The Melindaville Blog

Meeting Edward Hemingway

Melinda Tyler — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 22:54:00 GMT

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

Unveiling the New Blog Header and Updates on Melindaville

Melinda Tyler — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 20:58:00 GMT

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

Ceremonial Sweat

Melinda Tyler — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 15:29:00 GMT

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

The. Best. Day. Ever.

Melinda Tyler — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 22:32:00 GMT

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

Resentments that Ruin

Melinda Tyler — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 18:55:00 GMT

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

The Perfect Life

Melinda Tyler — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 21:38:00 GMT

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

What Lies Beyond

Melinda Tyler — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 18:46:00 GMT

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

Melindaville's List of Pet Peeves (Or Everyone Needs a Good Rant Now and Then)

Melinda Tyler — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 17:21:00 GMT

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

Do Not Forget the People of Haiti

Melinda Tyler — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 22:20:00 GMT

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

The Psychic Change

Melinda Tyler — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 23:33:00 GMT

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.

Stressed Out? De-Stress Yourself!

Melinda Tyler — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 23:54:00 GMT

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!

A Big, Shiny, Brand New Year!

Melinda Tyler — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 19:44:00 GMT

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!

Hope for the Holidays

Melinda Tyler — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 15:53:00 GMT

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

Computer HELL and Updates from Melindaville

Melinda Tyler — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 19:33:00 GMT

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).

Bloggers Unite for World AIDS Day--A Call for Testing

Melinda Tyler — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 14:25:00 GMT

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!)

Giving Thanks

Melinda Tyler — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 20:17:00 GMT

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

Roar of the Crowd

Melinda Tyler — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 15:52:00 GMT

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

That Winter of Discontent

Melinda Tyler — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 21:07:00 GMT

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

The Bigger Package

Melinda Tyler — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 21:01:00 GMT

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

The Broken Places

Melinda Tyler — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 19:49:00 GMT

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