Ramblings of a Survivor

The story of my captivity begins long before November 1976 when I was brought into this world; long before my dad walked the halls of Salinas, California’s Memorial Hospital searching and praying for a name for the baby who was supposed to be a boy…

My mom used to tell me that they had to put “Grace” as my middle name, since I didn’t have much of it anywhere else. I’m a klutz they came to find out…and was not born with a filter in my physical body or on my mouth, nor a gauge for self-regulation or emotional steadfastness. You see, I’m impulsive and passionate; validation seeking and exuberant: the kind of person that people meet and say, “well, dang, you’re a lot.”

“Grace” was something I have needed all my life – in all its many forms. It was lacking in actual existence, present in word and middle name only. “My Grace is sufficient for you.”

MY GRACE IS SUFFICIENT FOR YOU (2 Corinthians 2:9).

My backpack fell open in front of me where I dropped it; its royal blue fleur-de-leis pattern shining elegantly from its tattered fabric. Baggies of a rejected lunch that I had hidden under crunched up college ruled paper snuck out exposing my aversion to anything unprocessed. An apple fell onto my manure clad boot.

Today had been a rough day. It was Wednesday, and we had our group meeting in an hour or so. Having just returned from the Ranch, I could hear my siblings arguing over who was next to use the shower. Hannah seemed to win the argument as I heard Colin sit down and start playing the piano like was George Winston. Dad was sitting at the dining room table, engrossed in his newspaper, tapping the dirty yellow linoleum floor with his left foot and letting out grunts of displeasure every few minutes. Mom was hurriedly finishing up a dinner of Chicken a la king, frantically reminding all of us that the living room needed to be vacuumed, chairs arranged in the living room, and begging us to help with preparing the living room for the few families that would be coming for Wednesday night meeting. Even with the knowledge that everyone in the church was in a similar state, preparing for their own weekly meetings, I was anxiously, nervously awaiting the low, seering ring of the brown phone hanging on the wall in the kitchen – the one with the long curly cord that could reach from the wall to the countertop. I knew it was coming. There’s no way it wouldn’t. And then…consequences.

Silence. An hour went by. No ring.

Mom’s voice called from the kitchen as I unbuttoned my dirty jeans smelling of horses and weathered leather: “MELISSA! I need you to vacuum the living room, please — and use that powder we got. Arm and Hammer. The box is in the hall closet – Strider’s smell is awful today.”

The yellow-gold carpet – after years of four kids, incontinent pets, church and family gatherings, and overall deferred maintenance – was tattered and seasoned with years of abuse.

Realizing I wasn’t going to be able to shower before families started arriving around 6:45, I threw off my jeans and grabbed a denim skirt and blouse. Hannah was still showering when I went in and washed my face.

“It’s going to be ok. It’s going to be ok.” I repeated to the acne-infested face staring at me in the mirror.

Closing the door behind me as Hannah dried herself off, our golden retriever Strider jumped up on me. Licking my face.

“Get off, you stinky, stupid dog!”

Picking through the celery and sour taste, I grabbed a bite of chicken out of the pot on the one working burner of the stove.

“I ate!” I hollered to mom.

“Great! Can you just be sure to find my Bible and church notebook and put it in the living room?” Mom requested as she frantically tidied around my dad.

“Got it.” I responded as I sorted through the pile of papers on the counter by the phone.

Colin transitioned into another George Winston inspired version of Amazing Grace. “OH-MY-GOSH” he was so annoying.

As I walked towards the Daisy wallpapered bedroom that I shared with my sister Hannah, I heard the sound of a car pulling into our driveway. I glanced down at my Swatch watch, and saw it was 6:55 pm. There had been no call.

No one called? Really? This was BAD.

“Ok. Two hours at least before punishment.” I thought to myself.

I walked to the door and welcomed the Cochrans.

I was safe for tonight. At least now.

A tiny little voice crept between the down of my sleeping bag and my trusty teddy bear that my head was laying on. The firm pillow we had bought from the Budapest IKEA when I arrived the week prior was lying next to me. I’d rather smell the remaining campfire smoke that had nestled into the layers of insulation of my trusty North Face bag than cuddle up with the synthetic fibers of cushion it was offering. We’d gone camping the week before I left the US – one last family camping trip.

“You shouldn’t have come; this is going to be BAD.” the voice said.

The room was dark. When we had arrived, this had been the living room. The far wall had floor to ceiling built ins – floor to ceiling cabinets framing a mirror behind shelving meant for displaying odds and ends. Tall cabinets flanked both sides: one of which was assigned as mine. I had only a few hours prior unpacked my 50 lb. cardboard moving box, full of all the things I’d felt I would need for a few months of living overseas. We hadn’t brought suitcases, because we couldn’t fit as much into them, and we had been laden with gifts for the missionaries we were joining. A few hours earlier, the edges of this room had been lined with chairs, each seating members of the group I was joining…and the one special chair for the pastor’s wife who had accompanied us here.

My eyes worked to adjust to the din. I was defiinitely jet lagged: So so so exhausted, but wide awake. I wasn’t sure what had actually happened in the last 24 hours.

I did know a few things: I’d arrived here with two other girls and Sister Abbott. That I knew.

I knew that things were already not what I had expected.

Krissy lay to my left, nestled onto the couch, her parents asleep in their bed, and her brothers somewhere else in the apartment. There had been something off when we had arrived – and I couldn’t quite figure it out yet.

Why can’t I remember? Why do I want to create a story that justifies what happened? Why do I want to say that I was singled out AT the airport? Why does that make me feel more justified in my trauma, in my feeling of being singled out. Is it not enough that I was separated from my friends? Why do I feel I need to make a bigger story so that I feel justified in my feelings of isolation?

Was I actually singled out?

How did I get separated from Jane and Jill? Did the McCullicks and Sister Abbott say, “Jane and Jill, you’re going to stay with the single girls, but you…YOU, Melissa, are evil. We want to break you. YOU are our target. YOU have to suffer at the McCullicks? Why do I want to simplify my story so much??? What DID they say to me when I had to say good bye to the two girls I saw as my allies?

I’ve tried so hard to remember. SO HARD. I’ve talked to Jane and Jill. They don’t remember either. WHY?

I want to write truth, but maybe TRUTH lies in the feeling rather than fact?

Krissy and Phillip and I lugged the cardboard box up the stairs. Phillip put in the bulk of the work, his scrawny frame surprisingly strong. They opened the door, and Alec immediately bounded from the kitchen to the left of the door:

“Did you bring Oreos? Are there Oreos in there? What else did you bring us?” he screeched. Mark toddled his way into the door:

“Who are you?” he asked as he looked at me, clawing at the box.

I looked at Krissy who had entered just before me, and she giggled in an uncomfortable, knowing way.

“Let us in, you guys! Then you’ll get your gifts!”

I didn’t have Oreos or gifts for them — at least, not that I knew of. I had, however, packed a few packages from families who were excited to send care packages to the missionaries following God’s calling…and their kids. I assumed that these two little kiddos would have something in my box that would make them feel connected to their citizenship…just maybe not Oreos.

When did Mary arrive at the apartment? Was Mary actually with us? — no, I know she wasn’t Who had been with the boys while we had been treking from Frenc Liszt Airport (was it airport 1 or airport 2? I don’t remember now). No. Mary was home. I think. I think what I”m telling is right. I want it to be right because what I remember is…

The orange brick shaped tile of the entrance rang of the late 70s era in which the bland concrete Communist typical housing had been erected. A small door with a brass lever handle was to my right – a then unknown-to-me closet was partially blocked by the open front door. Immediately to the left was a kitchen and dining space; cabinets were centered around a stove, the tops of the cabinets covered with faux ivy. THe right side of the kitchen held more counterspace with one of the smallest refrigerators I had ever seen in my 17 years. It seemed like a fairly normal apartment – one I would have seen in the US. I quickly absorbed my new living quarters: the hallway to the right, small and constricting, held a partially open door to an obvious bathroom, and I could see yet another door into what looked a bedroom: dark and looming.

“I need to pee!” I exclaimed. “Been holding it since we got in the taxi!”

“First door to the right!”

It wouldnt’ have been hard to find. As I turned toward the WC, as they called it, I saw a second bedroom, disheveled and messy, but with three obvious beds. Closing the door behind me, I took a deep breath and looked in the mirror. My denim ankle length dress had been such a comfortable choice – not that I had had the option to wear sweats or anything else – but at least it was loose and comfy! My makeup free face showed the wear of travel, slight bags under my young eyes. I splased water over my face.

A thought drifted through my mind: “I wonder what it’s like for Jane and Jill? Why am I here, and they’re there?” I turned to the toilet. “Well this is different! Is it built into the wall?” European toilets were apparently different, but easy to use. I peed, and returned to the mirror. Washing my hands, I looked steadfastly into my own face. “OMG! You’re in Europe!!!! THREE WHOLE MONTHS OF EUROPE!”

I returned to my welcoming committee, the two little boys had already opened my box and were pulling my carefully packed items out.

“Boys! We have to get ready for the team meeting; you have to wait!” I heard a voice command.

I looked up and saw her: my mom’s friend -Mary. Mom’s friend. She was dressed in a light-blue faded floral shirt with a faded denim button down skirt that tussled her boyish ankles. She was incredibly frumpy compared to my mama’s glorious sunshine – Mom could have worn the same exact uniform, and had, but her smile and love always made the rules of dress feel alive. Mary, just….wore it. Our eyes connected:

“MELISSA!!!” She joyously embrassed me. “I’ve missed your mom so much!”

“Um. me too.” I stammered in my exhausted jet-lagged state.

“Ready to jump into mission work?”

“Ummm. Yeah?”

I don’t really remember the details immediately after this: what we ate or IF we ate; how they told me that the sleeping bag that still smelled of Yosemote and years of rock climbing and mom and dad would be my bed for the next 14 months. I don’t remember how they told me that I would spend the next year in fear, seeking my own space when there wasn’t any space to BE. I don’t remember how I first knew that this wasn’t the three month mission trip I’d signed up for. But I I remember knowing. I remember the frantic preparations of those first days; I remember the: “Sister Abbott is going to be here, so we have to have this place SUPER clean and tidy.” I remember the: “BOYS! GET IN HERE NOW OR GET A REAL SPANKING!” I remember the constant pressure of: “There’s no room for failure.” But…..I also remember the excitement of being able to see Jane and Jill again and hear what it was like at the “single sisters” home. I remember hoping being away from the McCullicks was better and more grown-up than what I was feeling. I remember feeling CONFUSED. That’s what I remember: I remember feeling confused at being added as another child in this two bedroom apartment already inhabited by a family of 6; confused that I wasn’t being welcomed as a team member; confused at the absence of love; confused that my mother’s friend didn’t treat and love her family like my mother and father loved us.

Sister Abbott arrived with Rhonda 10 minutes early. Rhonda was the one person in the group who had managed to learn Hungarian to that point: a rather difficult language for English speakers to learn. The mission team at that point was small. There was Rhonda, an older single woman who in the US had been a mobile dog groomer. There was my sister’s best friend Lucy, daughter of John and Mary – fellow Big Sur hippies who had lived along side my parents enjoying the freedom and appreciation of the earth and open hearted existence – values my parents had always told me was their motivation behind us joining this “band of banshees.” Christy was my crazy aunt Susan’s niece who had essentially been abandoned by her drug addicted parents. And then there was April, a year older than I, daughter of one of the lead elders of the church (who eventually became pastor when things went to hell in a handbasket), who had been sorta left to her own devices, and not exactly welcomed not just because of her position in the church, but because of how different she was to the rest of us second-generation members.

Sister Abbott’s appearance mimicked the arrival of royalty. The doorbell rang, accompanied by a slew of commands from Mary and her husband Lynn: “PUT AWAY THE CLEAN DISHES. STRAIGHTEN THE CHAIRS, DOUBLE CHECK THE BATHROOM.” Then came a mad rush for everyone to do their last minute primping and straightening, and an uncomfortable arranging of food and decor and presentation. The chairs had been arranged more than once in the living room which was separated from the entry by a set of double doors with glass in the top. Wall to wall cabinets along the far wall created a feeling of decadence that I knew Lynn and Mary had never been privileged to live with – they’d come here with the church’s finances literally straight from a trailer park. Windows lined the wall directly opposite the living room entrance. It wasn’t much of a view, but you could still see out across the quadrangle of grass that the complex framed.

Jane and Jill had arrived earlier with April, Christy and Lucy and. as they had promptly been put to work prepping for Florence’s arrival, I hadn’t had a chance to even remotely chat with them about what their first night had been like…but I wanted to know. I wanted to know if they knew why I wasn’t with them.

Why was I sent to the McCullicks, and they were there? WHY???

Everyone gave Florence her expected hugs – feigned love, motions riddled with fear. Jane and Jill seemed so oblivious and righteous in their interactions.. But that made sense. I was a Carvey: a member of the outskirts, someone who did the right thing, but somehow it was never quite what the Church wanted. Jane gave Jill a little nudge, whispering something in her ear.

For sure they were talking about me. For sure, they had KNOWN that they’d be the privileged ones; they had known I’d be sent to the McCullicks.

Memories of sitting on haybales at the ranch where we as young girls had spent the majority of our free time came flooding back. I’d loved being with the horses; those animals had given me so much reprieve. My family couldn’t afford to “sponsor” any of the horses owned by the church, so I just had to ride whatever horse came my way. I told myself I didn’t care; I told myself that I was a horsewoman whether the leadership there saw it or not. Beyond that, I recognized that if they didn’t see ME, I wasn’t a threat – and I wanted it to stay that way. I was loud, sure. Emotional? 150%, but I had figured out the “ranch.” I had spent hours mucking stalls, moving the manure pile, feeding horses, grooming and saddling these insanely beautiful horses that were usually behaviorially outcast from other barns, and I had loved every minute of it. II’d learned that if I made up sins to confess, and brought them forward, I could at least manage when the “hammer” was going to come down, and would then see the reward by being given a little more freedom for being “humble” enough to confess. Despite all my “humility” I’d still come under fire, but not as heavily as I would have if I hadn’t figured out the brown nosing. THere were times that the strategy hadn’t worked, of course, and I hadn’t loved Sister Abbott and other leaders chastizing me, but I had suffered through by holding on to my love of these magnificent beasts.

Lynn broke through my daydream with a, “Melissa, I told you to get water for Sister Abbot, and I glanced over at Jill and Jane, now seated in chairs next to each other. They giggled with each other as I left the living room for the kitchen. “I guess it’s that much better at the Sister’s House.” I thought.

The meeting was the usual: the opening prayer, some worship songs, Mary spoke about welcoming us three to the team…I doodled in the notebook I had brought – something I’d done since I was old enough to hold a pencil.

“Write these down. These are the rules on how to survive in Eastern Europe.”

Lynn started reading off a single piece of paper and four year old Mark handed each of us a print out with a numbered list – dot matrix printed.

1. Obey street signs – don’t walk across train tracks
2. Check destinations: know where the tram is going
3. Hold your bags in front of you with your hands on it at all times
4. Don’t speak English on the train
5. Dress modestly
6. Skinheads will kill you without a thought, don’t talk to them
7. Women, keep your eyes to the ground at all times – just like at home
8. Do NOT go out alone – EVER – always travel with someone

The list was going on and on…I couldn’t focus.

“Seven more points” I told myself…at least I knew how long it would be. Sermons at home were way longer.

Lynn droned on and on. Mary interjecting at points, and Sister Abbott silent in her chair.

After about 30 minutes, Lynn said, “Now Sister Abbott is going to speak.”

My head shot up. I looked over at Jane: dead pan. No emotion; existing. That look couldn’t be discontent; she wanted to be here — no? No?

Selena was squirming in her seat, adjusting her crinkle skirt – something that we were told were perfect for traveling. She was obviously happy to be here.

“Turn to Isaiah 60:3….”

Flipping through my pink leather bound Bible given to me as a graduating gift from the Abbotts, inscripteded by our Poppa Abbott: “To Melissa, and your gift of the tongue. Use it for God’s glory.” I turned to read:

“And the Gentiles shall come to thy light; and kings to the brightness of your glory.”

What was I doing here?

A cloud rolled in. DIdn’t expect that. Life had been sunny and pink and full of music – mostly dark indy tunes that no one else knew, but that was me: dark and beautiful and unexplored. I bent over and grabbed a carrot at the base of its green and pulled. The earth gave way and out came a cacophony of roots and itty bitty new life. I grasped at the short stubby veggie, tossing aside the potentials entangled with it. All these tiny roots entangled had shaped this beautiful piece of nutrition into a twisted piece of orange that wouldn’t have ever made it to the grocery store. I hadn’t thinned the crop earlier that season, so carrots this year were a little less than straight – maybe in the years after, it would have made it to boxes delivered weekly, but in 2010, Imperfect Produce hadn’t broken in and I relished this feeling of power and validation these silly shaped veggies gave me.

My grandmother’s voice echoed in my head: “Ghandi once said that if we can all reconnect with where our food comes from, we can reconnect with each other, we can- and we would – have peace.” She’d been so happy that I had left LA and was finding myself in my new passion of growing food and returning to my love of the earth.

I tossed the tangled carrot into my basket along with the other bounty I had already collected and called Ellie over to investigate a quirky knot of greens.

We weaved our way through the garden: almost a quarter acre of hard work. The “hard” part of it had actually done by Victor – the man who managed the 72 acres of land we lived on – his wife, who had worked with me in Madonna’s household, was probably cleaning our toilets at the moment. Neat rows of the garden were outlined by a fence built from posts Victor and I had scrounged from around the property. He and I had supplemented what we couldn’t repurpose on the property with whatever we happened to need – I had the means to put up a proper fence, but I believed in repurposing and reusing. Oregon had been a logical move for someone like me. “Do what ever it is you can, with whatever it is you have” was the phrase my oldest brother Jake and I had come up with to sum up how I’d managed to figure out how to live on this vast farm land after coming from Hollywood. It really was exactly my life’s motto though a more appropriate motto probably would have been “Make Shit Work.”

We had money. Lots of it. I mean LOTS of it…and while I still to this day hate to admit it, I relished it – I’m ashamed to admit it now, and would definitely ˆ have admitted it then. I had this odd dichotomy of existence. I loved how rich we were, but I didn’t want people to know that, but I wanted them to KNOW that I was a different kind of rich….it was important to me that they know that I was rich…but I did NOT wnat to be….

A SNOB.

“Wealthy” to me always meant “shallow, meaningless, selfish.”

Victor and I had had to build a rather large encampment around the garden that I had dreamed up and haphazardly built. I’d started with a few rows of peas and beans and cucumbers, and now, a few years after moving to this haven, we’d figured out what grew best – where and how much water; how much this; how much that. Victor, coming from farmland in Guatamela had given me all sorts of random advice that didn’t quite make sense to the book knowledge I had gained, but if I was really honest, his ideas usually worked – they just needed to be adapted to the Pacific Northwest climate. He was steadfast in his planting vine growing plants like peas and cucumbers at the base of corn stalks, and no allowing tomatoes near the zinnias I wanted to be able to cut for my obsessive flower arrangements.

Bending over to check the burgeoning spears of the aspargus that we had planted a couple years prior, I heard an unexpected voice:

“Hey Boo! Helllllo!!!! Pumpkin! Are you with mama?”

A familiar tightness clenched my chest. My body shot up, straight. My back and my jaw tensed. I glanced at my daughter, looking over my shoulder. Then a smile crept over my face that I couldn’t quite control as I saw my daughter drop her Disney themed spade, and jump with joy.

“He’s HOME!” My heart swelled.

Then my heart sank. “He’s home — a day early.”

My three year old toe-head’s voice screeched in happiness:

“DADDY!!!!!”

She ran toward the rickety garden gate – not quite a “gate”…merely deer fencing supported by a single pole breaking the garden boundary that Victor and I had erected in our attempt to keep the deer from leaving the fruits of our labor looking like an entire fleet of machete-carrying soldiers had decided to claim as their sleeping quarters. I glanced up the slight hill toward the house to see my husband, glowing in his radiancy, kneeling, welcoming his daughter into his arms. They fell on the ground laughing and wrestling – immersed in the joy of reunification. I stood, smiling from ear to ear. I watched them as his arms wrapped around her, his elation meeting hers. My gift to both of them. And my heart hurt with both joy and sadness. I would never be that to him.

I silently my feet that were entangled in the ferns of asparagus, a basket full of produce in my hands, dirt under my fingernails, and an Ariel doll hidden somewhere under the piles of berries, cucumbers, radishes and loads of herb sprigs. This was my chosen life.

This is what I had chosen. And it was beautiful.

And it was insanely painful….but it was a pain that was better than any pain I’d had before.

I have an impulse that goes farther than desire that motivates me to write about my life: My crazy beautiful life. I have pages and pages of truth already written: dumping, motivational existence, bullshit….and all is rooted with one little thought:

I didn’t go through all this for nothing.

I did NOT experience life as fully as I have, just to simply be silent.

I WILL NOT keep my experience quiet.

I’m working behind the scenes to write my story in pieces – in snippets that are digestable. And in the meantime, I think about vulnerability, and how being vulnerable often means imperfection. I need to write not for publishers, but for YOU, for the people who have read what I have written in just the last two posts and have reached out – for those who know the structure of my story and want more — for those of you who don’t even know me who have read random things I”ve written and said “Yes. that was me – you saw me!”

Writing my story isn’t to simply reach cult survivors – and it also is.

Writing my story won’t be to simply reach domestic abuse and family court survivors – that too.

Writing my story won’t be simply to reach traumatic brain survivors.

We are all survivors.

We all need hope. We all need examples of strength.

I think what i’m coming to grips with is that what I have to write about isn’t a story that can be disseminated down to a this-then-that structure. It’s a weaving of experiences, of relationships, of traumas – things that come in and out and build on each other, creating bigger traumas, bigger healings, and more realistic openings to the existence that we find ourselves in.

I”m going to do my best, but this may be a far bigger project than I ever thought I could put into a film (which i’ve tried to do)……

So bear with me, and please tell me what you want to hear more about.

–doing my best —

Melissa

The floor of the sanctuary bounced up and down to the rhythm of the movement of the congregation; we were all at the front of the room – 300 or so of us – packed into the small area where the pews had been removed for our usual morning worship service. I had hoped that my stomach flu of the week would have trickled into Sunday, but I hadn’t thrown up since Friday, so there was no staying home. I looked down at my white Mary Janes that I had begged mama to get me from Kmart, and felt the weight of her hands on my shoulders as her body swayed in rhythmic worship. Brother Snyder’s eyes were following the stroke of his bow across the strings of his violin in slow, long movements as the song leader’s hands were outstretched, leaving his guitar to hang from the strap around his neck; his head turned upward as he sang in meditative canticle, “The Lion of the tribe of Judah has prevailed; the Lion of the tribe of Judah has PREVAILED.” Sister Abbott, as usual, stood on the left side of the altar next to her husband, swaying from side to side in her stiletto snake skin shoes, her silk shirt with its bow close around her neck, neatly tucked into her pencil skirt. I glanced to the right of the altar, and there steadfast behind the orange glittery drumset was my father….softly tapping the snare with his drum brush, eyes acutely awake and aware. His jaw was set, and I thought I saw him grind his his teeth, his body stiff and mechanical. I glanced in front of me, the massive air return breaking the flow of the rust orange ledge of the platform – about six feet wide, and as high as the 2 foot rise separating the worshippers from the worship leaders; its black square-grid calling to me: its unknown destination beckoning to me: I was sure it led to the hell that I knew existed – that there were people trapped down there because of their sin. Its appeal and gravity called to me…with the curiosity of a toddler to a flame…to a world that is dark and scary, but full of possibility – maybe that was hell. I shrugged my shoulder backwards against my mother’s grasp strongly, hoping to get her sweaty hands off of my shoulder so I could stand without physical input. She adjusted her grip, a little more firmly, but I repeated my gesture.

“Stop it.” she whispered into the top of my head; I felt the condensation of her breath on my scalp. My skin crawled; I wanted her to stop touching me. I wanted worship to be done. I eyed Dad. His cream shirt sweat-ridden, with a plaid patterned tie constricting against his neck – just like Sister Abbott’s bow – somehow mirroring the sparkling orange of her primness, while holding to his stanch compliant resistance. His eyes were wide open, looking across the altar, across the mini-grand piano where Mike was expertly moving with the lilt of the music – and with the Holy Spirit. Dad’s eyes skimmed across the brass section where Joe was belting out amazing riffs on his trumpet that lifted the swell of the congregation higher and higher, and then, of course, my problematic brother tooting on his french horn – half engaged. Dad looked across to the pastor’s wife across the podium….

I saw their eyes meet.

His gaze immediately fell, the pumping of his foot on the drum stopping for a few beats. He put his drum brush down and grabbed the stick: a slow steady beat began rifting across the congregation. His jaw set harder – no more grinding of his teeth.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The singing of the congregation waned.

Boom. Boom.

Boom. Boom.

Boom. Boom.

Dad was staring at Sister Abbott. Their eyes connected again. Dad’s jaw set.

My gaze travelled between these two: Dad with his passively strong jaw set; Florence with her steady sway.

Now a pattern of stomps between each of Sister Abbott’s feet.

Left Stomp. CLAP

Sway.

Right Stomp. CLAP

Sway.

Left Stomp. CLAP

Sway.

Right Stomp. CLAP

Dad matched her step with the kick drum. Eyes never leaving hers.

BANG-BOOM. BANG-BOOM.

The song leader transitioned into a hum: “Ammmmmennnnnn, Hallelujah.” He softly sang, completely and utterly taken into a trance that was wholly beautiful and scary and disgusting and comforting. The rhythmic dance between drum and stilettos continued its hypnotic control of my family.

The congregation slowly ended their repetitious cantation celebrating the Lion that had saved us all from the depths of hell. Murmurs of prayer began to rise: languages and words that while unintelligible were comforting in their predictability – raising both fear and dread while providing a salve to the pounding that had come while watching my father and Florence in their visual and audible dance to hold control between their same . The sounds coming from the adults around me were languages and words that I understood: not because I knew how to translate them, but because they were something I felt down to the tips of my Mary Janes, to my fingers picking at the dry skin of my cuticles, pulling on the hangnails that were forever on my thumbs. The sting of pulling at them, biting them, making them bleed a bit…I’d suck them and taste the little bit of blood and be reminded that I was alone in my thoughts of despondence, I was a devil child. I knew that.

And then: clapping.

Clap. Left Knee Bend. Clap Right Knee Bend.

Clap. Left Knee Bend. Clap Right Knee Bend.

More of the language. “Tongues” we called them. The “tongues of men and of angels”

We were singing and stamping and clapping and speaking in the tongues that only the Holy Spirit could give.

Our leaders – the dear Abbotts: Mama and Poppa: Our saviors! They had come from the mission field in Africa – our hippy parents knew that this was different than the church of their parents, and had given us this amazing gift of methodic rhythm to connect with our GOD! In the most unexpected of places: Salinas, California. Literally the last place you’d ever expect, but God always chooses the least of those among us! But we were in rhythmic communion with our God.

And my father, the outsider, had just been a part of creating yet another moment of communion with our Heavenly Father…

He IS worthy. He IS the dad I know he is. He IS worthy. So I AM WORTHY.

The heat rose in the room, the air conditioning turned on, and the grate pulled air from the space in front of me, and my heart silenced, suddenly rooted back to the carpet underneath my feat, the sweat dripping off of my father’s face so full of tumoil, and my body accepted the hands of my mother on my shoulders rubbing the uncomfortable fibers of my dress against them.

And I smiled.

There was a time when blogging was an every day thing…I would cuddle up in bed and share the every day struggles and wins of living on a farm – having moved to a big ol’ property of 72 acres from a little tiny plot in West Los Angeles and having been entrenched in Hollywood life. I was learning how to work in — with– the dirt, learning how to manage life outside of my prior social life, managing a marriage that was…challenging…with wealth beyond what most dream of….

But then everything changed – not suddenly, gradually. The earth, the farm, the isolation started molding me into a woman who was AUTHENTIC. I BECAME the farm; I loved it. I flourished; I found healing…I found in the sharing of my journey that I was MORE. I had an identity, connected with the very ground that I was born from. The plants, the animals, the connection to the stars was more than just “owning” a piece of land. I needed ME, I needed the earth, and I began the journey of discovering who I am – what BEING means.

In nurturing and cultivating that land, I BECAME. I was transformed – changed because of the earth I was nurturing, because of the children I was rearing, because of the memories I was beginning to unpack.

To restart this virtual diary is a bit of a struggle for me. I’ve tried it before, and never quite found that same spark, that same motivation to be open and vulnerable. Thinking about carrying a camera around with me to every tiny little event seems overwhelming and trite….but then again, when I was blogging previously, we didn’t have the phones we have now — I mean for goodness sake — my phone camera takes almost as good of photos as most super high-end cameras did back then. Which means excuse number one is out the window.

SO what is it that’s motivating me to do this NOW??? Well….here goes:

Today I met with my estate lawyer. Nothing new. This is my third edit of my will since 2015. So I should be used to it, right? yeah. mmmhmm. totally used to actually imagining me dying. My being gone. My thinking about what I am leaving to the people who love me…because I”m a lucky one — a REALLY REALLY REALLY lucky one. I have people – and not just my close friends and family – who love me. Like I KNOW really love me. And today I got to think about the big question: What am I leaving behind???? Not just my stupid collection of vintage finds that I’ve hunted down at Goodwills, garage sales and thrift shops, but what is the legacy that I am leaving when I go???

I guess that means I have to explain a little bit about what that means because there are lots of people who write about what they do and did in life, what they want to leave, who gets their baby blanket, who gets their prized saddle that hasn’t been ridden in for almost a decade…but for me? Ouch. Wow. Yikes. This is real. Because death is my every day reality. With a clipped aneurysm and one festering on the opposite ICA, well….death is at my doorstep with every piece of furniture I rearrange (and I am happiest rearranging furniture and decor).

One morning in 2017, I woke, alone in my bed, just a few months after finalizing a divorce that still haunts my every day. I sat up as usual, and waited for the haze and dizziness of waking to shake. I sat, then I sat some more…um…am I awake or asleep still? The walls and the bed were moving as they usually do in that 10 seconds between awake and asleep have a pension to do…am I awake or asleep??? I laid my head back down to the pillow. Closed my eyes and waited. The bed was a ship, shifting from side to side, backwards and forwards. I opened my eyes, wiping the sleep from my eyes, putting a little pressure on them. I shook my head, and sat up again. Surely, I would break the veil between sleep and awake. Maybe if I stand up? Let’s try that I told myself: I stood, unsteady, willing the world to stop swirling….

Ok, well, that wasn’t working, the world is still swirling, but I’ve got two kids to get to preschool and 1st grade: just gotta do what a mama’s gotta do. I stood. Unbalanced, but focused on the door that was only a few steps away. Gotta wake the kids, and then once I pee and get some water on my face, I’ll be ok.

WHAM.

WTF. The door hit me slam on my right eye. Where’d that come from??? I recentered, and walked down the hall to the kiddos’ wing, clinging to the bastions of textured walls. Got them up…get them ready. I’ll wake up at some point. I’m just dizzy.

Bathroom mirror. Swirling. Moving. Double me. I look like shit.

Bacon sizzling, eggs cooked. Kids dressed. Car keys, school…white lines on the side of the road. Teacher. “Hi! They got good sleep.” The keys, the ship moving from side to side. The white line on the side of the road is always what dad told me to watch in a bad rain storm. Home. Stairs. Bed.

Can’t call mom, she’ll worry.

“Hey, Suzie. Um. I don’t know what’s going on, but I”m having trouble with depth perception and I have this crazy pain in my eye. Don’t want to call mom. Just want you to know that I don’t feel right. You’re the best sister-in-law ever for dealing with my constant drama. Thank you. and yeah, i’m fine, just want you to know I’m not feeling right. I did get the kids to school.”

“Miss. Um. You’re slurring. Did you drink last night?”

“No. I just need to lay down.”

I hang up. I lay down. The world spins even more; the pain is bad, but it isn’t a ruptured fallopian. I know that pain…at least I’m not bleeding out again. The pain is constant, and unchanging, so I find comfort in the fact that I know it’s just my head, not my internal organs that have given me so much grief. I can deal with a headache…but then things start to shift. My body is separate from my essence. I’m here, but my body is somewhere else.

Phone rings. I don’t answer.

Text message:

“Suzie said you’re not feeling well, do you need help with the kids?”

“yes”

I close the one eye that I had opened to read the text and lay back down.

Searing pain- like my eye was being skewered from my tear duct to my inner ear. A direct line. I vomit: only nothing comes up — I don’t think.

I hard press the 3 on my phone. It rings. I’m struggling to hold it to my ear.

“Mom. Um. I don’t think I need help with the kids, I need help.”

Blank. Hard core blank.

The next several days are a blur. I remember being in the ER, remember being covered with warm blankets and pushed into a tube. I remember them saying “You’re having a migraine. On another note, we did see an aneurysm, but it’s no big deal, can’t be causing the issues she’s experiencing.” I look up at my sister-in-law. Her face was incredulous:

Susie: “AN ANEURYSM AND IT IS NO BIG DEAL??? SHE CAN’T GET THE RIGHT WORDS OUT. SHE IS SAYING WORDS THAT MAKE NO SENSE. SHE’S VOMITING??? NO FUCKING BIG DEAL?”

I think I remember her saying these words, but i’m not sure, I just remember her profile in the tiny ER room, and her holding my hand, with a face of worry and anxiety that can’t even be described as “contorted.”

Doctor: “We see these all the time, patients come in with migraine pain, we do an MRI, there’s an aneurysm. 1 out of 50 people have them and there’s no reason to be alarmed.”

Susie: “WTF, Missy. I know you’re not ok. We’re going to figure this out.”

Me: “there’s a big sign in my back eye”

Susie: “Huh? what? talk to me”

Me: “You know that thing that’s above everything? It’s in my eye”

Susie: “What? Missy focus on me, what???”

Me: “You know that thing. it’s in my eye”

The light was too much to bear. The noise was too much. I just couldn’t with all the input.

“Shoozie. Help.”

Susie: pushes emergency button….”I DO NOT THINK YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT IS GOING ON”

Nurse: “Here are your discharge letters – have her go see a neurologist. We gave her migraine meds, she’ll be fine in an hour or so.”

I lean on Susie as she guides me to the car with me mumbling things she can’t understand and we head back to my house – me holding a hospital issued blue bag with a plastic ring – and Susie hoping desperately that we get back home before I need it.