Photography of Melissa L Beckwith

Until this summer, I hadn't picked up a camera in 10 years. These are unedited other then my © and that was done on an app on my cell phone. Enjoy!

Merry Christmas!

Broken Glass, Blood, and Vomit: Why Not to Protect an Addict

Warning: This post is very dark and very personal. My professor wrote "This piece is one of the best essays I have read in a long time." After sharing it with my ex-husband's other ex, she has convinced me to share it. My ex-husband recently killed a friend in an automobile accident.

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Melissa Beckwith

12/12/14/ Garrett Vail
Multi-Mode Essay

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Broken Glass, Blood, and Vomit: Why Not to Protect an Addict

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The past has a way of coming back to remind one of what Hell really looks like. My ex husband's cold, unemotional mugshot has been appearing in news articles, social media, and the local news since the week before Thanksgiving. He has the same cold and glazed stare that he had the day he put a gun to my head. His friend may have died in a tragic accident, but my ex is undoubtedly only considering the affect this accident might have on his own life. He shows no remorse, no regret, no emotion at all. My fear is that his family will work to have this covered up and forgotten just as all of his other indiscretions have been. I’m concerned that he will continue to go on with his life without consequence and without the intervention that he has desperately needed for years. I’m worried that he will continue to affect my life from a distance with every big mistake and poor decision that he makes. Unfortunately, the effects of alcoholism and drug addiction hurt more than just the user and the effects on other victims don’t always just go away when a victim removes themselves from the situation.

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When I see the mugshot with his bloodshot and glazed eyes, I remember the sound of breaking glass as he swung his father’s handgun to the side and smashed the coffee pot. I remember the blood running down my fingers as I cut my hands scrambling, trying to pick up the glass pieces as I shook. I remember wondering how such a small cut could bleed so much. I remember reaching for the dish towel to wrap around my hand when I heard the click of the gun and the way his breathing changed to slow ragged breaths when he pointed it at me. Most of all I remember that far off gaze with no emotion and the smell of cheap beer in the vomit that he didn’t even have the decency to throw up into the nearby kitchen sink. These type of flashbacks are nothing new for myself or for his other more recent ex, though they had, until recently, dwindled down to just rare and brief startling moments for myself. Both his more recent ex and I suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD, a condition most commonly associated with soldiers who’ve experienced unthinkable tragedies at war (10 Common Misconceptions About PTSD). I feel that that is a perfect description of what we’d both been through. We both survived a tragic life for a period of time in a losing battle against a significant other’s addiction to drugs and alcohol.

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I spent over six years-- from the time I was 15 years old until I was nearly 22-- assisting my ex and his family with covering up his addictions. When an addiction first begins, it’s normal for friends and family to rationalize the dependency and protect the dependent person (Arnold). Originally, it was his mother, sister, and I hiding it from his grandfather and father. When he was arrested for possession of alcohol and drug paraphernalia as a minor, I stood by his sister and mother and lied to his father about whom the items belonged too. We blamed it on a friend of his. I was raised to be honest and had a very hard time with covering up his addictions with lies, but I had to help his mother make things better for him. I was brainwashed to believe that hiding his addictions would help him.  

Years later, I was living in Hell with an unpredictable addict who cared about no one, but himself. It was one o’clock in the morning on a Sunday, when he stumbled into the house slamming the door and sending our three dogs into a barking and growling fury. He shut himself in the bathroom. I was tired and it was one o’clock in the morning, so I fell back asleep. That was a mistake. It was approximately three o’clock when I was yanked awake by my hair and dragged across the floor in the dark. The manner in which my hair was held gave me no chance to fighting without causing harm to my head and neck. The dogs bailed off the bed behind my body, their nails tapping the floor as they paced behind me. The pain, led me to believe my scalp was going to be yanked from my skull. The smooth wood-laminate flooring allowed my body to be dragged easily across without causing my body harm. A low throated grumble came from my ex’s dog as he considered attacking his own person. I was dragged to the bathroom and dumped onto a wet floor. “If you, if you were a good wife, you would check on me to make sure I didn’t drown in my puke”, he stammered forcefully. “Now clean it up!”

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To help an addict get better, I had to be a good, patient wife. I had to be there when he was sick. I had to put off my plans and dreams to tend to him. Or so I was lead to believe. An addict’s spouse tends to become more preoccupied with the problems of the user than with her own health and well-being. The spouse very often denies their own interests, hobbies, and friends in order to focus on the ill person (Arnold). I stopped sleeping whenever he went out, in fear that my ex would come home and choke and suffocate on his own vomit or that he would fall and hit his head on the cement stairs on the way in or even the toilet while throwing up. I stopped eating regular meals and lost weight. I stopped talking to friends and I lost a great deal of interest in my horses and spent a great deal of time, when he wasn’t home, just laying in bed. I was horribly depressed and anxious over all the possibilities. I finally asked for a divorce while sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, parked in our driveway. His intoxicated response, “The only way out of this marriage is in a pine box”, came only days before he put a gun to my head. I think back on that day in the truck and am horrified that in all those years, I never considered the possibility of an accident while he was driving under the influence. Driving under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol was something he did almost daily.

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The effects of living with an addict can last months and even years. It had been six months since I had removed myself from Hell, when I accidently knocked a glass off the counter in my new home. I remember my chest feeling tight as glanced around in pure panic, praying that I didn’t hurt his head with the sound of the crash. I scrambled to clean up the glass, remembering his staggering figure, his slumped shoulders, and his anger from the last time I dropped and broke a glass while he had a hangover. “You stupid bitch! Can’t you do anything right?! My head is killing me and you’re out here breaking glasses, ON PURPOSE!” He’d accused. It was several seconds before I remembered that he didn’t live in my new home. He wasn’t going to appear in the doorway. I didn’t need to panic and rush to clean up the glass and hide the evidence that I had made a mistake. It was then that I stood back up, grabbed another glass, smashing it on the floor purposely and then walked away from the mess. Looking back now, that moment --my reaction to breaking a glass-- was one of the first signs that I had PTSD and I’d ignored it, allowing him to affect my life even more. People who develop PTSD were inherently more susceptible to the disorder than others, often exhibiting prior signs of mental illness, such as anxiety and depression. After a traumatic event, the possible onset of PTSD can be exacerbated by coping with it inappropriately (10 Common Misconceptions About PTSD). I was not diagnosed and treated for PTSD until nearly a year and a half later while dealing with him in court, trying to remove myself from the mortgage on the house--an issue I am still dealing with in court several years later.

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The effects of alcoholism and drug addiction hurt more than just the user and the effects on other victims don’t just go away when a victim removes themselves from the situation. After I left, my ex had a baby with another woman and then threatened them both with a gun in a drunken and drug induced rampage. The scene was narrated over a smartly place call to 911, that had undoubtedly saved their lives and yet no charges were ever pressed. She and her son are safe in another state and he has no parental rights at this time. My ex’s family and some of his friends have portrayed him to the news as a great friend and family man that made a mistake, driving with just over the legal blood-alcohol limit allowed and hitting a dear friend who was riding his bike in the middle of the road. I wish I could say that this tragedy will result in something good for him and that he will finally get the help he’s needed to cope with his addictions. Unfortunately, I think that this tragedy will disappear as if it never happened. His family will protect him with their excuses and their lies as they have always done. I fear that this tragedy will just become another little forgotten bump on his life path and that the death of his friend will be just that, just an unfortunate accidental death. It makes me wonder, sadly, how many more lives his choices will affect in years to come.  

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Work Cited

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“10 Common Misconceptions about PTSD”, X-Ray Technician Schools, March 6, 2011, WEB, December 12, 2014

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Arnold, McKayla, “The Effects of Addiction on Family and Friends”, Drug and Alcohol Addiction Recovery Magazine, November 19, 2008, WEB, December 12, 2014

#survivor #jeffreymoran #jeffmoran #jeffmoranwashingtonmaine Jeff Moran Washington maine

I'd Rather Give Birth Than Step On A Lego- Class Assignment

Melissa Beckwith
12/7/2014 / Vail College English 101
Argumentative Essay

I’d Rather Give Birth Than Step On A Lego

I am currently behind in every aspect of my life.  Behind on barn work. Behind on school.  And behind on housework.  One of the most annoying sights is a cluttered room.  Clean laundry is piled on the dresser waiting to be put away.  Dirty laundry is sorted in the corner waiting to be put into the wash, but was then forgotten.  Beds aren’t made because my four-year old and the dog can’t seem to stay out of them.  Toys are scattered around the floor, strategically placed so that I will undoubtedly step on a LEGO at some point today or tonight.  I should be cleaning, but given the option of catching up on my schoolwork or cleaning the latest disaster that my daughter has created, I have opted to write.  If I wind up in the emergency room as a direct result of this decision, it will be injury or death by LEGOs.  LEGOs are both the greatest toy and the most dangerously painful toy ever designed by man.

The LEGO Group was founded in 1932 and LEGO brick in it’s present form, was launched in 1958.  The name “LEGO” is an  abbreviation of the two Danish words “leg godt”, meaning “play well” (Froberg Morensen, Tine).  Coincidentally, those two words are very similar to the words one may scream after having stepped on one LEGO, resulting in a fall where one’s leg crashes into another LEGO.  Stepping on a LEGO sends a shooting pain through one’s foot and up their leg, causing them to gasp, no weeze a deep breath of agonizing pain inward.  No words will be uttered.  The pain is too great.  One will then fall forward, scrambling to find the safest way to land among other LEGOS.  LEGOs cause pain to every part of the body. One does not want a hand to land on a LEGO and for a split second they may wonder if their face could better sustain the impact.  It is at this point in time, that one will partially catch themselves by bending their knees and then it happens-- their shin comes down on that second LEGO. “MY LEG GODT!” The pain is too great to complete that fourth word and results in a “t” sound being added to the end of God.

LEGOs cause an unbelieveable amount of pain when stepped on.  This is partially due to how insanely sensitive the soles of our feet are.  Our feet are constantly working to keep us balanced and the information from the nerves in them are vital for allowing the brain to adjust accordingly to keep a person from falling over (Smallwood, Karl).  Anytime one’s sole of their foot comes in contact unexpectedly with an object, there is a great deal of pain, but what makes the pain from LEGOs so much worse is that they do not give.  A LEGO can be subject to approximately 4,240 Newtons of Force before it deforms.  This means that a single LEGO can support approximately 950lbs before it reaches it’s breaking point and compresses (Alexander, Ruth).  When one considers that durability combined with the little knobs and relatively sharp corners on a LEGO, with impact forces to around 9 times our body weight when moving, one will understand why a LEGO causes so much pain when stepped on. (Smallwood, Karl).

While LEGOs are one of the most dangerously painful toys ever designed, they are also one of the greatest toys ever designed.  LEGOs are educational; they teach basic mechanics and encourage creativity in both children and adults alike.  They are also fairly inexpensive and one purchase will provide years of fun (6 Reasons Why LEGO is the Greatest Toy Ever!).  My daughter will play with her LEGOs for hours, allowing me to complete this paper that is way overdue.  The LEGO’s interlocking principle with it’s tubes make it unique and offers unlimited building possibilities (Froberg Mortensen, Tine).  My daughter has designed various creations using LEGOS, including castles, dinosaurs, monsters, and even a water slide.  LEGOs come in multiple colors, shapes, and sizes and have helped her learn her colors and the differences between a square, a rectangle, and a quarter-circle.  She and I have spent hours creating and learning things through the use of LEGOs.

LEGOs are both the greatest toy and the most painful toy ever designed. They probably should be banned from my home. My child often skips picking up her toys and stepping on LEGOs is a regular occurrence. There have been many occasions where I have reached for a trash bag and seriously considered throwing out those dangerous little blocks. But I always change my mind. While the pain of stepping on a LEGO is like no other pain one can feel--I would rather give birth than step on a LEGO-- the memories and learning that have revolved around playing with LEGOs have been valuable and should continue to be played with in my home.

Works Cited

“6 Reasons Why Lego is the Best Toy Ever!”. Binary Moon. October 22, 2008. Web. December 7, 2014.

Alexander, Ruth. “How Tall Can A LEGO Tower Get?”. BBC News. December 4, 2012. Web. December 7, 2014.

Froberg Mortensen, Tine. “LEGO History Timeline”. LEGO. January 9, 2012. Web. December 7, 2014.

Smallwood, Karl. “Why Does Stepping On A Lego Hurt So Much?” Today I Found Out. June 2014. Web. December 7, 2014.

Adults Don't Bounce- Class Assignment

Melissa Beckwith
10/30/2014/ Vail College English 101
Compare & Contrast Essay

Adults Don't Bounce

Kids bounce.  They fall, get back up, and then go running off as if the fall never happened.  Children that grow up riding horses usually ride fearlessly. When a child falls off a horse, they usually get back on almost immediately, while the mother has a panic attack.  When an adult falls off a horse, they usually stay on the ground for awhile.  Some may say it's because adults are wiser, that they are contemplating what may have caused the fall.  Others says it's because adults are more prone to pains and broken bones.  I believe it comes down to a very simple theory;  Children bounce while adults typically don't.

It was about six years ago that I realized I no longer bounce like a child.  I was riding my grandmother's gelding, Hilly when I suddenly went flying through the air and landed in a heap on the ground.  A few years before that, I would have bounced right back up, caught the horse, and got back on, but not that day.  That day I stayed on the ground staring up at the sky as I contemplated getting up to catch the little pain in the butt that had just launched me.  I was sore, but not broken and my breath was still with me, which isn’t often the case when you hit the ground like I had just done.  The clouds formed shapes above my head on a blue background; a rabbit, a dog, a person jogging; and I stayed put, staring up at the fluffy characters above me.  The arena gate was closed and Hilly was busy finding grass in the center of the ring.  Dealing with him could wait a few moments.

When a child plans their future, they don't plan for failure.  As a child, one believes that everything will always work out.  As an adult, many seem to expect failure.  One may dwell on past failures and allow them to effect their lives.  There was a time, as a child when my life revolved around horses and riding.  I was a talent in progress, a hard worker, a fearless rider.  I felt as if I knew it all and was ready to take on any challenge, any discipline, and any “problem horse” that came along.  Falls, disappointments, and bad days never fazed me as a child. Back then all I needed to fix any heartbreak was a trail ride, an hour of grooming my horse, or an hour of lying in a field while my horse grazed beside me.  As a child, almost every goal, plan, and dream I’d had for myself was once based on horses and each and every one was attainable.  Somewhere between the death of my childhood horse and life’s happenings, things had become different and my unfinished goals became failed dreams that weighed me down every day of my life.

Many adults give up after failure or in fear of failure.  A child never considers failure as an option.  My dream horse --that I had started planning as a child-- was now a yearling and I’d just listed him for sale. I was no longer a fearless rider; in fact I had become somewhat of a timid rider, afraid to fall, but more afraid to get back on.  I no longer competed, unless I had to school a horse for a student at a small show and I didn’t enjoy preparing the horses to show.  I was proud of my students and proud of my program, but just emotionally drained. Though I had a barn full of horses to ride and a riding program that was steadily growing, I sometimes felt as though I was on the verge of quitting everything horses.  I stayed on the ground contemplating getting up and just putting Hilly away. Maybe today would be the day I didn’t get back on, the day I didn't bounce.

Children don't have time to think about failure because they are too busy bouncing back up to go on with their day.  Maybe children are actually the wise ones, allowing themselves to be distracted from such thoughts by the simplest bits of happiness that life can bring.  I stayed on the ground with my failures spinning around in my head.  Suddenly, whiskers brushed my right hand, interrupting my thoughts and making me smile.  I sat up quickly, grabbing Hilly’s reins before he could head off to the other end of the arena.  Standing up, I dusted sand off my breeches and fixed the reins around his neck.  Going to Hilly’s left side, I took the reins in my left hand up by his whither and untwisted my stirrup. Putting my left foot in the stirrup, I brought myself up and swung my right leg over.  “Jesus Christ, did you fall off?!” screeched my grandmother from across the barn yard, hands on her hips and a scowl on her face, “I wish you’d just put him away and leave him alone!”  Smiling back at her, I said as much to myself as to her, “Not today.  I think today, I’ll ride”.  Maybe I had reached a time in my life where I was slower to bounce, but I could still bounce.  Failure and fear would not keep me on the ground that day.

Children believe in fictional characters and miracles.  Their fears consist of monsters under the bed and in the closet.  An adults monsters are often in their own head.  Children bounce and adults typically don't.  It's because most adults know fear and failure like no child could or should ever know.  The monster in ones head keeps them from bouncing back and trying again.  While failure and fear is worth fighting, it's a battle some adults may never win.  As for myself, I have taken three more falls off horses since that fall and I got back on after every one of those falls.  My dream horse --that I'd listed for sale-- was taken off the market and is now a seven year old gelding that I am slowly bringing up in competition.  I guess I can say I bounced, not quite like a child, but I still bounce back from falls, failures, and fears.

Don't Throw Away Truete- Class Assignment

Melissa Beckwith
10/9/2014/ Vail College English 101
Description Essay

Don't Throw Away Truete

In my grandparents' time, one fixed what was broken and made whatever wasn't quite perfect, work.  They made it work for as long as possible and when it was time, they repurposed it.  One didn't just go out and buy a new one.  That would have been silly and frivolous.  In today's world many have the mentality that one can just go out and get a new one, throw the current one away and forget all the time and memories with the thing that just doesn't fit in anymore.

Truete has seen better days.  She has way too many years of use and abuse. Each dent and broken piece tell a story of how I or another have wronged her.  She has carried a number of children and even held my infant daughter in a car seat while I did chores beside them.  The horses have knocked her over and I've run her over with a tractor and maybe even my truck once or twice.

It's hard to replace all the memories that I have had with Truete.  Truete was my third big purchase as an adult.  I bought my horse trailer, my car, and then I bought Truete.  She was $120, bright yellow, and had 2 wheels where all others I had used in my life had only had one.  She didn't tip over like those others and she was more spacious.  I was so excited about my purchase that my friends and family mocked my enthusiasm-- like that of a woman who had just purchased a diamond bracelet.

Truete was nearly perfect in her brand new condition.  Her color was bright yellow.  Her brand name stickers weren't peeling.  Her tires were brand new and perfectly spaced to keep her from tipping over while full.  Her handles were perfectly spaced for pushing her and later for holding an infant car seat.  What horsewoman wouldn't be proud and excited to shovel horse poop into something so grand?  Truete is my big yellow, two-wheeled wheelbarrow.

Truete, as I said, has had years of abuse.  I try to fix her best I can, but her many injuries are getting to be too much to repair.  Truete has accompanied my horses through a total of 10 moves to different barns since buying her 8 years ago.  She has been borrowed and not put back numerous times. She was even stolen once by a crazy barn owner and her drunk tenant.  My young horse tried to sit in her as a goofy four-year old, which cracked her.  My father borrowed her and broke both brackets that held her axle.  He also caused one of her tires to pop.  She hasn't always had the privilege of being stored in a barn, so the environment has taken it's toll on her appearance.

Truete has a hole towards the front of her now. Her tires are often flat and her one axle is currently held on by a combination of duct tape and bailing twine. Her frame is wobbly and also stabilized by duct tape. Her once bright yellow color is faded and stained and her stickers are peeling; Where it once read "True Temper Big 8", it now says True Te on one side. I'm afraid to put my daughter in Truete and roll her around the yard for fear that Truete might break and send my daughter crashing to the ground.  It is time to replace Truete in her day to day manure duties.

Recently, I found myself looking at new wheelbarrows and feeling sad. It is almost time to replace Truete and it is a difficult decision replacing something that has worked so well.  When I look at my old worn out Truete, I remember the days when I would put my daughter and her half sister in Truete and wheel them up and down the driveway like Truete was a ride at a fair.  I remember when my daughter was just an infant in a car seat and I discovered that her car seat fit perfectly on the handles, making it easy for me to keep her close as I did my chores.  I remember the first time my young horse tried to sit in Truete as a foal, not heavy enough to break her back then.  And I remember how I worked overtime to make the money that I used to pay for Truete and how excited I was to buy her.

I do have to replace Truete, but I do not have to throw her away.  My daughter and I have found over twenty different uses for broken wheelbarrows on pinterest, so Truete has many opportunities for new employment.  I intend to repurpose her.  My grandparents would be quite proud.

Good, Small Deeds- Class Assignment

Melissa Beckwith
9/25/2014/ Vail College English 101
Narrative Essay

Good, Small Deeds

The world was going to Hell.  Everyday the news proved all that was going wrong with the world.  It was on TV, the radio, across the pages of newspapers, and on the front of the magazines that lined the checkout isles at every grocery store.  There was no getting away from the reports of people stealing from charities, the shootings, the domestic abuse cases, and so many other stories that played in the background of our day to day lives.  In my own state, Ayla Reynolds, a 20 month old toddler from Waterville, Maine, had gone missing months ago and was believed by Maine police to be dead, possibly at the hands of her own parent.  Even those that one would consider close to them, could hurt them.  At this time, even the lives of myself and my daughter were disrupted by the cruel and selfish actions of someone close to us.  It was also during this time that a simple moment would restore my faith in the humanity of strangers.  This moment would reinforce my beliefs that good things come to good people and "what goes around comes around", good or bad, large or small.

I try to help people who are in situations where I would want someone to help me.  One night while shopping-- months before the moment that was so small, but means so much-- an older gentleman I'd never met before, smiled at me and said "Hi".  He had kind eyes, eyes that reminded me of my grandfather, so I smiled back.  This same gentleman stood in front of me in line at the checkout and when the total rang up on his milk and few other food items, he started counting out change. Everyone in the line behind me seemed to grumble.  As he was counting, he realized he was 2 cents short.  The cashier wouldn't let him take his items without paying the last 2 cents.  The entire line shuffled around impatiently and grumbled again.  Quietly, I handed the man 2 cents and when he protested, I just smiled and told him he was doing me a favor by taking it.  "I have too many pennies weighing me down", I said with a smile. He gave me the most sincere smile and thank you that I've ever received.  It was nice to be appreciated for something, that at that time, seemed so small.

My daughter's father, someone I had grown to trust and depend on, suddenly abandoned us.  I thought he was joking when he gave us the 7 day eviction notice and left us in the middle of the night, the night before grocery day.  He disappeared without a word, left us with no money, a fairly empty fridge, and an uninspected and unregistered car with an empty gas tank.  He wouldn't answer his phone and had apparently taken the week off from work. When I realized he wasn't coming back, I began to panic because while we had some food, we did not have anymore milk for my daughter.  I checked our bank account, but my $75 check from free lance work had been transferred to his personal account shorty after being deposited.  I cleaned the house from top to bottom, searched pants pockets and the laundry coin jar.  I managed to scrounge up $6 and some change to get milk.

I packed my daughter and our change into the uninspected and unregistered car with the gas tank gauge on 'e' and prayed that it would make it to the gas station.  It did.  I had planned to put $3.50 in gas in the car so we could make it home, but distracted by my young daughter and my thoughts, ran over by accident.  We still had enough for a half gallon of milk.  I had my daughter on my left hip as I opened the sliding glass door to the convenience store refrigerator and scanned the prices of milk.  I selected our half gallon of whole milk with the red label and set it on the counter.  I held my breath, knowing very well that it would be close.  The cashier rang it up with the gas and when tax was figured in, I just did not have enough money.  I remember the sinking feeling like it was yesterday.  All this for a half gallon of milk --digging change out of couches and from under beds, driving an uninspected, unregistered, and almost gasless car to the store praying that we make it-- and I had pumped too much gas to get what we had really come for.

Just when I was about to admit defeat and walk out the door with no milk, a complete stranger put change down on the counter.  I looked up with a mixture of appreciation and surprise. He was tall, with a red baseball cap that almost hid his kind eyes.  "You'll cover for me next time", he said with a reassuring smile.  I'd never seen him before and will probably never see him again.  I thanked him with tears in my eyes and left holding my baby girl and her half gallon of milk, eternally grateful for kind strangers and good, small deeds coming back around.

Every day, especially through the news and social media, we are made aware of all the horrible things that are going on around us.  It is the rare occasion when we hear about the time that someone had their coffee paid for by the stranger ahead of them at the Dunkin' Donuts drive-through, for no reason besides the hope that maybe it would make their day better.  It is even less common to hear that in turn, that person paid for yet another stranger's coffee behind them.  It happens every day.  It is quite common for a stranger to stop and check on someone that has pulled over with a flat tire, but you don't hear about that either. Then there is the most common and least noticed of all, a simple smile at a stranger when you notice they seem down or maybe underappreciated.  These good, small deeds happen every day, seemingly unnoticed.  It is these good, small deeds that keep humanity at it's best and keep one going when our world could otherwise be found discouraging.

#tjankyoustranger #russelllanpher #rustylanpher #russelllanpheriii #russtylanpherstetsonmaine russell rusty lanpher iii stetson maine bangor maine buckshot maine

Starting Back To School- Class Assignment

Melissa Beckwith
9/11/2014/ Vail College English 101
Autobiographical Statement

Starting Back To School

I write constantly.  I have a blog that is filled with ramblings and thoughts, and for every one that is posted, there are another twenty posts that are in draft form, waiting to be completed and/or edited, and published.  I write to clear my mind, to try to understand why things happen a certain way, and to help me process my thoughts and feelings.  Today the question is why am I going back to school?  The short answer is that I feel stuck.  The long answer has so much more to it.

I was once a bright and willful student, who thought outside the box and had an opinion all my own.  Twenty years ago, at the age of seven years old, I formed a protest against my second grade teacher's decision to cancel our class play.  The decision was announced at the beginning of the school day and by the time the big yellow buses rolled in to take us home, a petition, signed by every member of Mrs. Dicken's second grade class, was sitting on her desk.  I must have been something to watch, marching up to her desk with my piece of paper covered in signatures scribbled by little 7 and 8 year old hands, and my defiant little grin.  I am the only child in her thirty-five years of teaching second grade, to protest one of her decisions. 

At some point during my school career, that child; the bright, independent, opinionated seven year old, disappeared. I was no longer smart.  My opinions no longer mattered. My dependence was no longer on myself, but always on another.  At some point, I became never good enough, worthless unless someone else said otherwise.  This carried over into adulthood. I had dreams of going to school to work with children with disabilities, but I was told I wasn't smart enough to go to college and "what a stupid career choice that would be anyway".  I believed what I was told and after high school I started working in customer service.  I was usually an over achiever at work.  I was driven and even had my own business and owned my own farm, teaching horseback riding lessons to over twenty students by the time I was twenty-one.  Still, as the young wife of my former high school sweetheart, an alcohol and drug addict, nothing I did was ever good enough. I was stupid and lazy and worthless.

After my marriage ended, I ended up with another man who made me believe I was capable of anything, as long as "anything" was his idea.  He supported me in going for my placement test with URock in 2010, shortly after the birth of our daughter, Audrianna.  He supported the idea of me going back to school only until he found out that I had no interest in going into nursing.  Once he knew I was not going to become a nurse, I was not smart enough to go to college.  He decided that I should work from home so that I would be there for our daughter and his other daughter and moved me an hour and a half from everything I knew.  He traded my car in towards his new truck and he handled all the money.  The house was never clean enough. Supper was always burned or made with too many calories.  I was always saying something stupid. He always told me that I would be nothing without him.  Then one day he found someone he believed was better, someone that was going to school to be a nurse.  My then 2 year old daughter and I had seven days to move with no vehicle, a zoo of animals, no steady cash flow, and $6 to our names.

Two years later, I am a single mother, working full time.  I have a well paying customer service position, where the benefits are better than anything offered by any other local employer.  I am a top performer earning incentive for my excellent performance and I am completely unsatisfied with my job.  My job means nothing to anyone after whatever problem has arisen is solved.  I don't know what I want to do, but this isn't it. I feel stuck.

I started back to school today, nine years after graduating high school.  As I dropped her off at daycare, my bright, independent, opinionated four year old daughter hugged me and said "Good luck at school Mommy".  She was more excited to tell her friends that I was going to school than she has ever been about me going to work.  As I drove the twenty minutes from her daycare to school, I considered turning around, but then I thought how disappointed Audrianna would be if I didn't go.  As I entered the building, I considered heading back to my truck. My chest felt tight, I almost couldn't breath.  It would be so easy to turn the books back in for someone more worthy to use and just stick to my forty hours of customer service for the rest of my working life.  For a minute in the elevator, anxiety almost won and let me leave without heading to class.  Then a message came through on Facebook, "I'm proud of you, Love Mrs. Dickens".  Twenty years later, Mrs. Dickens still keeps my protest taped to the inside of her school cabinets in her classroom, beside a poster I created of a laughing ape with her name on it.  While I don't always remember that bright, independent, opinionated seven year old girl, there are a few people that do and they have their ways to remind me.  Why am I starting back to school?  I'm starting because I am not stupid, I am good enough, and somewhere here, there is a intelligent, independent, and opinioned woman; where better to have her make her reappearance then in college.

Show Time Baby!

After not showing at all in about 7 years, I made my first debut in 7 years at a local show with Alaric (his first show). My daughter, Audri and her pony, Stella also attended (their second show). Audri and Stella placed 7th out of 7 in Leadline Equitation and 1st out of 7 in Leadline Pleasure. Audri was more concerned with waving to the audience and telling them Stella is her pony than she was about posting the trot. They were certainly the cutest pair there (though I'm a bit biased). Hope you're all ready for a heavy dose of cute!

Loving her pony after their classes (Grammy is holding Audri)

Alaric and I competed in 4 larger classes. Despite a ride that I was overjoyed with (despite his spooking at the announcers booth and picking up the wrong lead to the right), we did not place in our first Pleasure class of around 15 horses/riders. We placed 4th of 9 in Hunter Under Saddle, which I was ecstatic over and placed 7th in Adult Pleasure and Adult Equitation. All classes were against larger classes of seasoned horses and riders so I felt blessed just to place! Until today, I considered Alaric still a bit green. 

He shied away from the announcers booth all day (photo above)

Old Posts Suddenly Appearing

If my readers are wondering why a bunch of old posts are suddenly appearing... I have about 20 posts sitting in my drafts that I am editing and publishing as I have time. I sent a bunch of posts to the blog from my email and they need to be edited before being published.

I'm going to start keeping my blog again, so new posts will be appearing too! :)

Trash Thursday

Over two years ago I wrote a post about putting insecurities and negativities out with the trash on Tuesday, what used to be trash day when I lived in Stetson. We don't have a trash day in Union, so I've decided starting today, Thursday will be my trash day, when I will throw out all drama, negativities, insecurities, ect of the week (or longer) and put it out with the trash.

Today I throw out my feelings of failure and not being good enough. I'm going to throw out the fear of being alone. I'm going to throw out the grudges I've held and the tears I've cried that were not worth the water wasted. I'm going to forgive. I'm throwing out the anger that sometimes clouds my better judgement, the disapointment that hurts my future decisions, and the fears that keep me from taking an unknown path. I'm thowing out the battles won along with the battles lost. I call truce.

With a lighter bag and a lighter heart, today I'm moving forward :)

Horses Are Coming Home

Well Luce Farm is being sold and we have to move on. I would like to thank Luce Farm and the entire Luce family for helping me out and allowing me to board my large herd of horses at your farm. I appreciate you all!

I have managed to put some money away and I'm having my own (moveable) barns built on my parents property. The horses are moving home :)

A Story of Milk

Nowadays, my horses live on a dairy farm. Among the many reasons I enjoy having them there, is the free access to fresh milk. I bring my milk jugs, set them on the counter and when the cows are milked, someone fills my jugs. I leave $4.50 a gallon on the counter and I take my milk home. It's comforting to know that I can run to the farm at anytime to get my daughter milk. How odd is it to be comforted by an endless supply of milk?

When R and I broke up, he finally left us in the middle of the night, the night before grocery day just after dropping L off to her mother. He disappeared without a word, left me with no money, a fairly empty fridge, and an uninspected and unregistered car with an empty gas tank. He wouldn't answer his phone. When I realized he wasn't coming back, I began to panic because while we had some food, we did not have what my daughter always wanted, milk. I checked my bank account, but my $75 check from free lance work had been transferred to R's account shorty after being deposited, just as I had scheduled. I cleaned the house from top to bottom, searched pants pockets and the laundry coin jar. I scrounged up $6 and some change to get milk.

I packed my daughter and our change into the uninspected and unregistered car with the gas tank gauge on e and prayed that it would make it to the gas station. It did. I had planned to put $3.50 in gas in the car so we could make it home, but ran over by accident. We still had enough for a half gallon of milk. I grabbed our half gallon and set it on the counter, the cashier rang it up with the gas and when tax was figured in, I just did not have enough money and I wanted to cry. All this for a half gallon of milk and I had pumped too much gas to get what we had really come for. Just then a stranger put change down on the counter and covered the rest of our purchase, same as I had done for another stranger not that long ago. I thanked him with tears in my eyes and left holding my baby girl and her half gallon of milk.

When something happens that drastically changes your life, you learn to be comforted by the little things, such as a half gallon of milk in the fridge. Thank God for kind strangers.

#thankyoustranger #russelllanpher #rustylanpher #russelllanpheriii #russtylanpherstetsonmaine russell rusty lanpher iii stetson maine bangor maine bucksport maine