5: Building Resilience
Reading time: 7 minutes
Thanks for joining me! This email contains the fifth chapter of my “Dreaming In the Real” manuscript, a work in progress. Bi-weekly episodes reveal how immersing myself in the natural world while preparing vibrational essences helped me gain insight and healing after my adult life crumbled due to unaddressed trauma and childhood adversity.
PLEASE START HERE to access the episode list and preceding chapters.
CONTENT GUIDANCE: This manuscript tackles sensitive themes of parental neglect, abuse, drugs, and domestic violence. Reader discretion is advised.
“Because children take everything personally, they believe that if they are being mistreated, it's because they haven't been good enough. Being good as an adult makes them believe incorrectly that they have some control in life. They think that they will be rewarded for their goodness and that it will protect them from harm.” ~ Marcia Sirota
ON MY SIXTEENTH birthday, chatter and giggles filled my ears. I was sitting at a dining room table with three other teenage girls of various ages. Cats perched in precarious high places watched as two German Shepherds pushed and wiggled through the many legs under the table. My foster mother, Sha, was slicing and serving chocolate cake to celebrate my birth.
Sha was sixty-five, short and round, and full of love that came with big hugs, an English accent, and the fits and starts of a stutter acquired from a flu shot gone wrong. For my birthday, she gave me a hardcover version of James Herriot’s “All Creatures Great and Small.” James Herriot was her friend while growing up in Yorkshire. I could hardly believe I was in the home of a woman who knew one of my favorite authors, someone who rescued dogs, cats, horses, and girls. A warm light began shining into my dark places. I was sure this was what family was supposed to feel like.
I registered for classes at Chana, a continuation school for high school kids at risk of not graduating. Working at my own pace, I completed most of my first- and second-year student curricula with high marks in less than a year. At the recommendation of Mrs. Riggs and the principal at Chana, the principal at the regular high school accepted me back for my junior year with one caveat: I check in with him each morning for a month and allow him to walk me to my first-period class.
At first, I was embarrassed to be seen walking to class with the principal, but Mr. Covich surprised me. Each morning, as we walked from his office to the art building, he asked me how I was doing at home and school. We laughed and joked, and I grew to appreciate his constant and warm presence.
On weekends, my friends and I bought beer at a local liquor store where the clerks were willing to sell to minors, and we went to parties. My closest friend Connie sat with me at our favorite river spots or outside homes where parents were gone for the weekend, drinking beer until we felt the familiar warm tingle rush down our legs. The numbing effects helped me manage the overstimulation of loud music and boisterous teenagers.
We spent our summer nights roller skating on streets and sidewalks in town, riding ten-speed bikes, and playing flashlight tag and hide-and-seek in the darkness of wooded hillsides. The nights were almost as warm as the days, and we would gaze at stars and planets from a treehouse in a giant old oak where a friend set up his telescope. At the same time, we were exploring our growing independence by attending concerts, exploring lakes and rivers, and camping along the Pacific Coast. I worked two weekday evenings and weekends at Bob’s 49er Burger Bar to pay for my adventures.
With the ongoing support and encouragement of Mrs. Riggs, Sha, and my closest friends, I managed life at school. I still needed to catch up on a few classes, so I took classes during my lunch hour and two evenings a week. I still avoided the crowded school cafeteria but was determined to catch up on my work and excel. I knew I could.
One of my teachers consulted with Mr. Covich, and they decided to test me for the gifted program. Before long, I spent time in the library with a small group of engaging students, writing articles for the school’s underground newspaper and discussing topics I had never considered before. Focusing on the projects in my art classes inspired me to spend my spare time painting. My efforts helped me become the youngest Placer County Arts League member, and my watercolor of two badgers won best of the show in their annual juried exhibit. I sold some paintings and began to feel better about myself.
I even had a boyfriend. He was a good kid, intelligent, kind, and involved in sports and other school-related activities. I painted him a watercolor picture of a skier, and he gave me a gold locket necklace and his white football jersey emblazoned with a green 63. I didn’t know it then because low self-worth was my default, but I didn’t think I was good enough for him. He had no idea why I wouldn’t hang out with him at school or with his friends after football games, and neither did I. Eventually, he broke up with me. He wanted someone to be his friend and love him all the time, not just some of the time. I was devastated. I dated other boys but kept my love locked inside for him.
More like a boy than a girl, I sought adrenaline-inducing distractions. I drove on winding foothill roads, corner-weighting my car and driving too fast. I routinely braved a catwalk with friends in the dark of night more than seven hundred feet above the American River and jumped off tall boulders and bridges into dangerous river currents.
In the last week of my junior year, I received a national scholarship award for completing the most credits with one of the highest GPAs of any high school student in the country. When I called to tell my mom, there was silence on her end. My parents didn’t believe in college; worst of all, they didn’t believe in me. The acceptance letter required a signature from the high school principal. When I took it to the administration office, Mr. Covich was out, so the receptionist gave the letter to the vice-principal, who, without taking the time to read the document, told the receptionist to take it away.
I heard her say, “Marnie Mellom is a loser. I won’t sign anything for her.”
No matter how hard I tried or how well I performed, my past was undermining my future. I didn’t finish the last week of my junior year. I didn’t see the point of it. Instead, Mrs. Riggs set me up to take the state high school equivalency exam, and she petitioned the court to release me from foster care.
THE FOLLOWING SEPTEMBER, I began courses at Sierra College, a local community college where the San Francisco 49ers held summer training camps. I lived with Connie and another roommate in a three-bedroom duplex in Rocklin and worked evenings serving food at a local Chinese restaurant. It felt good to pay my rent, buy groceries and gas for my car from the jar where I stored my tips, and pay utilities and car insurance from my paycheck, but I didn’t know what I was doing with life or with college. I wasn’t even eighteen yet.
Multiple aptitude tests showed that being a lawyer or a professor best suited my capability and potential. Interest tests indicated that art, writing, social issues, and philosophy were the most important to me. The counselors encouraged me to commit to earning a degree, but I needed to understand what a degree was and what it could do for me, and they didn't help. Just registering for courses was overwhelming. Not understanding the need for general education requirements, I focused on the classes I liked and earned top grades, but I failed the rest because I stopped attending them. I didn't officially withdraw from the courses and ended up with failed grades and academic probation.
A bright spot in the gray emerged when my sister welcomed her fourth child in February 1979. I was seventeen with an older niece and two nephews close to my age, so having Kimberly Kay helped me feel like an actual aunt. She was the first infant I knew and loved. She gifted me with the deep kind of love that swells from within while holding and being present with a new baby. To celebrate her arrival, I designed and sewed her a ragdoll with clothes inspired by one of my favorite childhood toys, along with a baby quilt. This little bundle of squeals, smiles, and wiggles provided a glimmer of hope.
NEXT: Chapter 6: When the Past Won't Let Go
Your comments really make my day! I write to connect with people, and hearing what you have to say inspires me to share more. If you can't comment right now, no worries—just drop your thoughts when you can!
Very good piece of work, Marnie!! In reference to that vice principal, why was she in that position. Certainly wasn't to give anyone a leg or hand up.
Keep this up. This is quite an interesting story.