This Old House

I remember my dad watching Bob Vila on Sunday mornings and didn't understand how he didn't die from boredom. I was a kid but now, with all the home makeover shows, I can see he was ahead of his time. So sometimes I look at my apartment, in a house that was built somewhere around 1900, and think WWBVD?

He would definitely rip up the kitchen floors with the foot prints of the workers who long ago did a half-assed job of installing it. Then the entire bathroom would be ripped down, especially the pink and forever stained porcelain tub in which no amount of cleaning will fix and he would make it bigger than the size of a closet. (Some of the big guys in my life have had some issues getting in and out of it.) And surely he would notice the crooked living room floor and do a bit of electrical work in my daughters room (which is actually on the agenda anyway.) But that's it. The damage from slamming the vacuum into the base boards is all me. The marks on the walls and damage to my what were once adorable kitchen chairs are from the cats and the toys everywhere are from my kid.

Then I think, I could really use that little lady from "Poltergeist" and have her work her magic on the one end of my house that is absolutely petrifying, Call me nuts, I've been called worse, but I swear, my apartment is haunted. I can't even explain to you the types of things we've heard, felt and seen in this place in the last ten years. It's part of the reason why my daughter still sleeps with me every night. (And because I know that there will come a day when she won't want to anymore.)

Then I think about all the trying times we've had in this place. Breakups, breakdowns, fear, sadness, years of physical pain from injuries and disease and more in the ten years we've lived here. I went through the hardest, to date, situations and problems in my life while living in this apartment.

Then I remember, my parents provided me with an amazing,  nice, cute place that is just the right size for my daughter and I. I walk into my big kitchen with the fabulous wall paper and tile from the 70's that I would not let Bob Vila go anywhere near. I look at my big living room, with it's tall windows that fill the room with sunlight. I look at my cozy bedroom big enough to fit a king sized bed and two huge bureaus. And I look at my daughter's sweet room, that despite desperately needing a paint job (we joke that she's been finger painting with dirt) is perfect for her. During the spring and summer, I open the windows, see the stunning garden my father has created and let the smell from the roses he planted waft into the rooms. There is nothing like having the smell of live roses in your home. It's just simply wonderful. Oh yeah, and central air. Be jealous, it's okay.

I remember that, along with the bad, some of the most amazing moments of my life have happened here. Just a week after moving in, we watched the Red Sox win the 2004 World Series here. This is where I brought my sweet little baby home from the hospital. This is where I've watched her grow from an infant to the incredibly sweet, kind and insightful kid she is today. This is where she will have most of her childhood memories. Birthdays, sleepovers, us cuddling on the couch and playing highly competitive rounds of air hockey. This is where I, myself, have changed and grown so much for the better that I no longer recognize the person I once was.

This is where we come to feel safe, warm, loved and comfortable. This is where we share meals and feelings. This is where we can dance and cry because no one is actually watching. This is where we live and work and play. So when it comes down to it, it doesn't matter what Bob Vila would do. It's what my daughter and I would do. And we will continue to grow up together and be grateful together because we have all we need in this old house.

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.

 

It's Not Funny

WARNING: This post may contain some trauma triggers that are sexual in nature.

After watching this video, a lot of different feelings came up that I forgot I had. When you try to stay aware of the world around you, that happens. One minute you will be fine and the next you open an article or clip and feel like you've been punched in the gut.

So apparently there is this whole world that exists out there where young men do "pranks" on women. These guys tape themselves groping women and exposing themselves. I've always considered myself very hard to offend when it comes to humor but this really bothered me. Similar things have happened to me before without a camera. While sometimes I try to laugh about my experiences, it's not funny.

Having a guy come up to me and expose himself when I was seven while I was just playing with my friend down the park, is not funny. Being in high school and being grabbed is not funny.  Being groped by one of my friends in adulthood is not funny. But in all these examples, most of the people around me found it entertaining but it's not funny.

While my mom called the police when I was little, I was later made fun of because of it. One person in particular would repeat what the man said to me as if it were hilarious. I laughed along to keep from crying. In actuality, my stomach would begin to roll, leaving me nauseous and empty. Forgiving a good friend for utterly insensitive without knowing it is one thing, forgetting it is another. No seven year-old should be exposed to and scared in a way that is so awful. It's disgusting, horrifying, perturbed and embarrassing and it's not funny.

When a kid groped me in high school after I repeatedly told him not to, I kicked him down the stairs. Everyone focused on my reaction but not what was done to me. There is comedy in having a girl kick a boy down a flight of stairs but that's not the point. He triggered such a visceral response. I guess that's why they call them triggers. It hurt that so few people seemed to care including my boyfriend at the time. He even tried to blame me at first while I sobbed into the phone trying to tell him about what happened. He had one of his friends talk to the kid. And friend, if you are reading this thank you for defending me. My dad hated my high school boyfriend after that. He said he was a sad excuse for a young man, that if he could beat the crap out of the kid who hurt me along with my boyfriend he would (an adult assaulting a 17 year old is frowned upon unfortunately)  and insisted I dump him. I didn't but he was very happy when we eventually did break up. My mom and dad were the ones who saw me crying on the couch for hours after school that day. Not him. This is certainly an example of cowardice, invasion and disrespect in so many ways and it's not funny.

When a good friend slapped me so hard on my butt that it hurt, I felt I couldn't make as big a deal because "Oh that's 'so and so'" as if his personality was all the explanation necessary. No one said anything and laughed as I verbally ripped him apart myself. I, too, had excused his behavior when he would hurt others so I felt like a hypocrite letting it bother me. Truth be told, it is bothersome and I have never defended him again. It's masochistic, physically abusive (IT HURT) and again disrespectful and it's not funny.

And so as you watch the above mentioned video and see some women playing along, notice their initial nos, the nervous tone's of their voices and laughter and stiff body language. They clearly feel pressured, don't want to or don't like it and if they do seem to it's because we have all been shown that this behavior is acceptable just like it always has been before YouTube existed. None of it is in no way funny.

While these experiences shouldn't have ever happened, I've learned that I have no problem defending myself. I grabbed my friend and ran away from that scary man, doing exactly what a little kid in that situation should do. I violently kicked the kid who hurt me in high school (going to my guidance counselor may have been a better decision but that's what happens when you're an impulsive and reactive teenager) and I stood up for myself verbally (which was the best I could do, especially with no support from those around me) when I was hurt later in life.

I am stronger because of these events but no one else should have to go through it because IT'S NOT FUNNY

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.