Wow, things have been HAIRY (and harried!) around Melindaville in the past few weeks.  Since the day after New Years, I had to hit the ground running and I have hardly had a chance to catch my breath!  Les and I have spent the better part of the last two months traveling from here to there—and traveling is always stressful.  In the past two weeks, we have been in Boston, San Francisco, Las Vegas, back to San Francisco, and now I am in Anaheim. 

In addition to a busy travel schedule, I have (once again) taken on too many teaching commitments and as a result, I find myself struggling to meet deadlines.  Don’t get me wrong—I am most grateful for the opportunity to work and I really do love teaching—it is a passion of mine—truly a calling.  Nothing is more rewarding than to see students blossom in my courses and grow to love psychology as I do.  I had such wonderful professors when I was an undergraduate student that I feel compelled to pass on that love of learning to my own students.  However, juggling seven classes, keeping up with my blog, flitting around the country, and allowing some time to spend with my beloved husband, I am more stressed out than I would like to be or than what's good for me. 

I am not alone in my battle against stress—nearly everyone I know—heck, our entire society has more stress in their lives than what is good for them.  Stress takes a terrible toll on our both our physical and emotional health:    I know  exactly how stress affects us—in gory and frightening detail—because this stuff was pumped into my brain cells for an entire undergraduate and graduate education!  Physically, it is linked to heart disease, digestive problems, sleep problems, obesity, autoimmune disease and skin conditions such as eczema.  Psychologically, stress is central to anxiety and recently, researchers have learned that stress can play a major role in depression.  Therefore, it benefits all of us to reduce our level of stress. 

So, let’s talk about practical solutions—what we do to reduce the amount of stress in our lives?  How can we relieve stress when it does occur?   I have several suggestions!

One of the things that influence a person’s stress levels is their support network so strengthening your support network is a great protection against stress.  When you have family members or close friends you can count on, the pressures of life will not seem nearly as overwhelming.    If you don’t have a support network close by, then it is a good idea to make it a priority to build relationships you can count on.  Some great ways to meet people to help form a supportive network is in volunteering, having lunch or dinner with a coworker you’d like to know better, call or email friends you haven’t seen for a while, look on Craigslist to find a tennis partner or a workout buddy, or take a class or join a gym. 

While none of us can eliminate stress from our lives altogether, all of us can train ourselves to relax.   Some great relaxation techniques include yoga, meditation, and deep breathing:  all of these will activate the body’s relaxation response—which is the exact opposite of the stress response.  There is an accumulative effect in doing these exercises, also:  overtime, these exercises will become even more effective and you will relax even faster.   Moreover, they help increase your ability to stay calm to avoid the stress response in the first place!

We all need to take responsibility for our emotional health.  Just as it requires time and energy to develop or maintain physical health, it is the same for our emotional well-being.   We can all learn to train ourselves to overturn negative thought patterns.  When I was first in recovery, I didn’t feel sane, happy, or strong—but one of the best pieces of advice my first counselor told me was to ‘fake it until you make it.’  Even if you don’t quite believe it, when you spot a negative thought entering your mind, overturn it!  You have the ability to control your thought patterns:  they can be either positive or negative—it’s up to you!

Finally, take some time each day to enjoy your life.  Life is a gift—so open it up and enjoy it—and life is also too short to spend it all balled up with stress! 

Peace,

Melinda

p.s.  I apologize again for their being no podcast—I still haven’t gotten around to getting new recording equipment on the road.  It’s stressing me out! 

How many times do any of us really ponder the gift of life?  Most of us go through life in a mindless procession of maneuvering about our world, without really considering what it means to wake up each morning to see the miracles that occur.   We all too often fail to appreciate the many wonders of life and we begin taking those gifts for granted.  Therefore, I try to end each night with a profound feeling of gratitude for the many blessings recovery has brought me. 

I am guilty of taking life for granted also!  Too often, I find myself bustling through the daily rigors without pausing to appreciate all the amazing gifts of the past sixteen years has given me.  Saying my gratefuls each night is one way that I know I will pause, if even for a moment, at least once a day.  I have definitely gotten more used to the gift of recovery:  there was a time when each day was awe-inspiring for me.  My addiction caused me to reach such a hard bottom that crawling out of that place gave me so much appreciation. 

My joy at being alive did not occur immediately after entering treatment, though.  I went through several months of feeling more dead than alive due to the intense withdrawal of heroin addiction.  However, once I began feeling better I could not believe how good I felt.  Each morning brought intense feelings of joy, where my first thought was “My God!  I feel so great!”  I never became used to that feeling and there is still wonder in each morning as I gaze expectedly to the day ahead, allowing myself a warm moment to bask in the enjoyment of the promise of a new day  in a life that is finally worth living.  When I had been in the throes of addiction, I never dreamed how wonderful my life would one day be. 

So, here it is—2010—a brand new year!  The New Year also holds special meaning to me because it was in January of 1994 that some stroke of luck and timing brought me recovery.   When I look ahead to 2010, I see 365 days of joyful mornings, each with the promise of unexpected gifts.  What will 2010 bring me?   What lessons will I learn?  What will I give to others?  What adventures will take place?  To me, a new year brings forth renewed optimism and hope.  On January 18, it will be 16 years since I took a shot of heroin or did a hit of cocaine.  Back in the dark days of the early 1990’s, who would have ever believed that my life would be what it is today?   But I am living proof that change can and does happen.  

As I lay in bed on New Year’s morning, I thought about what I wanted to accomplish this year.  I want to make more changes to my life.  My biggest personal goal is to continue to become healthier so I can live a long, long time with my beloved husband, Les.    Les and I both gained a few pounds over the past two months so we are making a commitment to eat a little healthier (and a little less) than we did in November and December! 

My biggest professional goal is to publish my book and I am really hoping that it will be out within this next year.  The editing is taking a lot longer than I imagined it would but we are still plugging away on it. 

I also want to continue my path of professional development in the field of psychology so I can be a better instructor for my students.  I really do love teaching. 

The biggest plan I have for the New Year is that Les and I are going to be visiting Egypt next November.  It has been many, many years since I have been back to Egypt and I am so looking forward to meeting some of my relatives and seeing the place where I was born (Alexandria).  Therefore, this trip brings forth another change I plan to make:  I am going to learn as much Arabic as I can over the next year so that I can perhaps carry on a bit of conversation with my relatives who do not speak English.  I am so excited about this trip—it’s been a lifelong dream to go. 

Being a visual person, I always imagine the New Year wrapped up as a big, shiny present, filled with promise, hope, and optimism for a wonderful and productive year.   What we gain from that big shiny box is completely up to each of us—we all have the power to make 2010 the best year yet!

Here’s to a wonderful 2010, folks! May the New Year bring you all the hope and dreams you deserve!

Peace

Melinda

P.S.  I apologize for not having a podcast—Les and I are traveling again and I (again!) left the recording equipment in Massachusetts! 

Since I began writing this blog, I have heard from so many people who are in pain—of all different varieties.  Some are struggling with addiction, others are overcoming childhoods of abuse, some are in abusive adult relationships, and some are simply overcome with depression or other psychological maladies.  I have been right where they are—in fact, I have been to the extreme measure of psychological fragility, when I spent nearly every day for five solid months considering the various methods by which I should commit suicide.  I was dead serious. 

The last holiday before I went into treatment was a particularly brutal one.  I’d had some nasty Christmas’s in the past 15 years—where I would spend the day in a hazy fog of depression and drugs but it was last Holiday when the real shit finally hit the fan.  I had been homeless for several months, spending my time drifting in and out of temporary places—whoever would have me.   By Christmas, almost everyone I knew had tired of my coming around when I needed help and then disappearing when money was needed. 

Therefore, on Christmas 1993, I spent the day with Lou and his buddy Tinny, who had a rundown storefront, which they converted into a living space.  They were a couple of scraggly street cats; their ‘business’ was going into abandoned homes, ‘liberating’ whatever belongings they came across that they felt were worth money, and then selling them at local flea markets around the city.    What they were doing was stealing others belongings but I did not judge them—after some of the things I had done, who was I to judge? 

Business had been slow for Lou and Tinny and they were almost as broke as I was.  By this time, I was working on the street, which I did do on Christmas Eve, earning enough money for a bag of heroin and a couple rocks of crack cocaine.  I’d vowed the night before to save enough cash so we could all go out to dinner at an inexpensive restaurant on Christmas day—but as usual, as soon as I started doing drugs on Christmas Eve, that plan vanished into a wisp of smoke from the crack pipe.   Therefore, on Christmas day, Lou, Tinny, and I found ourselves at the local soup kitchen, where we at least had a traditional Christmas dinner. 

After, we went back to the ramshackle storefront and drank the last of a bottle of Jack Daniels.  It dawned on me then that my life was no longer worth living.  Even though my belly was full and I did have a warm place to sleep that night—the full reality of the failure of my life hit me hard and fast.  I wanted out of this life.  I knew on that Christmas night that I would end it once and for all—it was just a matter of figuring out how. 

On that Christmas day, I didn’t dream that in less than a month, I would be leaving the streets and entering The Freedom House.  If someone had told me, I would have never believed it.  I was given a gift so spectacular on January 18, 1994—the best gift any person could ever dream of.  Instead of death, I was given a new life and I am truly grateful for that opportunity. 

When life seems most hopeless, remember that change can happen and that it will happen.  Don’t ever give up and don’t ever wish for death.  Life is a gift and where there is life, there is always hope.  I’m living proof.

Happy holidays to all—and may the New Year bring each of you health and happiness.

Peace,

Melinda

Played: 22 | Download | Duration: 00:03:52

I want to apologize to all my readers for how utterly vacant I have been on the Melindaville Blog recently.  Life has been really crazy lately.  I have had a hard time keeping up with my blog for a few reasons.  First, I am teaching way too many classes again right now (I still haven’t learned how to say ‘no!’).  Also, I’ve been going through training to work online at a new university (as if I am not busy enough). 

However, most problematic recently is that I am having terrible computer problems (not good for an online instructor and blogger right?).  My computer has been having some major problems for a while now.  In fact, I have reinstalled the operating system a few times to try to figure out what software was causing the conflict but after reinstalling it twice this last week and Les installing it another time for good measure, we finally called Lenovo and came to the conclusion that there is actually something wrong with the laptop itself.  One thing I do want to mention is how impressed I was with Lenovo’s support.  They sent me a box on Monday to ship the computer back to them, I sent the computer back on Tuesday and they had it returned to me yesterday with a brand new hard drive.  That’s customer service, folks!

I’m getting ready for the Holidays!  As usual, my good friend Eddie will be here to share the Holidays with us and I am looking forward to that.  Eddie is my gay boyfriend and one of the lights of my life.  We met when I was an undergraduate student at Montana State and he was living in Bozeman working on his illustrations.  We became roommates for a while and he truly kept me laughing for the four years I was in school there.  After I moved to Pennsylvania to start graduate school, he moved to New York to attend grad school himself at the School of Visual Arts.    One of the most wonderfully serendipitous experiences I have ever had occurred with Eddie when we were having coffee after we first met.  I was talking about a friend I’d lost touch with during my years of heroin addiction and I mentioned her name.  Eddie got the strangest look on his face and said to me, “I know a Lori Ayers in New York.”  And of course, it was the same one—which confirmed to me what a really small world it is—and also that our meeting was meant to be.  He’s been one of my best buds ever since.    I am so happy to see him and spend time with him this Holiday.

I also want to give an update on my memoir—a few of you have asked me about it recently.  It is currently being edited, which is a very slow process along with my busy schedule recently.  My hope is that it will be published within this next year.  After the Holidays, Les and I will be doing quite a bit of traveling again, which we have done a lot of this fall.  I don’t always travel with Les but I like to when I can.  As hard as travel can be on me, it is harder in most ways to be away from my beloved husband—so I am looking forward to adventuring on with him in the New Year. 

Anyway, that’s a few new updates from Melindaville!  I hope your week has been less stressful than mine!

Peace,

Melinda

P.S. I don't like the sound quality of the podcast—I think I might have to get new recording equipment.  I apologize if the sound is irritating to any of you (it was to me). 

Played: 237 | Download | Duration: 00:03:28

Today, on December 1, 2009, a call goes out to the blogosphere so that we can all join as one voice to support the cause, Bloggers Unite for World AIDS Day.  This is the second year I have had the honor of participating in this particular cause for Bloggers Unite.

HIV/AIDS has been on the increase in the last decade or so, despite the efforts of many activists.  After the devastation AIDS left during the 1980’s, people became much more careful because AIDS was death sentence in those days. Thanks to wonderful treatments, AIDS is no longer a death sentence but a treatable condition.  In fact, I spent this past weekend celebrating my good friend Lori’s Birthday; she has had full blown AIDS since the late 1980’s—she was lucky to have been able to hang on long enough to benefit from the effective cocktails that came to fruition during the early 1990’s. 

Not all my friends were so lucky—I lost close to twenty friends to AIDS during the worst of the epidemic.  During the 1980’s, it almost felt as though we were in a war—a war with a mysterious plague that struck down some of the most talented, creative and altogether special people I have ever known.  Every week, it seemed, I would learn a friend had acquired the disease.  In those days, most people died quickly after diagnosis—usually within a few months or a year at the longest.  Today, people are so much more fortunate because there are very effective treatments available that are optimal when the virus is discovered early.

Because AIDS is now a treatable condition—no longer considered the life sentence it once was, people are not as careful as they were in the early to mid 1990’s.  Particularly at risk are young people, who believe they are invincible and heterosexual women who sleep with men who are not as scrupulous as they should be.  Moreover, people are not tested as much as they should  be; therefore, today, I give a call out to everyone to be tested.  Testing is important—it is crucial for the safety of others and essential for one’s own peace of mind—and perhaps most importantly, if a person learns that she/he is positive early on, treatments are far more successful. 

Testing is scary business.  I personally know what it means to be afraid of this process.  Although I had seen so many of my friends die from AIDS in the 1980’s—I, myself, was never tested until I entered recovery.   However, ignorance was not bliss—far from it.  I lived in total fear I was going to become ill like my friends: with each cold that lingered a bit longer—with each infection that didn’t clear up as quickly as I felt it should—and with each rash or skin sore that cropped up—the excruciating question remained:  is this it? 

After I had been in recovery for nearly six months, about to begin college at Montana State University, I finally summoned up the courage to go to the university clinic and to be tested.  Sitting there in the waiting area with my palms sweating and heart pounding, I was convinced I was HIV positive.  After all, how could I escape it?  Not only had I been a prostitute—I was a former addict—six hard long years of addiction and had shared many needles before anyone knew we should not.  I also felt that I deserved to have AIDS—after all the terrible things I had done while I was addicted; it would be a fitting end to my life, would it not?

I was lucky—and I don’t know how I got so lucky.  Believe me, I have friends, including my good friend Lori, who never used a needle, let alone shared one, who became infected with HIV.  One thing I do know, is that the testing was so important for me as a person; I  finally grew up, taking responsibility for my life and my health did the right thing.  And being tested  for HIV is doing the right thing. 

Peace,

Melinda

(I apologize for having no podcast today—I just flew into MA and left my recording equipment on the W. Coast!)

 

I love Thanksgiving—in fact, I love everything about it.  It is a wonderful American Holiday—perhaps it is even my very favorite of all Holidays. 

First, I love the idea of having an entire day devoted to thanks.  Even though we all should be grateful every day and I believe most of us are—having one particular day devoted to thanks seems a marvelous idea.  Even if we are not as appreciative as we should be every day, having a specific time to reflect on all that we have to be grateful for seems like a perfect reason for a Holiday. 

I also love that Thanksgiving is relatively less commercial than most other holidays—particularly Christmas.  True enough, retail stores do their best to promote ‘Black Friday’ each year but at least no one expects us to buy gifts in order to express our thanks.  I love gift giving—meaningful gift giving—but rushing out feeling pressured to buy that perfect gift seems to be the opposite of what thoughtful giving should be. 

I also love good food and enjoy spending time with my husband cooking that good food.  Thanksgiving is a wonderful excuse to cook to the hilt and share that good food with people you love. 

Although I have a steadfast habit of saying my ‘gratefuls’ every night, it is on Thanksgiving Day that I take the opportunity to really reflect on those gratefuls—and their meaning.  Normally, I curl up in a favorite chair, wrapped in my favorite soft throw, while I staring pensively out the window to reflect on those special people who made my life what it is today.  I go back to the very first day of my recovery—seeing the face of nurse Moses just above me when I awoke from my coma.  Then meeting Tim Callahan and his amazing offer of placing me in a comprehensive treatment center, one that would finally give me the depth of recovery I needed to escape the hell that had become my life.  As I sit and reflect on my amazing journey, I can see the faces of each person who touched my life; I hear the words that helped me along, and feel the strength they gave to me.  As I mentally pass each one of those people, I give a heartfelt grateful for their influence in my life.  Truly, without those people, I would not have become the person I am today.

I am grateful every day—and particularly this time of year, it seems, I remember that last holiday season before recovery—when life was so bleak and I didn’t think I would live another year—nor did I want to.  I will never forget that last holiday and each Thanksgiving, while going through my gratefuls that is no different from any other night of my life; I do spend a little more time reflecting on how wonderful it is to be warm, safe, and loved.

Peace to all!  May your Thanksgiving be full of love and happiness.

Melinda

Played: 447 | Download | Duration: 00:03:01

Do you ever really get over your first love?  I have to think a person never really does.  As I have written previously—my first real love was my love of the theater and that bug bit me hard and deep when I was a young girl.  So many times during my childhood, when I had very little to hang on to, what kept me going was the belief that I would one day ‘make it’ in the theater. 

This last weekend, I was lucky enough to see the play  Billy Elliott, which threw me back into an earlier time of my life—a period where I really was happy, if only for a short time.  Moreover, seeing the play made me recall how important that first love was in my life.

Billy Elliott is an amazing and inspiring story.  For those of you not familiar, Billy Elliott is a hit musical, which first debuted in London and which is currently on Broadway.  The story takes place during the 1984 – 1985 United Kingdom’s miner strike.  Young Billy's father takes him to the local gym for boxing lessons but after taking part, he learns that he really doesn't like the sport. 

As he hangs around afterward, a ballet class begins and young Billy finds himself drawn to dance and begins secretly taking lessons and Billy simply excels—he truly is born to dance.   Billy’s father learns of his son’s devotion to ballet and demands he stop taking lessons—but after seeing him dance, his father supports his auditioning for the Royal Ballet.  Of course, it is an inspiring story about a young boy finding happiness in a gender bending extra-curricular activity but equally important is the political statement about class warfare in a not too distant time—something that still threatens both developed and undeveloped countries. 

The play held me captive from beginning to end.  I was immediately transported to seeing the struggles of the working class during the 1980's miner’s strike in the UK and I was mesmerized by seeing a young boy’s dreams come true.  I was also transported to an earlier time in my own life—when theater was absolutely everything to me.  As I sat there, transfixed, tears of conflicting emotions poured down my face.  Yes, they were tears in awe of an amazing production, but there were also tears of remembering one of the happiest times of my young life, when the possibility of dreams still held such promise.  Finally, there were tears of loss—remembering how I gave up on that dream whereas Billy fulfilled his. 

Sir Elton John wrote the music for this play—after being so inspired by the movie that was produced in 2000.  He left the theater with tears streaming down his face and not long after, put his amazing talent to helping create the Broadway musical.  For those of you unable to go see the play, you can watch the movie (which is also incredible, I am told) or buy the CD.  I highly recommend it. 

I don’t really know what the future will hold.  I know I will likely never try professional acting again but seeing Billy Elliott made me long for the theater.  As I sat enthralled by the magic that only live theater holds, I longed to experience the pure joy I used to feel, long before the rigors of being a struggling young actress, standing in cattle call lines and holding my own self-worth as a reflection of my success (or failure) in the theater.

I might just have to look into some local community theaters.  I’d love to be on the stage one more time—to experience the exaltation of live theater—to once again smell the greasepaint—and hear the applause of the crowd.

Peace,

Melinda  

Played: 401 | Download | Duration: 00:03:34

The purity of the fresh, white snow blanketing Cleveland belied the desperation of my own situation.  Looking out of a window in the abandoned, condemned building I had been calling home for the past few months, I could feel the bitter, biting wind from the outdoors cutting through the faulty windows in the rickety apartment—I heard the eerie whistling sound the wind made as it forced its way in through the cracks.  I pulled the scratchy but warm wool blanket closer around me, wondering what I was going to do for the day.  A sigh settled over me—I knew what I’d be doing—I’d been doing the same thing every day since I’d run out of money. 

Michael had been gone for almost a year—and I’d long since gone through all the cash I’d been able to muster from selling his guns, the pieces of his custom-made Harley Davidson—a  bike he’d been so proud of—as well as everything else worth five dollars or more. Then there was nothing more to sell and desperate times counted for desperate measures.  Therefore, the past several months, I found myself walking the streets—the desperate ’ho stroll of a depressed area of Cleveland—something I once thought I’d never do.  Years earlier, peering haughtily out the windows of the New York City taxicabs that took me to the upscale hotels and apartment buildings of the city, customers paid a minimum of three hundred dollars for an outcall for my services.  Those days were long gone. 

These days, I jumped into cars without even caring what fate the ride might bring me—I knew it was dangerous but I really didn’t care.  Each day, I played chicken with life—daring God to take me out of my fucking misery—please.  

The lessons of the street were harsh; a few weeks previously, I’d stupidly gotten into a  van with three men.  They’d paid me a paltry 30.00 each and after I finished with them, one punched me in the eye, while another kicked me in the ribs and took the money they’d paid me.  Then they’d shoved me out of the moving van, where I fell in the middle of the street—barely escaping impact with an oncoming car, whose driver had seen me just in the nick of time.  The driver swerved out of the way but he didn’t stop to see if I was okay.  He didn’t care—and those days, it seemed no one did.  The next day, I was back on the street where another customer—nicer than the last ones—who looked at me without much interest, asking “Who dotted your eye?”  although he didn’t wait to hear my answer.  What did it matter?  It was just another harsh street lesson:  don’t ever get into a car with more than one man.  I never did again but it didn’t stop the daily cruelties of the street customers. 

I barely resembled the exotic beauty I once was.  My skin was dry and cracked—the ravages of heroin and cocaine left their marks on my face.  My teeth were the most telling of my addiction and subsequent debilitating health. Once blessed with unusually white, straight teeth for never having worn braces, I now was missing a couple of teeth and the rest were chipped, outright broken,  and stained.   These days, I rarely smiled—partly for embarrassment of the teeth that screamed out for attention but mostly because there just wasn’t anything to smile in those days. 

I searched my coat pockets and pocketbook and came up with a dismal 1.25—not even enough for a pack of cigarettes.  Searching the ashtray, I emptied several cigarette butts, then rolled up the used tobacco with a Zigzag rolling paper.  After blowing on the makeshift cigarette to get it to dry more quickly, I  placed it between my lips, scraped a kitchen match against the heel of my boot, and took a deep drag on the butt.  It tasted like shit—but it was better than smoking nothing. 

After finishing my cigarette, I grabbed a bowl still left from the last tenants of the house—which had to be some time ago, judging from the condition of the house.  I braced myself before walking outside to face the bitter cold.   I scooped up a few handfuls of snow and placed it in the bowl so I could wash my face.  It wasn’t that much warmer inside than out—but it was safer than being on the street. 

Each night, I would escape to this abandoned building and fall exhausted under the deep pile of blankets and wool coats, shivering until the morning rescued me from the dangers of the night streets.  Then another day, one devoid of any hope or promise would greet me as I wondered what the hell had gone wrong with all my dreams.  They’d become lost somewhere along the way—when the aspirations of a seventeen year old became trampled by drugs and hopelessness.

 Rolling up another cigarette made up of rescued butts, I had yet another moment of clarity as I wondered how to escape the hell that had become my life.  How in God’s name could I get into treatment?  I didn’t have a clue.

It is that time of year, folks—as the weather is getting colder, that I start remembering those last dismal months before I was lucky to get into treatment.  I also remember how hard it was to get into treatment—and it still is today.  We need more free and available treatment centers—which will save others the suffering that I had to go through. 

Peace,

Melinda 

Played: 527 | Download | Duration: 00:05:45

Early in recovery, I was complaining about this and that (and likely everything!) to my good friend, Jim, who is also a wise Medicine Man of the Crow Tribe in Montana.  He smiled patiently while listening to me and then turned, looking me directly in the eye.

“Melinda,” he said, “when you are all wrapped up in yourself, it makes for a small package.” 

I sat back, surprised at his directness.  However, his point once made, I thought about that quote a lot and realized he was right; I needed to get out of myself—to help others and become a bigger package.  I suddenly realized that all the little ailments I was allowing to rule my life and my head (so petty that I cannot even remember what they were now!) that I was a small package.  Jim helped me so much throughout my early recovery—and one of the many things he taught me was to understand the importance of service work and giving back to others less fortunate. 

I thought about Jim and his quote just this last week as I was traveling with Les and became really sick—so sick, I could not even  get out of bed without Les’s assistance.  At one point, I actually wondered if I might be dying.  I literally could not keep down any food at all for three full days—and felt pretty awful for another three days before and after.  I do not know what the illness was—likely, it was a gastrointestinal flu although it also could have been food poisoning.  I finally dragged myself to the doctor after the pounding headache and constant nausea worried me of becoming very dehydrated.  The doc gave me something for the nausea and I am slowly but surely recovering. 

However, while lying there, so sick, I started thinking about how really lucky I am to be as healthy as I am—at least, most of the time.  Yes, I have a bad back and of course, I get the occasional cold or flu but other than these things, I am astoundingly healthy.  As I have mentioned before, my mother has called my good health, “hybrid vigor” which she believes is the result of being a cross between having an American mother and an Egyptian father.  In any case, I have been very blessed with this good health for most of my life; in fact, it is likely this ‘hybrid vigor’ helped me recover from heroin addiction with relatively few health problems. 

As I lay there—feeling as though I really was dying—I became grateful for all the gifts recovery has brought me.  It has given me my good health, my education, marrying the love of my life, having an interesting job that I love, and strong relationships with my mother and friends.   Although I say my ‘gratefuls’ every night—they can become routine—where they become so automatic that you fail to think of the true meaning behind each grateful.  I decided to rethink that all the way around.

One thing that always helped keep me stay grateful was working with women in the jails, prisons, and treatment centers in both Montana and Pennsylvania while I was going to school.  Seeing those women every week was a strong reminder of how lucky I was to have found recovery.  I really do believe that service work to others keeps us grateful, humble, and not to mention, it helps others. 

We all have troubles in life—every one of us.  Nevertheless, almost everyone I know is extremely fortunate.  Nearly everyone I know has much to be grateful for; they have good health, people who love them, plenty to eat, and a warm and safe place to lay their heads at night.  Yet I have come across several people recently who are incredibly wrapped up in themselves—in one way or another and I can see what Jim did—that when they are all wrapped up in themselves, it makes each of them a small package and one that others don’t really like to be around. 

What is the best way to get out of yourself?  Service work!  Go volunteer for a soup kitchen on a Saturday, or help the elderly by delivering Meals on Wheels, or stock shelves at your local food bank—there is a multitude of ways to give back and in these tough economic times, our communities need volunteers.  When I was working at the jails every week, I almost felt high when I left each evening.  It feels good to help other people and it puts our own troubles into perspective.  Because everywhere I have ever volunteered—whether it was at a food bank, a battered women’s shelter, or trying to help women in jail and prison find resources for recovery, it reminded me of the fortunate aspects of my life and put those less than optimal aspects way on the back burner.  But the best part of it all—was helping others less fortunate than I am. 

It has been a while since I have done that service work and I plan to change that.  I plan to get back to that mission:  working with women who are abusing drugs and helping them find the resources to change the direction of their lives. 

I want to become a bigger package again.  How about you?

Peace,

Melinda

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I apologize for not having a podcast this week—Les and I are currently traveling and I forgot my recording equipment at home and I have not yet found a suitable replacement on the road. 

My wonderful friend, Edward Hemingway (yes of that Hemingway family) has been helping me figure out a title for my book.  For that matter, he is also doing my book cover, as he is one of the most gifted illustrators I have ever seen.  

I received an email from him a couple of days ago with a suggestion for ‘The Broken Places’ (or just ‘Broken Places’), which drew me in right away.  He told me it was part of a favorite quote of his grandfather’s, which in its entirety reads:

                 "The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places."   

Since Eddie sent me that title suggestion, I have not stopped thinking about that quote—and the ‘broken places’ in my life and how strong (or not) I really am. 

I do not believe I was originally strong at the broken places—and truly, some people are.  The ones who are strong that come to my mind are people like Barack Obama, born in a turbulent time of racism to an African father and white mother.  I know from my own experiences of being discriminated as the child of an Egyptian father and American mother that this experience tests you; I was not strong enough to rise to the test as our president did.  I think of others such as Maya Angelou, Oprah Winfrey, and the countless others born in the same terrible condition of childhood sexual abuse that I was born to, yet who rose to the challenge of those very tough beginnings.  I did not rise as they did. 

I was simply not strong enough at the broken places—which is why I nearly threw my life away.   My strength was forced upon me by others who believed in me far more than I believed in myself—others such as Tim Callahan, my mother, my mentors, my spiritual advisors—all of them lifted me with their own strength and carried me until I was strong enough to carry myself.

I became strong through their strength—and their strength allowed me to heal those previously broken places. 
But because I had to learn to be strong at the broken places, those places are still broken  to a certain extent—and I honestly don’t know if they will ever be as strong as they likely would have been if I had never been broken at all.  

As a child, I remember my mother taking extreme care in mending various pieces of glassware that had become broken—she used to love to glue and she was very good at it.  She was so good at gluing the pieces together that it was nearly impossible to see where they had been broken originally.  But if you looked very carefully, you could see the fine lines where the glassware had been broken—and even the most careful, intricate gluing could not change the fact that they had indeed, been broken. 

I am that glassware.  Those who glance quickly cannot see where the lines bearing evidence of my breaking occurred—but those who know me well –or those who are very perceptive will recognize those breaks because they do exist.  They are part of me—I am not and I will never be as strong as if those broken places had never occurred.  Nevertheless, I can exist in a world with other pristine pieces—and many will never know. 

I have learned to become strong at the broken places.

Peace,

Melinda