Coping Superstar

This is the story of a coping superstar that most of us know and love.

I guess I should begin with the definition of what a coping superstar is. A coping superstar is a person who has come to terms with the fact that time does not heal all wounds. It does not ease grief and does not ease pain. The suffering never truly goes away but learning how to live, despite the weight you carry, is what makes you shine. 

Our superstar has experienced loss on a level that no one should ever have to feel. Yet, I need to sneak this post in and publish it right away because there's a good chance she will hop on. She is the one who keeps up with our submissions, entering them, editing them, everything, So, I'm worried she may find this first thing tomorrow at a time in life when the rest of us would be in bed, unable to move, unable to deal. 

When she's not entering other people's pieces, she's either editing my piece of shit submissions or she's pouring her heart out. We all read her posts. We take in the strings of words she ties together that make you want to cry or make your heart drop or both. It's because she writes to cope, not to pass time.

The concept of a coping superstar came about when I posted something about my cousin who passed away and about how time had not helped but you learn to live with the loss. When she commented, she called us both coping superstars. That one comment, from the person who embodied what it meant to be a coping superstar, gave me a whole new and higher understanding of how life works. 

So, while I haven't been able to come up with a solid piece for this blog in months (due to my very often trips into fiction land) a story that needed to be told was sitting there, right under my nose. The story of a girl from what was once a pretty gross city who now resides in a beautiful paradise with the love of her husband, friends and pets surrounding her. 

She is an artist who creates kickass coasters, bungalow wilde jewelry and countless other creative projects. She is an incredible yogini who will be the best instructor ever some day. She breathed creative life back into me that has now given me the confidence to write a new book after my first was turned down. I had thrown that dream out of the proverbial window and she threw it back in. She has changed my life and I know I'm not the only one who can say that.

She is unlike anyone I have ever met. She is living to tell her own tales of both loss and love, grief and survival, wounds and healing. The story of a girl who, through her art of all mediums and never-ending kindness is teaching us all what real strength is.

We are all so lucky to have a modern day princess. The type of princess that when she sings animals flock to her side. (I'm not kidding, I pretty sure that does actually happen.) One that possess all things good and believes in unicorns. She is stunning, gracious and loved by all. Despite her hardships, she perseveres. She is the kind of princess who will have her happily ever after because she is a coping superstar. 

Melissa wears many hats. Some are super colorful and some are dark just like her stories. She is a mother, a friend, a writer, a survivor, a warrior, a yogi, a listener, a talker and a lover of all things art. 

Can Buy Me Love

I saw several old friends this weekend and when I mentioned the fact that I'm a yoga nazi many asked if I was going to teach. I gave half-assed responses like, "No, but I would like to." I stopped short at the reason why I'm not doing the teacher training. I simply didn't want to admit I was broke. Pathetic but true.

I have no problem admitting any of my other faults but this one is very hard to reveal to friends, never mind on this blog. But I'm doing so because I know there are others out there who can not do what they truly love because they can't afford to do so. Luckily for the truly disadvantaged (not me at all, I'm broke but have everything and more than I need) have scholarships now. But still, so many are stuck in dead end jobs or don't have one and it all boils down to money, sadly.

I took for granted that my parents were able to pay for my college education but at my age, there is no room for asking them for the $3,000 it costs. I know they would be willing to help me with childcare but I can't ask for anything more than that. Childcare alone is a lot to ask. If I only knew back in 1999 what I know now, I could have saved them a lot of money and me a lot of time.

A friend of mine suggested setting up a Go Fund Me page but I can't bring myself to do it. I feel like those should be reserved for cancer patients and the poor, not us middle of the road people who have issues but not problems. I won't beg for it. Then, there I go, having lower middle class guilt about how much better I have it than other people. It's yet another tight rope I feel I'm walking across right now; balancing the awareness of others struggles while still putting value on my own.

Maybe it's a New England-er thing too. Nothing bothers me more than admitting I need help. I once went to a store and my card wasn't going through so the employee said I could just pay the three dollars the next time I came in. Well, I immediately went to the ATM and got the money out to give him and went back. It was a huge pain in the butt but I couldn't help it. I knew that when I got home I would feel like crap OVER THREE DOLLARS. It's pretty stupid. Most of the people I know are the same way. It's just our mentality.

So when I was cleaning my house with my music pumping through my ear buds, "Can't Buy Me Love" came on and I said to myself, "No The Beatles. You are wrong." Because yoga is what I love and if I want to spread the love, then I need to buy it. I've been practicing off and on since 1996 and would make a pretty bad ass instructor (or guide as I would call myself) so while you can't buy me romantic love, you can definitely buy this kind. Keep your fingers crossed for me that I will remember to buy a lottery ticket (I always forget) and win. Until then I will be singing;

"I care way too much for money, Money can buy me love. Can buy me laa-ove. America tells me so."

Melissa Sue Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.

Real Fear

Anyone who knows me knows I am a huge horror movie buff and lover of all things Steven King. I once stayed up all night, completely alone because I couldn't put down "The Shining." What kept me reading was what I thought was real fear. The images of a topiary coming to life (and yes, when properly described bushes trimmed to look like rabbits and lions are indeed piss-your-pants because you don't want to get out of bed because you're so scared type of scary) freaked me out so much, I thought what I was feeling was true terror. It wasn't, at all.

I've been lucky, in that, I've never completely feared for my life. I've had a relatively safe existence up until today. But today...today was worse than fearing for my own life, I was afraid for my daughter's. The image of her face, red from forehead to neck and tear stained, was one of a child who thought they might die and with good reason.

We were on a two lane highway and I was in the right lane. Unbeknownst to me there is a girl texting next to me in the left lane. Here comes a tractor trailer pulling onto the highway without slowing down. I can see he's not going to merge on so I try to move to the left. Phone girl is oblivious of my attempts to get away from the oblivious truck driver.

My eyes start darting everywhere. I was screaming "LET ME THE FUCK IN," as if she could hear me.The second I finish the sentence I hear Morgan screaming, I turn and she's trying to get her seat belt off to go to the other side of the car. For one instant, I saw the cab of the huge truck going 60 mph just inches away from my hysterical child.

Phone girl noticed just in the nick of time. Seriously. She slowed down and I was able to push the pedal to the floor and cut into the left hand lane just as the truck flew by us. I'm finding I'm holding my breath as I write this. I was scared but my daughter was terrified. I had the luxury of thinking about saving us in those moments, all she could think about was a truck crushing her.

I understand now what people mean when they say, "It was just a few seconds, but it felt like hours." That's the only way to describe it. After taking in a breath, I reached back, held my still crying baby's hand and listened to her wail about how she just wanted to get to the other side of the car. I only realized after how bad it really could have been. She lived it in real time in real fear.

But the best possible outcome happened. Once we got home, I lost it. I held her and I cried and I kissed her and I held her and I cried and kissed her some more.

Now, I'm here writing as always. She's out convincing her father to buy her stuff she doesn't need but he will anyway like always. We are fine. But that adrenaline rush I always crave, and what ultimately must have helped save us today, has left me with a hangover so bad, I have no desire for Steven King or Night of the Living Dead and don't know when I will again.

Now more than ever, one of my biggest wishes for her future is to never feel that way again. That was real fear and there was nothing fun about it.

Melissa wears many hats. Some are super colorful and some are dark just like her stories. She is a mother, a friend, a writer, a survivor, a warrior, a yogi, a listener, a talker and a lover of all things art. 

1,114 Words

1,114 Words.

Before I seriously started working on my 10,000 hours, I hated when authors would compare writing a novel to childbirth. I was like, “Bitches were never in labor for 56 hours. Writing is easy.”

And sure, for a nerd like me with a communications degree, writing can come easily when it’s an essay, article or even a short fictional story. But when I think about the 80,000 words that need to be thought of and written down; when I think about creating an entirely creative world with interesting characters in a setting to match, I become overwhelmed.

The weight is now in my mind instead of my body. My head feels heavy with ideas, insecurities and a sense that I’m never contributing enough. I’m not staying up late enough. I’m not editing enough. I’m not working enough.

Then I remember

1. I’m a single mother with fibromyalgia
2. I’m human and need sleep
3. I have so many other things I need to incorporate to live a happy and fulfilling life

I think about how Stephen King would type out 190,000 word manuscripts in just two years, all the while he was using a typewriter and corrective tape. And I have the nerve to worry about 80,000 words with a program that fixes spelling errors on its own? Shit, two of the longest texts ever, “The Iliad” and “The Odyssey” (used spell check) were written in 8th century B.C. The 8TH CENTURY B.C. and I complain. Makes me feel stupid and ungrateful. Then I go back to the three positive and valid reasons I already mentioned.

But it was when I had to cut and paste 1,114 words out of a chapter because the content was no longer relevant, I almost cried. It took me 5 minutes, just sitting there looking at those words, while I grieved the loss of nearly three precious hours of work. Three hours of mind-numbing, exhausting work. Keep in mind, I’ve worked everywhere, from Taco Bell to 50 hours a week at a financially fantastic job. Nothing compares to the intensity of highlighting and cutting out 1,114 words.

Writing a novel is harder than being pregnant. I’m not kidding. If it were easier, we would have a lot more books and a lot less kids. At least the act of making a kid is fun. And even if your kid is ugly or colic or whatever, everyone is still going to love it. There is a major chance that the labor of love that is writing a book will not be loved by anyone. Plus, at least you know when it will be over. Writing this book feels like walking down a never-ending cave. It’s dark and scary and what if I can’t find my way out?

So I guess this post is a quick glance into the endlessly spinning brain of a novelist, if I can even call myself that yet. Am I a novelist, an author, a writer or all of the above? I don’t friggin’ know. What I do know is to be any of the above is to be crazy, brilliant and possessed.      

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon 

whom one can neither resist nor understand.”

—George Orwell

Melissa Sue Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.

Dear Jeanette . . .

Dear Jeanette,

I will never forget the long weekend at the lake. Your friend pointed out, while we lie in the dark, how much I sound like you. Ever since that night, I noticed she was right.

Isn’t it funny how genetics work? How did we inherit the same voice? A bit raspy, with a weird version of a chuckle. People say I look like you sometimes too but it’s hard being compared to the most beautiful woman I ever knew. Instead of seeing similarities, I notice the differences. Even during your deepest dives into the ocean of addiction, you somehow stayed stunning.

I think of you often but I usually don’t burst into tears. I think of the fun times. Putting hot peppers on John’s pizza at Santapio’s. Using jelly to put our initials on our fluffernutters. Letting us camp out on the third floor back porch of the triple decker when you babysat.

Those times make me happy, but it’s when that raspy chuckle bubbles up do I begin to feel so, so sad. I guess, even though you died 9 years ago, your voice lives on through me.

Love,

Melissa

(Top to bottom:  Jeanette, Lisa & Melissa)

Melissa Sue Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.

The Hardest Month

Hey July. 

I’m psyching myself out for you and I need to be ready. Somehow I’ve managed to lose more people in you and I will never get why.

Certain dates, forever seared into my mind, haunt me like a dark room after a scary movie. I know there is nothing in that dark room but the fact that I can’t see what is there is frightening.  

I can’t see what you’re up to this year and it’s quite possible you may be nice to me. I really hope so. But the not knowing sets the paranoia off every year since you started wreaking havoc on my life.

This year is worse than ever, for July, you must know about my possible at bats. The ones I will worry about even more now that you are here. My positive thinking will be harder than ever. But I will try.

While I have learned to cope with all the losses, not one day has healed me and never will. Please, July, be kind to me. Please, July, don't take anyone else that I love.

Please, July, please.

Melissa Sue Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.

The Girl In The Picture . . .

At my soul sister’s apartment there is a small round frame. It’s beige and shows a young woman who I thought I never met. She’s sitting in a folding chair at what looked like a BBQ. She was definitely at a party but was the only one in the photo. The sunny sky seemed to match perfectly with her disposition. Closer look revealed she resembled me. 

She had long brown curly hair that fell along her bronze shoulders. Her mouth was turned up into a bright smile that radiated out of the photo. Her skin flawless and sun kissed, her teeth blindingly white and her body healthy and vibrant. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes light.

She embodied happiness and youth and silliness. Her arms up in the air doing something only the people surrounding her know the meaning of. Her thick eyebrows arched perfectly from laughter.

I noticed the toned legs of this girl I had never seen before and I saw her little butterfly tattoo. My little butterfly tattoo. 

That had been me, ten years prior. I didn’t even recognize myself because I had always seen myself as less. Less pretty. Less stylish. Less happy. Less young.  

That me had no idea how beautiful she really was.

This me does.

Melissa Sue Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.

To Be A Storyteller . . .

To be a storyteller is to be insane. 

Even if you’re telling a story that is true, it’s still a story. A story of a past event, a story that is unfolding as you speak or a story of what you hope will come true in the future. But to write fiction involves a certain measure of madness. 

Everyone knows the comparisons to genius and insanity but you don’t have to be crazy to be a fantastic fiction writer.  However, to turn yourself into several characters that are completely original to you and not reflections of those surrounding you is, in a way itself, a version of going insane.

The need for solidarity is overwhelming. To write is to put yourself in a jail cell and throw away the key. No windows. Beautiful spring days cannot lure you out of the alternate world you dance in and out of.

There are days when nothing will come to mind but I feel obligated to get it done.  Books don’t write themselves.  Then, when I decide to just edit, the ideas flow out and scenarios build themselves again.

There are other days when I feel almost compelled to write. I don’t want to stop. I cannot peel myself away from the computer because the words forming in my head will never be there again if I stop. I must do it and it can be frustrating when I can’t.

I like to compare writing to method acting. Once you start writing about a character, you, in turn, become the character. When you’re telling the story from two or more different perspectives, the lines between reality and fiction become even more blurred.

And while I say that you are not required to be certified "on paper crazy" to be a great writer, I am.

Melissa Sue Vieira

Co-Founder of Storytellers:  The Collective

Melissa wears many hats.  
Some are super colorful and some are dark, just like her stories.  

She is a mother, friend, writer, survivor, warrior, yogi, listener, talker 
and a lover of all things art.