohio, which tells you something about how terribly afraid I was and how bad my jail experiences were there.  The happy news is that I did make it to the first day of graduate school without incidence and the warrants are now long since cleared up. 

But even with them cleared up and many years later, I simply couldn’t fathom going back to a place of so much trauma and pain.  But I felt compelled to now.  While writing my book, I had to dig down deep and hard, remembering every nook and cranny of my former life and examining it under a microscope.  Some of the most difficult parts of my book were experiences I had in Cleveland, because that’s where my life really took that final downward turn, which landed me at a bottom so brutal, it nearly cost my life.  After finishing my book, I wanted to face that past and that’s exactly what happened this weekend. 

This freeing, empowering experience was similar to the one I had when Les and I confronted my father a few years ago.  I wish I’d done it before.  As with the confrontation with my father, having my beloved Les by my side made this experience so much easier.  Les is truly my rock—I lean on him hard and often.  I’m a lucky woman to have such a steady man backing me up.   He’s a man who loves me so unconditionally that it still astounds me.  I’ve never been loved so thoroughly, purely, and completely.  He’s the president of a company yet he’s never wavered in his support for me and my book, even knowing it will give people reason to talk.  In fact, even more amazing—he’s even prouder of me for it. 

Les and I arrived in Cleveland late Friday night—so late, we simply checked into our downtown hotel.  However, we hit the bricks early the next morning; time was precious, as we had only thirty-six hours in Cleveland and much to do. 

Early Saturday morning, we headed over to the Ed Keating Center (EKC), which is the ‘new Freedom House.’  I’d recently learned the Freedom House disintegrated in the late 1990’s and at first, I was so sad to hear that.  However, then I learned that the founders of Freedom House had opened a new recovery community—the EKC.  The Center's is grounded in the same philosophy as the old Freedom House:  they turn no one down regardless of ability to pay and the only requirement for entry is a desire to change one’s life. 

In our world, so driven by money, this philosophy is so refreshing. 

At the EKC, I met Marty, who is now the director of the Center.  Marty told me that Jack, one of Freedom House’s original founders, had died not too long ago.  I was saddened to hear of Jack’s death but happy to hear that Marty and Phyllis (Jack’s founding partner in the original Freedom House) are carrying on the torch with the same philosophy.  I told Marty I wanted to visit with some of the women in their new residence and he was kind enough to give us an invitation and provide directions.  We headed over there next. 

What happened next was incredible. 

The women’s new residence center is huge compared to the old women’s residence.  When I was there in 1994, the women’s residence was an actual house, with a living room, dining room, bedrooms, etc.  It was wonderful but the one negative was that it only housed ten to twelve women (with twelve, two had to use cots).  The women’s new residence was previously a nursing home and much larger than the house I remember—it houses over thirty women.  The EKC remodeled it with areas for chapel, group meetings, community-gathering places, and of course the bedrooms shared by residents (two per room). 

I had the pleasure of meeting and talking with some of the women residents.  I met the housemother, Laura, who offered to take me on a tour of the place, showing me around the rooms and pointing out the various places the women spend time. 

When we walked out onto a patio, I was totally gobsmacked when a woman pointed to me and said, “I know you.”  She looked vaguely familiar but I just couldn’t quite place her.  She continued pointing at me, saying, “You were at Freedom House on Triskett Street with me before.” 

Then I realized who she was.  Denise was in Freedom House when I was—back in 1994.   Wow.  Just WOW!

Hold on to your seats because my entire relationship with Denise is an amazing example of how connected our small world really is. 

You see, when I met Denise back in 1994, we hit it off right away—I could tell she was an intelligent, interesting and talented woman, so we spent quite a bit of time getting to know each other after we first met.  During the course of one of our first conversations, she mentioned she had a boyfriend, Anton, who was an artist from San Francisco.  Something clicked and got me thinking—because I knew an artist in San Francisco named Anton—and that’s not a common name.   So, I asked if this artist’s name was Anton Gintner and she replied, “Yes, that’s him!”

I was completely shocked!  Not only did I know Anton, he was actually a very good friend! I’d met him years earlier, through the punk rock community, when I was about twenty years old.  His former wife, Heidi, had been a good friend also.  Now, I’d heard Heidi and Anton had split up but I had no idea Anton had moved to Cleveland, of all places—but then I remembered that’s where he was from. 

So, of course, after that—Denise and I became close friends and through her, I caught up with Anton, as well.   I visited him in his family’s home in Cleveland several times after reconnecting and we stayed in touch for several years after I moved to Montana. 

Now, to make a long story short, Denise and Anton were married and spent many years together.  He died quite tragically (and quite young) several years ago but he did leave quite a legacy.  Some of his paintings still hang in the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) in San Francisco.  And I still have a postcard painting he sent me several years after I caught up with him through Denise at Freedom House. 

This last Saturday, I spent quite a bit of time talking with Denise and learned her story.  Apparently, she had her life pretty well together for many years but after caring for her mother who was suffering from dementia, she fell off the wagon, and started drinking again.  Some can leave AA and even drink normally after facing past traumas but some people cannot.  Apparently, Denise is the type of addict/alcoholic who cannot risk taking even one drink without it affecting her entire life.  For some people, the only road to recovery is complete abstinence.  Hence, this was why she was back at the Center.  She’s now been in recovery for five months and it seems as though she’s really doing great.  I wish her nothing but the best.  I know she was huge in Anton’s life toward the end and I love her for that too. 

Meeting with the women was great.  I really wanted to give something back to them so I asked what kinds of things they needed.  I thought they might like fun things like makeup and magazines but overwhelmingly, they responded that they missed having fresh fruit.  So, before we returned the next day, Les and I had fun picking out tons of fruits and vegetables, as well as some of those fun things that are often hard to come by.  It was great to give just that little something—but I hope to do much more.  I'm really hoping that I will be able to offer far more than fruit and magazines in the future.  I'd love to help some of these women find the second chance at life that I was so lucky to have—by helping pay for their college or training school or even helping them get set up for their new life in a safe environment.  That's my overriding goal. 

This weekend was one of the most incredible experiences I've had in the past 16+ years.  Meeting the women started the entire trip off on a huge note of gratitude for me and really, I never forget gratitude.  Every night, without fail, I say my gratefuls.  But this weekend, my gratefuls were just a little more passionate and just a little more heartfelt.  I am so lucky to have the life I do, living in comfort and safety, with a man who loves me so much. 

Did I say I’m a lucky woman?  Well, yes—I think I am.  Stay tuned . . . there’s much more.  So many things happened this weekend that I will need to write several posts to tell you all about it. 

Peace,

Melinda

p.s.  I apologize there’s no podcast this week—my recording equipment isn’t working well and I think I need to buy a better headset, which I hope to do before my next entry. 

I’m BA-AACK!  Did you miss me?  I missed all of you!

This was a great, productive break—and I have some exciting things to tell you about! 

First, and most importantly—my book is finished.  Completely!   I’m way ahead of my September 1, (self imposed) deadline and I honestly wish I could send the book out right now but I’m told by my peeps who have connections to New York’s literary world, that no one is around in August and I should wait until September to start shopping the book.   So that’s the plan—but on September 1, this book is going out to three agents I have connections with and I cannot wait for that next step.  I’m so excited. 

I’m incredibly proud of this book.  Without a doubt, this is my greatest accomplishment, personally and professionally.  I’ve never experienced anything quite like this—and my life’s been pretty full of awesome experiences.  This process has wrung me dry.  I poured a piece of my soul into every word, sentence, paragraph, and chapter of this book.  

I now understand why authors sometimes say that writing a book is like a birthing process.  I really do feel like I’ve given birth to this book, with all the blood, sweat, and tears that process requires.  This book is my child—and I really do feel I’ve been in painful labor of ‘giving birth’ these last couple of months. 

During the last couple of weeks, I did give a final push to deliver and I’m so grateful to the four people who helped me with the final edits.  They are my wonderful friend, Eddie, Sweet Violet, my Mom, and my beloved husband, Les.  Their work was invaluable; they each helped me push this book to the next level, and the result is amazing. 

Words truly cannot even begin to express how I feel.  I just finished reading it, cover to cover, and I feel I’ve met my goals: it is a gripping, fast-paced story, believable, full of heart, emotion, laughter, and tears.   I so hope readers will like it and that it will inspire people to change if they desire change.  Most importantly, I hope it will raise awareness about the need for accessible and affordable treatment. 

The next interesting piece of news is that Les and I are going back to Cleveland this weekend!  Now, many of you might remember (or you might not) that it was in Cleveland where I finally hit the rock bottom that became the catalyst for changing my life.  I’ve not been back since and I cannot wait to go.  I am going to see some old friends I knew in Cleveland (both from before my recovery and after).  I want to thank certain people, in person—those important people who had such an impact on my future:  Tim, Annie, Jackie, Sharon—each of them played a key role in my triumphant return to life. 

I also want to spend some time in the (new) Freedom House.  The old one doesn’t exist anymore but the same people opened up several new residences, which are founded on the same philosophy:  that no one is turned down who desires change in her or his life, regardless of ability to pay. They operate solely on donations.  I want to talk to them about how the Melindaville Foundation can possibly work with them to fund treatment for addicts still suffering.  We need so many more places like the Freedom House (which is now called the Ed Keating Center). 

I want to spend time with some of the new residents there this weekend.  I remember how monumental it was for me to meet those success stories in my early recovery.  They all gave me motivation to continue because they were living proof that one can succeed if one sets her mind to doing it.  I hope to pass along some of that inspiration to those who are still struggling in their early days—when addicts don’t yet recognize how good life can be.

Along with the fun things, I also am going to face some demons.  I experienced some of the worst things anyone could imagine while living in Cleveland.  I spent time in jail, I was robbed by gunpoint, I was raped on two different occasions, and I drifted as a homeless person for more than a year.  I’ve already faced those demons in my head—in large part through the process of writing this book.  But now, I am facing them in person.  And it will be incredibly freeing feeling, I’m sure. 

Next week, I’ll give you all an update about my trip back to Cleveland!  I cannot wait to see everyone there and share my experiences with you!

Peace,

Melinda

Played: 177 | Download | Duration: 00:05:07

Summer means vacation and it’s been a long time since I’ve taken a couple of weeks off.  I need a short break from blogging but I’ll be posting again during the week of July 18. 

I want to take the next two weeks as a time for my final real push to complete my book.  Now, I know what you’re thinking—‘didn’t she say she finished the book some time back?’ Well, yes and no.  After I finished the major revision with my Mom as my primary editor, I sent the book out to four people for their opinions and feedback, as well as their proofing of my draft. 

After hearing back from all four, I am so happy to say, everyone loved my book!  YAY!  They were also very helpful in pointing out punctuation, grammatical, and structural errors I missed during my revision.   They’ve also given me some feedback on several sections I need to consider.  I have had such an amazing life—so rich with varied experiences—it was impossible to bring up every interesting experience I’ve ever had.  However, Les and Eddie each pointed out some stories I’d told them that definitely should go in the book.  I’ll be adding those as well in my final clean up. 

The last step, then, is for me to figure out where to insert the poetry, song lyrics, and excerpts of old journal entries and letters my mother saved from the 1980’s.  It is my plan to highlight each new chapter with something personal and real from my former life. 

I’ve set my own deadline of September 1.  Those knowledgeable in this area have told me that’s the best time to send manuscripts out to agents and publishers.  I know I can meet this deadline, particularly with Les in China and Japan for the next two weeks.  When he’s gone, I tend to go into ‘workaholic’ mode!

I’ll be back to blogging very soon!  I appreciate everyone’s wonderful patience through this final push to get my book ready for publication.

Peace,

Melinda

The last two years have really flown by.  It’s hard to believe The Melindaville Blog has now been around for two years! 

And what a fabulous two years it has been.  I first started my blog to document the progress of my book but then my blog became its own entity.  Blogging is a terrific way to express yourself, to share experiences, and to gain a different perspective of your life through sharing your stories with others.  I never imagined the journey of starting my blog would ultimately lead me to meeting so many interesting people through the blogosphere. 

In the past two years, I have developed some amazing friendships with other bloggers—and of course, with my readers as well.  I am so glad that I decided to blog and I am grateful to all the people who have helped me along the way.  Here’s a big shout out to my favorite blogs/bloggers, which include Timethief from This Time, This Space , Svasti from Svasti:  A Journey From Assault to Wholeness , Sweet Violet from A View from the Other Side , Dr. Jay from Yoga for Cynics , Erica from Each Day is a Present , Lydia from Writer Quake , TJ Lubrano from A Look Into a Creative Mind , Nothing Profound from Out of Context:  Pieces of a Life , and All the Guys from The Guys Perspective .  The following people have also helped me a lot along the way:  Jennifer from Writing to Survive , John from A Storied Mind , my dear friend, Ibn Hanif,  my closest and best buddy, Eddie Hemingway, my Mom, and of finally, my beloved husband and soulmate, Les Tyler. 

Writing my blog also improved my writing skills, which has been critically important for someone who is writing a memoir.   Like any art form, it takes practice to improve your skills.  Writing my blog has definitely improved my writing skills—and it was very helpful in writing certain chapters of my book.  Speaking of which—I am so happy to give a new update on its progress! 

I finished my revision and sent the manuscript to four people I trust and love.  I haven’t heard from all of them but I did hear from my good friend Eddie Hemingway, who said he couldn’t put it down and who loved it.  Of course, he loves me too and perhaps that colors his opinion but he is a voracious reader, an excellent writer in his own right (and a published one), and I truly value his opinion.  Of course, he did have some good critique for me—the book isn’t perfect and it needs some tweaking.  But what I really wanted to know was:  is this book good enough to give to a publisher; is this story compelling enough to sell. I’m so happy to say his resounding answer was: yes! 

I’ve found that at this point, I’m just too close to this book to be objective.  I can understand why some writers feel the process of writing a book is like being pregnant and giving birth.  And I think that might be particularly true for this book since it is the story of my life and it involves sharing the most personal and often very traumatic experiences.  Exposing yourself in a memoir is like standing naked with floodlights on you.  It is uncomfortable. 

But at the same time, I feel it is important to tell my story—warts and all.  It is crucial for our society to understand that people who were once as desperate as I was—who did many illegal and immoral things can successfully change that very destructive and illegal lifestyle to do good things and contribute to society. 

And the reason I was able to change was because I was finally given a chance at treatment—a place called Freedom House was open to a person who had no money and no insurance—a woman who had lost her desire to live.  I so want people to understand that we need many more places such as Freedom House— treatment can and does work.  I am willing to stand naked in the spotlight because I want so want to raise the awareness that people can and do change.  I am living proof. 

Peace,

Melinda

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Last Friday night, I was awaiting Les’s arrival home after he took a quick trip to Istanbul for business.  He’d only been gone four days but even so, butterflies filled my stomach as I waited to hear his car in the drive.  The butterflies caused me to smile widely and to also feel a certain degree of awe.  You see, while Les and I will be married for three years on August 25, we’ve been together over ten years, which is quite a long time, after all.

 Feeling those butterflies while waiting for him to come home to my arms was pretty darn special.  After ten-plus years, he still does it for me like he did when we were first in love.  In fact, I am still in love. 

I waited a long time to meet Les.  I was single for almost ten years and those were important years.  In my first marriage, I was utterly dependent upon Michael for everything and when he was gone, I was devastated, both emotionally and financially.

While in Bozeman early in my recovery, I remarked to my Mom that I would never allow myself to be dependent upon a man again—at least not financially.  It’s hard enough when you lose an intimate relationship but when you are left with the financial realities of being single, it makes the disintegration of that relationship even more overwhelming. 

For a long time, I wasn’t ready for a relationship.  I didn’t love myself and if you don’t love yourself, no one else can love you either.  In those early days, I was so utterly confused by life and how I fit into it.  I needed every minute of those ten years as self-discovery.  

But on I plodded, working on me.  I got to know myself, became comfortable with myself—and finally, I awoke one day and realized the affirmations I’d been mouthing each morning to my reflection had real meaning.  I loved myself.    

Enter Les Tyler.  In a fairy tale, he would certainly make his entrance on a grand white steed and elegantly dismount in a deep bow, while charmingly saying, “May I help you with your life?”  I have fought for strength my whole life—and many people would argue I’m one of the strongest women they know and in many ways, I am.  But I am also insecure, vulnerable—and often naïve, in a surprising way considering I’ve seen much of the darker side of life.  Les wants to be that person to shield me from any further discomfort or pain in my life and I realized that on critical level, the day we confronted my father. 

I hadn’t seen my father for many years and I’d never confronted him about his abuse.  When I began the soul searching that sent me in the direction of writing my book, I knew I must confront him or I’d never be able to undertake such a challenge.  It was Les who finally stood up to my father and when he did, I saw the champion I’d always longed for. 

Since I can remember, I hungered for a person to protect me and keep me safe from the monsters of the world, such as my father. Les is that man.  I saw absolute pure love in Les’s shining eyes the day we confronted my father with all his terrible deeds.  That day, I knew I’d found my knight in shining armor. 

I’ve always heard women who have troubled relationships with their father have difficulty establishing close intimate relationships with men in adulthood.  That’s not true here.  Les is my champion.  But he’s also my greatest supporter, my most trusted confidante, my closest friend and the love of my life. The proudest day of my own life was the day we were married—because I realized I had finally become the type of person that a man like Les would want to marry.  And that truly is my greatest accomplishment. 

This blog is a tribute to my partner—my friend—and the love of my life.  He restored my faith in men and taught me the meaning of true love.   Certainly the stars have aligned in some unkind ways in my life but our profound love is also written into those stars. 

After more than ten years, I am still a woman in love.

I hope all of you have a Les in your lives because if you do, life’s burden will never be too difficult to bear.  If you do—bless you and bless him or her.  If you haven’t yet, don’t settle for anything less than what you deserve.  Hold out for that brass ring.  He’s certainly worth it. 

Peace

Melinda

Played: 171 | Download | Duration: 00:05:20