I was 23 when I died. It was brief but impactful.

Even in college, I knew something was wrong, but chose not to share. I was on my own with no parental figures to speak of, no insurance and no idea what to do: I didn’t see the point in voicing my concerns. However, it wasn’t long before one of my professors noticed my trouble breathing and occasional black outs when my heart would speed up, then dramatically pause.

Although my instructor and employer Professor Holmes offered to pay for a doctor’s visit, I declined as I had a feeling things were going to get expensive fast. Boy did they. I promised him that as soon as I graduated, found a job and received a shiny health insurance card, I would make my way to the doctor.

I started with a visit to a general practitioner in Memphis, Tenn. After conducting an initial examination, he told me that there wasn’t anything wrong with my heart. He went on to say that my problem was that I was a woman, therefore BELIEVED I had a heart condition. After an awkward back-and-forth, he finally relented saying that he would send me to a specialist for testing, if I would just “shut up.” Score!

Later that week, I received a call at work. The woman on the line asked me to report to the doctor’s office immediately. I explained that because the apartment complex I worked for was short staffed that week, I was currently running a large maintenance department and wouldn’t be able to get away. I insisted they tell me on the phone. To my surprise, the doctor came on the line and said I had some problematic heart defects and an aneurysm and was, in fact, dying. I listened for a few seconds and then, even though the doctor was still talking, slowly lowered the phone until the handset was resting back in its cradle. I then laid my head on the desk and began to cry at the reality of it all.

…

I soon drove to Mississippi to meet with one of the country’s top cardiologists. Although initial testing indicated I had no more than three years to live in my current condition, the doctor said he wanted to conduct one more test before scheduling my open-heart surgery — a heart catheterization. I agreed and we set the date for later that week.

My loving and eccentric grandmother drove me to the hospital that very early morning. Her driving 35 mph on city expressways made me thankful just to get to the hospital in one piece amid the raucous honking and enthusiastic hand gestures.

Lying on the chilly metal bed in the overly bright room filled with sterile and confusing equipment was terrifying. As the procedure began, I felt the tubing snake and stretch its way through my veins from my crotch up to my heart; the pain was excruciating. My back arched in an unnatural form as I shrieked in pain, something reminiscent of a graphic exorcism movie. After the test was complete, I was left to rest.

Suddenly, I was hot, like burst-into-flames or melt-like-a-wax-voodoo doll hot. Machines began beeping, bells started ringing and alarms started sounding as I went into shock. Next I went blind, then I became deaf. Finally, I died.

I woke up to a crowd of bustling professionals around me. After the room cleared, I was told it was time to schedule my open-heart surgery. I was hesitant. Until that point, I had naively believed that doctors could cure anything with a pill or simple procedure. However, I now had a different point of reference than the books and movies I devoured with their canned happy endings. The holidays were fast approaching and I didn’t want to miss them due to being dead and all, so I pressed for a date into the New Year.

Thanksgiving and Christmas were wonderfully imperfect and festive. When January 3rd came around, I threw myself into enjoying the best possible potential last meal. Don’t judge me, but with my young and unrefined palate, I took the task seriously. I had shrimp cocktail, a chili cheese coney, onion rings, Cocoa Puffs, cherry limeade, scrambled eggs with chili and so much more. I ate, watched some favorite shows, wrote a will and visited with friends.

The next morning I reported for surgery. I’d love to say it went smoothly, however I woke up paralyzed during the procedure. Dying and waking probably sounds awful, but truthfully, the experience gave me a great gift at a very young age: the freedom to live life unapologetically on my terms. I’d like to think I would have gotten to this place on my own eventually, but what a wonderful crash course.

Dying will change an attitude; it changed my perspective on everything. I learned is that it’s OK to be me: eccentric, shy, nerdy and too idealistic for real life. I learned it’s absolutely acceptable to take a chance on love and to speak my mind, whether it be to a friend, co-worker or the U.S. Attorney General. Sure, my personality and attitude aren’t always embraced by others — it can definitely prove challenging. But this is my life and, as far as I know, it’s the only one I have. No day is guaranteed and I want to drink in every moment with verve and gusto. No matter if you’ve momentarily met your maker or have lived a healthy life without so much as a sneeze, embrace your true self, celebrate your strengths, share your foibles and enjoy everything that make you, well, you. Your authentic self is amazing and enough — take my word for it.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post That time I died first appeared on Lesbian.com.

In my early twenties, I went to work for the mob. OK, I didn’t know I was applying for a summer job with the mob at the time, but I did know I wanted to investigate my dark side.

Growing up, I was always the good kid. I was typically a straight A student even though I attended more than 30 schools in 13 states by high school graduation. I never drank, I didn’t smoke and I wasn’t big on breaking rules, any rules. I began to wonder if I was born this boring, book loving, goody two shoes or if I was merely rebelling in a household full of violent drug users and criminals. I decided I needed to learn how much like my mother I truly was.

I applied to be a cocktail waitress at a rather rough and tumble strip club. You know, the kind found in industrial parks near major airports. My interview mostly consisted of my turning slowly around several times so the hiring manager could see me from every angle. Hired on the spot, I was given a handful of cloth as a uniform.

From the start, the place kept me hopping as I waitressed full time and learned the ends and outs of a more nocturnal lifestyle. Because there were two factions of organized crime looking to take control of the city, strange things happened at the club from time to time — a body found in the back trash can or a car bomb going off in the parking lot. One day the place was set on fire during my shift. I’m sure we were a sight to see as the staff ran outside in all manners of undress. Counting my tips as we waited for the fire department, I found I had already made close to $200 and was happy to call it an early night.

At closing time on more routine nights, the deejay would play “Happy Trails” to shoo away the customers. Every night, I gave him a fiver to play one more song: “She Talks to Angels” by the Black Crows. As I scrubbed tables and polished bars, I thought about my mother, digging deep to see how far this apple really did fall from the tree.

As the weeks turned into months, I took on other roles. I filled in as bartender and even occasionally held the keys to the safe and the gun when an emergency called the leaders away — always a terrifying time. As I became more trusted and more involved, some interesting job offers where tossed my way. For instance, I could drive an associate to Nashville and back, a rather short trip for $500 and an allowance for a ball gown and high-end hotel room.

Knowing how I felt about killing people, they stipulated the associate would be merely sending a message on that particular trip. When I politely declined, I was told they were simply offering my additional jobs to help me earn enough money for the following college semester; they wanted to see me succeed — I believed them. They talked about a future when I might be hired by the organization as a teacher, to home school their children. Although truly flattered and offered a generous salary, I turned down this opportunity as well, explaining that as fond as I was of many of them, I didn’t want to get so far in that I could no longer find my own way out. At this point, I was doing a rather graceful dance on a very fine line.

When the anniversary of my mother trying to kill me came along, I arrived at work to find a handwritten letter from someone near the top. It was beautifully written, absolutely uplifting and even life affirming. I was so touched by the words and emotion displayed in this note, I still have it tucked in my “important papers” file.

I worked alongside these people for years. They invited me to blues concerts in smoky venues and to dinners in their homes. I, in turn, invited them to picnics in the park and breakfast at well-lit venues full of everyday people.

So what about that dark side I feared laid dormant? What I found is that I was staying true to myself all along. In fact, from what they told me, it seems I even shined a little light in some dark, dank corners of their world.

Sometimes we have to be daring to transform. Other times, it takes courage just to remain the same, embracing our authentic selves and becoming comfortable in our skin. Although I may never recommend my path to others, I am forever grateful for this beautiful, imperfect journey.
What channels have you used for self-discovery? I’d love to hear!

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post My summer job with the mob first appeared on Lesbian.com.

Shortly after my mother tried to kill me, I headed to Clearwater, Florida, to spend time with my grandmother. She was living in a rent-by-the-week type place called the Orange and I loved it there. Most days, I went to work with her, making cold calls from small sweatshop of a call center selling carpet cleaning services for a company I’d never heard of and am not sure actually existed. Each morning, I dressed for work, I donned a bathing suit under my business attire, not only because it helped me feel closer to my authentic self, but also because it made jumping straight into the motel/apartment pool after work beautifully efficient.

In between racing across nine lanes of traffic to get a daily Big Gulp to quench my thirst brought on by the southern sun, I started bonding with some of the longer-term residents. Some are still friends, some I never want to see again and one I’m afraid I never will.

I met a young girl named Brandy I endearingly dubbed Blondie. Looking older than her 11 years with long tan legs and hair the color of sunlight, I took her under my wing. It seemed I spent my evenings at the pool constantly shooing away muscle-bound men in their 20s, 30s or even older. I couldn’t imagine what they were thinking as they approached her, overtly flirtatious to downright crude. I would place myself in front of her, reminding these meatheads that she was just child, not to mention jailbait for their perverted asses.

Although she and I spent a tremendous amount of time together, I didn’t see much of her father. He spent his days in their efficiency, I assumed drinking. I never wondered how he earned their rent money. Plenty of people who lived at the Orange had no visible means of support. Even though it was what it was, the days continued to spill into each other.

Upon occasion, Blondie and her father would get locked out of their place by management and move into their car for a bit, parking right there in the lot. A relatively regular occurrence, I’d convince my grandmother to allow Blondie to bunk with us anytime the situation got dire, which was often.

It’s amazing what can happen on “just another typical day.” We were in the studio apartment watching a Love and Rockets video on MTV. The air conditioner was hissing, blowing cool air into the small space when there was a knock at the door. I turned down the TV and opened the door, squinting into the sunlight while trying to shield myself from the oppressive heat. I don’t remember exactly who was there, the police, children’s services? They were dressed in stifling looking clothes as they informed us that Brandy’s father had died in his car sometime during the night. When they announced they were there to take her into protective custody, she ran to the back, locking herself in our bathroom. These official-looking folks tried to calm her through the door, but her response was guttural and heart wrenching.

She wouldn’t budge from the locked room, so I asked them if they would step out while I talked to her. I don’t remember what I said exactly, something about it all going to be OK — and I believed it. I told her I would do everything I could to help, yet I left for the Midwest not too long after to complete my senior year of high school in a state that didn’t require as many credits as Florida. A short time into my freshman year at the private Christian college, I received a phone call from an old friend telling me that Blondie was officially missing, sold into some underground slavery ring.

Being one who finds solace in action, I grabbed a sack of change, went to my resident hall’s payphone and dialed the Clearwater police department. Eventually, I was put in touch with Detective Pulio who asked about my relationship and interest in this young girl and her well-being. I explained that as odd as it sounded, Brandy was like a daughter to me and I wanted to help. He responded by telling me there wasn’t a lot I could do since I wasn’t blood related, but it just so happened that he knew someone at the Missing Children’s Help Center and perhaps I could work with them. I slide another handful of quarters into the payphone and was quickly connected with to his friend. She was amazing and was more concerned about helping exploited children than getting tangled in a bunch of red tape. She warned me it might be difficult, but if we worked together, maybe we could get something done.

I soon learned that Brandy’s addict mother wasn’t concerned about her safe return, as she refused to work with the police or center. Her apathy just lent me strength as I forged forward doing every single thing Detective Pulio and his contact advised. It wasn’t long before missing child posters of my Brandy were plastered across the entire country. However, the true game changer came in a 30-second segment on “America’s Most Wanted” as missing child of the week. The night it aired, it seemed everyone on campus was watching. When the show cut to commercial break, my residence hall was flooded with friends and supporters. Although I felt fortunate to have so many wonderful people in my life, the stress, sorrow, hope and attention became too much so I headed to the shower where I was sure people would be hesitant to follow.

The next morning, I attended my early morning Mass Communications class. During lecture, someone slipped in and whispered to the professor. She asked me to join her in the hall and told me that Detective Pulio had called the college. They had found Brandy, actually within minutes of the segment airing the night before, and were going to let me talk to her that morning. She told me I was excused from class and to go take care of whatever was needed. I was so excited I literally tripped down the stairs in the big auditorium as I grab my books and ran from the building.

I soon learned that during our time in Florida, her dad had been tricking her for money. Sometime after his death, although technically abducted as she was underage, Brandy had gone willingly with a former john. I learned she was now addicted to drugs, a seemingly lost soul. It broke my fucking heart.

I tried to stay in touch, but her number constantly changed and my letters would go unanswered. I’ve not heard from her since and still miss her terribly, trying to find her online from time to time. I miss those seemingly carefree days together, embracing moments on the beach, by the pool or deep in conversation under the sun with the boom box that never got a break. I didn’t know she was having sex with men to support her father and she didn’t know that someone was actively trying to find me to kill me.

According to the Covering House, approximately 300,000 children are at risk of being prostituted in the United States. I regret not doing more. Although I don’t know what I could have done differently as a teen struggling to stay alive and find a way in this world, I still feel an emptiness, a sadness. I believe everyone has a story from the past or perhaps a current struggle. It may be that they don’t want to share, don’t want to burden anyone or can’t imagine a better life for themselves. However, I think it’s important we reach out to ask for help when we need it and give it when we can no matter how seemingly big or small the issue. It’s our future and our children’s future — let’s work together and make it beautiful.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post Losing Brandy, summer of fun ends in tragedy first appeared on Lesbian.com.

In August of 1990, I slowly drove my 1980 AMC Concord hundreds of miles north to begin my first year of college. Even though it had only second gear, I loved this car as it had not only provided shelter in the past, it also consistently got me from place to place, albeit slowly.

Excited and scared to begin this new chapter, I followed the signs from Interstate 55 into the small Midwestern town. Finding a parking spot, I initiated the emergency brake and stepped out into the sunny day.

As I looked around, trying to orient myself so I could move on the next task of finding my residence hall, my car started rolling back down the newly discovered College Hill. I reacted quickly, throwing myself behind it, trying to block its descent. While I willed the car back up the hill and back into its proper spot, I started attracting a fair amount of attention.

Tenacious yet absolutely fruitless in my efforts, I was soon joined by three rather large young men. As if this kindness wasn’t enough, after depositing my car onto a flat area, successfully avoiding any further trouble, they then gathered all of my belongings and escorted me to my residence hall. During this entire ordeal, I had yet to say a word, merely turning a vivid red. Only after these college football students deposited my belongings in my room, was able to squeak out some words of gratitude.

Before packing my belongings into the old, brown car that it took a village to park “on the hill,” I had been told that once I arrived on campus everything but my books would be covered by scholarships and loans. With $290 in my pocket, I headed to the administration building to check in and sign my paperwork.

After standing in line for hours, I was told $600 and some change was due immediately. I felt sick. I pulled out my book money and explained that I didn’t have the rest. The woman matter of factly told me to call my parents for the remaining amount. I explained I didn’t have any parents to call. She probed further, asking whom I did have. I could think of no one. People in line behind me started to grumble and I could feel my face flushing with stress and embarrassment.

She said, “Without the money, you can’t start school.” I panicked. Just as I was feeling everything go black and was starting to leave the line, a young man I’d never met stepped up to the counter and told her to put the remaining balance on his credit card. I told him he couldn’t do that. Having heard the entire conversation, he asked what my plan was, and since I had no plan at all, I accepted his kindness.

Even though I had given all of my money to the woman at the desk and no longer had funds for books, I was excited about being in college. Always one of the first to arrive, I’d grab a seat, take out my notebooks and ready myself to soak it all in.

After six or so weeks into the first semester, one of my suite mates asked why she never saw me carrying books to class. Reading the shock on her face as I explained, I told her that it was really OK because I was a meticulous note taker. Sure, it wasn’t an ideal situation, but I was there — I was in college. When she offered to buy my books, I thanked her but turned her down. Although I loved my campus job, I only worked 10 hours per week at minimum wage and knew it was going to take me months to pay back the young man from the admissions fiasco. Being one of the most wonderfully stubborn women I know, she insisted, telling me I could take as long as I needed to repay, that her father had the money and would never even notice the transaction.

It’s funny: I’m friends with her father on Facebook and often wonder if he knows that he had a pivotal role in my academic success. In reality, they all did. I was a poor girl, with a broken down car and a criminal family history. Yet at college, nobody knew or cared where I came from or the condition of my car. We had met at an intersection of self-discovery and faith in others. Only because of my desperation had I accepted the kindness and help of these complete strangers. However, I gained lifelong friendships, faith in humanity and the importance of accepting help when it’s graciously offered. It makes me wonder what would happen if we all suspended judgment not and again and extending a helping hand to the stranger we see in need. And as far as that old, brown car? Well, it taught me a great lesson as well. If you can only move forward, there are no worries about what’s behind you.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post When you move forward, it doesn’t matter what’s behind you first appeared on Lesbian.com.

What high school sophomore isn’t riddled with plenty of self-doubt and introspective moments, right? Like most awkward teens of around that age, I worried about my grades, my weight and my future. I developed an eating disorder, second-guessed everything and did the best I could with the tools that I had. I learned a lot that year — the basics of biology, a bit of advanced Algebra and that some people are going to make flash judgments without a fuck given.

My mother smoked pot as long as I can remember. I didn’t like being around it, but I didn’t resent it like I did her cocaine addiction or her use of the word piss. Sometime during my tenth-grade year she decided to grow a private stash right there in our apartment. She occasionally placed her plant in various windows in order to catch the sun. At some point, one of the neighbors must have called the police, resulting in an in-person visit from the local sheriff himself.

He walked in like he owned the place, gave me a stern look and asked where my bedroom was. It appeared that he had already decided I was the culprit since I was the teenager. He climbed the stairs to my room, checked the windowsills and my closet. He poked around my bed and dresser drawers finding nothing of interest. I was frustrated by his prejudgment.

After taking a look around my room twice, flashing me that look again and exchanging words with my mother, he was on his way. If he had for a moment considered the possibility that my mother was the grower, he may have searched additional rooms; such as, the nearby bathroom where he would have seen a plant, stretched tall in the open windowsill. Although I later grew to love his staff, especially a member who later saved my life, I unfortunately never became a fan of his.

Months later a similar incident occurred. I don’t remember what triggered the violence, if I rolled my eyes, didn’t wash a dish properly or sinned in some other small way. What I do remember is watching my mother fly into an instant rage. First, there was just screaming and slapping, but soon came the punching and scratching. In her crazed state, she showed no signs of stopping. I had been feeling the momentum, the resentment and the hate building for weeks. And, that day, I was genuinely and completely terrified of her.

At some point, I decided to run. I easily found a neighboring church where my mother and I had once resided in the basement before moving into our current low-income apartment. Finding the pastor, for the first time ready to ask for help escaping the abuse, I let the story tumble from my mouth. Blood was flowing from the open wounds on my arms and hair still fell from my head in chunks as I talked animatedly, head thrashing and hands flying, my minute Italian heritage showing.

However, as soon as my mother arrived, she turned on her charm and combined it with a flawless it’s-tough-to-be-a-mom routine. She explained to the pastor that I was on a new medication and it had driven me to attack myself. The thing is, I wasn’t on a new medication. In fact, I had never been on any sort of medication. Our family didn’t really even go to doctors, police or anyone “official.” The prescription for a cold was hot toddies, while ear infections called for half onions affixed to my head, an oddly painful process.

I held my breath as I waited to see what he would do. Watching his eyes go from one of us to the other, I saw the resignation cloud his expression. I know he believed me as I received an apology letter from him five years later, but at that moment, he sent me home with my mother. I felt hopeless, empty and scared. I resolved myself to survive minute by minute, which is exactly what I did as I could feel something bigger coming. Little did I know she would soon try to kill me.

Here’s the thing. Sometimes, people are going to have preconceived notions about us for a host of obscure, senseless reasons: we’re teens or we’re elderly; we’re gay or we’re straight; we’re black or we’re white; we’re formally educated or we’re not. But at the end of the day, what they think or how they act doesn’t matter. It’s up to us to know our inner truth and to do everything in our power to honor it.

Sure, nonsense is going to happen and bullshit may prevail for a while. But remember this, there’s a lot of peace that comes from living your life as you see fit and righting the wrongs you can with the resources you have. Whatever your challenges, however you feel judged, do what you can to surround yourself with believers, cheerleaders and positive hooray-sayers. Keep on your path, doing your thing and sparkle on, baby, sparkle on.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post Surround yourself with cheerleaders and sparkle on first appeared on Lesbian.com.

I was sitting in biology class counting the ceiling tiles when someone from the office came to tell me my mother had a brain aneurism and it had burst. I was told she was DOA when they air lifted her to the hospital. Although they were able to revive her, it didn’t look good.

I didn’t know how to react — a pinwheel of emotion spun crazily in my head as I was taken “home.” I had just met my mother’s childhood friend when we had moved in a few weeks before. Entering the house, I spotted my mother’s soiled clothes strewn across the bathroom floor. Accustomed to operating from a place of lack and service, I spent hours scrubbing the clothes she had been wearing when she lost control of her bowels earlier in the day. I feared she’d be angry if I didn’t.

I don’t remember who took me to the city to sit vigil until my grandmother arrived. The doctor’s questioned me about my mother’s general demeanor as they tried to determine if her episodes of punching a doctor and kicking a nurse were normal reactions for her or new behavior due to damage caused by the aneurism. I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. I simply walked off to wander the solitary halls as I tried to make sense of my life, wondering what the future would hold. It looked like she was going to be OK.

Although I spent Christmas morning opening presents in the run-down motel room, Grandma-ma and I spent most of the holiday at the hospital. I still don’t know how she put together such a perfectly wrapped Christmas complete with teen glam gifts, including an amazing lavender boom box, the best the overly garish 80s had to offer. I was filled with joy as I loved music and my last portable stereo system had shattered when my mother threw it at my head during a heated argument.

Shortly after the holiday, Grandma-ma returned to Florida, taking me with her. Although the law considered it kidnapping, I didn’t. She had a cozy place in Jacksonville and an unlisted telephone number. Settling in and feeling safe, I started my fourth school of the year.

I’ve always felt comfortable at the mall. During my time in Jacksonville, Grandma-ma and I often visit a glitzy one that house some of my favorite stores, including a Swarovski crystal shop and a French chooclateir. We went several times a week, not to buy necessarily, just to feel “normal.”

After one of our regular jaunts, we were surprised to return to see a car with familiar out-of-state tags outside our condo. Grandma-ma drove past asking me what I wanted to do. If her dog Su-Su hadn’t been in the house, I would have been all for driving to another part of the country and starting over again. It seems my mother had been calling information in cities across the United States, telling the telephone operators she was dying and had to see her mother. Eventually she found an operator that gave her the address. When we arrived, my mother was already inside the house, gun in her lap.

My grandmother’s friend and landlord met us there. Raised voices quickly volleyed threats back and forth, with each person confident he or she was in the power position. I knew that one way or another, I would be returning to Missouri and I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Even though I was only 15, I decided it best to just cut through the bullshit and move forward. It would be a long time before I saw the inside of another mall, enjoyed another decadent chocolate or slept through an entire night.

Usually we don’t know the end game so it’s good to make our plays as we strive to evoke positive change in our lives. However, I think there are times when we know how things are going to play out, yet we go through the motions anyway. Yes, it’s totally possible that things will miraculously change. There isn’t a wrong or right answer here. However, the key, I find, is to be conscious about our decision to play or not to play.

The next time you find yourself in a repetitive cycle, consider what you can do to empower yourself, work from a place of peace or remove yourself from the situation. What is your best strategy for getting off that hamster wheel? I’d love to hear!

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post A holiday on the hamster wheel first appeared on Lesbian.com.

By the time my grandmother and I caught up with my mother, she had changed her look, her name and her husband. Knocking on the door of the rundown trailer in Greenbrier, Arkansas, my soon-to-be sixth grade self was surprised to see a hardly recognizable woman open the door.

Spotting her family, without a word, she tightly closed it again. My grandmother unloaded my suitcases from the van, placing them neatly on the porch, then drove away. Eventually, I was let in the decrepit trailer, meeting my mother’s fourth husband for the first time. He was introduced as Reb. She told me her name was now Belle. It would be many years before I learned his real name, not that it mattered or that I cared.

It was obvious that the newlyweds weren’t interested in having a kid around, so I did my best to stay invisible, which was difficult since I didn’t have a bedroom. Reb seemed especially inflamed by my existence after sharing his day with a bottle of Jack Daniel. The three of us moved from Greenbriar to Plummerville, where Reb cut up all of our furniture, trashed our car and took off never to return. We later moved to Menifee, then settled into the sunlit, southern town of Morrilton.

I loved Arkansas — actually, I still do. I spent my afternoons in the basement of the public library and my Wednesdays and Sundays at a church just down the road. I didn’t attend church for the bible verses or to scrub my soul to sparkling perfection. I attended for a dose of normalcy and routine. Whether attending church or riding my bike until three or four in the morning, for the most part, I stayed out my mother’s affairs and she stayed out of mine.

Years passed. At some point, she started working for a rich soybean farmer, not only managing the fields, but also running a BBQ food truck. I liked going out on the industrialized farm sometimes, but especially loved the food truck. Let me tell you, our adventures making homemade mayonnaise were something else. Soon after, my mother was engaged to a rich man who trusted too much.

When I learned of her black widow plan, I knew I had to do something. It wasn’t an easy decision. If this congenial man who went by two first names didn’t believe me and told my mother, at worst I’d be putting my own life in jeopardy and at best I’d have to leave this place I loved calling home. At just three years in this state, I had lived here longer than any other state. I had friends, roots and routine.

On a warm, sunny afternoon, I heard the knock at the kitchen door. Letting him in, I asked if I could speak in confidence. Words tumbled out in uneven streams. I could barely breathe as I shared a quick summary of what I knew. When I finally finished, I begged him not to tell my mother about our conversation. Unnerved, I went about my day trying to act as if everything was normal.

Something in him must have believed me. Although he didn’t confront her, he had two of his off-duty, police officer friends come by the house. I don’t know what was said, but that night we disappeared under the cover of darkness. As always, there were no goodbyes to my friends at school and no real packing. We took what fit in the car and that was all. I went to five schools in three states that year — tough for a high school freshman trying to learn French. To this day, about all I can do with the language is introduce myself.

I had never strayed from my loyalty to my mother until that incident. I took care of her when she was sick, whether from a cold or a bout with bad drugs. I wanted to be close to her no matter the consequences. I did whatever I could think of to earn her respect and her love. But at some point, I had to start look outside our bubble and consider what was right for the world. Yes, the consequences were that we moved from the only place I had ever felt I belonged, but that was inevitable. The farmer? I heard recently that he lived a nice, long life, just passing away a few years or so ago.

It’s still scary to put myself out there, to stand up for ideas I believe in, to take chances and to live life as I see fit. I do love a calm, waveless existence. But at the end of the day, life is about priorities. There are times I jump into the wild ocean and times I revel in the sanctuary of a sun warmed beach.

How many lives have you saved? Whether finding a drunk friend a sober ride home, providing meals for the homeless, finding a forever home for a stray, raising money for your favorite non-profit or doing your part to put an end to bullying in community, your choices everyday make the world of difference. Tell me what you’re passionate about. I’d love to hear.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post Thwarting my mom’s black widow plot first appeared on Lesbian.com.

Although I believed to my very young core that my mother would protect me, hitchhiking from the south to the Midwest was physically and mentally exhausting. I had mixed emotions whenever a man would pull up in his car or truck to offer to take us a few more miles. On the one hand, my feet, legs and eyelids all longed for rest, but my heart was ever untrusting of a stranger’s kindness.

In the pitch blackness of night, we arrived in the tiny town in the heart of Missouri where we were dropped off in a state park.

When we finally made it to the little trailer we were to call home, deeper in the sticks than I had ever experienced before, I wasn’t excited. It was simply another place with another group of empty faces to navigate until we quietly slipped away in the middle of the night, like we did in every other town. I went to school during the day and played in the garbage dump in the valley behind the trailer in the afternoons. I liked climbing on the old metal skeletons of vehicles and tools gone by. It was my own little world with a population of one.

I didn’t enjoy the town, but fell into a routine that made me feel safe and something resembling normal. When I started hearing talk about plans to rob a local convenience store floating around the house, I knew life was going to change once again. Although not much of a talker, I was a writer and immediately went to record my take on the situation. My little black journal with “Diary” inscribed in gold across the front was my place to feel heard.

Children are known to believe in things that aren’t real. In the younger years, it’s often Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. For my 11-year-old self it was the integrity of diary locks. I learned the folly of my beliefs when my mother went into a rage over the words I thought were safely vaulted. The penalties were severe and the diary was destroyed.

The day of the armed robbery, my mother and a man I’d never seen before rushed into our tiny country trailer like a spring tornado. The chaos was deafening as they grabbed guns, mom’s personal items and I don’t know what else. As quickly as they rushed in, they were gone and all was silent again.

For the rest of the day, I went about my regular business of feeding the dogs and myself. Forgetting again to peek inside the oven before pre-heating it for my TV dinner, I opened the door to find another melted spatula in the cast iron pan. I immediately burst into tears. I knew my mother would be upset when she learned what I had done. I would get hit, but worse, I would feel the burn of her disdain. I had no reason to worry as the sun fell and rose without her return.

Days went by, then a week and then longer. Occasionally, I hiked to the closest neighbor’s house, hiding behind trees, peering at the glowing windows from afar. I imagined what it would be like in their warm house with tasty food, friendly conversation and some kind of safe routine like the ones I often read about in books. I considered knocking on the door and asking to use the phone, but I couldn’t think of a single number to call. I had been keeping everything together thus far, even though I wondered what would happen when I ran out of dog food, not to mention my own food.

I don’t know how long I was living on my own before my fifth grade teacher drove in to check on me. I had mixed emotions upon seeing her. On one hand I was relieved to no longer be alone; however, I didn’t want to chance missing my mother’s return.

There are a few holes in my memory. I know I must have been taken to a police station, although what I remember more clearly is standing at the counter on the “trucker side” of a truck stop convenience center, watching the burly travelers go about their daily business as we sent some sort of message to my grandmother down in Florida. Not too long after that, her blue Ford van dubbed the “The General” pulled up and I was flooded with pure relief. Sure, we hit a few bumps on our way out of town, including seeing the father I’d never met and didn’t know lived close by, try to force me out of the van while my grandmother visited the local doctor to get some valium. But, at the end of the day, none of it mattered. Soon enough we were on I-44, singing “On the Road Again” with Willie Nelson as he played his guitar for us from the eight track.

Sure, I have abandonment issues. A childhood full of being forgotten at schools, left with strange people from time to time and abandoned in the Midwest can do that to a girl. Even now, although my days are filled with love and connection, I still sometimes fear a solitary future and struggle with whether or not I’m worthy of complete acceptance and love. As the years roll on, I stay true on my path of self-exploration and life celebration. I tend to throw myself out there, with all my shimmering awkward and beautiful facets to see who stays around for wine, cheese and maybe some deep conversation. Of course, I get more than a few odd glances when people meet me, but I find this authenticity of self tends to weed out those who would waste my time. Why would I want to surround myself with anyone other than the most inspiring, quirky and wonderful? As far as the melted utensils go, it still happens now and again. But things have shifted. I smile now. I love being in charge of my own destiny. There’s no consternation and no fear of being beaten.

Whenever I hear people talk nostalgically about childhood, wishing they could go back, I feel giddy to be an adult. It just doesn’t get old. I eat pizza and cake when I want to, even in reverse order. I know that I’ll wake up with my stuff in the same place because I’m not going to be moving in the middle of the night. My house is warm and full of food, and curling up on the couch with the girlfriend and a dog or four is part of my routine. Sure, I really want a larger house, more money in my savings account and a new Macbook Air, but really, life is pretty sweet. Now, melting another utensil is the perfect excuse to browse my favorite online shop or plan a trip to that cool ass kitchen store in town. Have you seen the new Star Trek spatula on thinkgeek.com?! Hey, I just remembered, I need to bake some cookies or maybe it was a casserole. Whatever, I’m off to preheat the oven.

What is your favorite aspect of being an adult? I’d love to hear.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post Surviving childhood, celebrating adulthood first appeared on Lesbian.com.

After leaving the carnival life behind, I joined my mother in the sweatbox of Phoenix. Free from her second husband, my mother settled into the city and began working a legitimate job managing a small apartment complex — no stripping, no dealing, no … other. I started attending a Catholic elementary school that was known for ensuring student safety via an army of nuns and a sky high metal fence. I was definitely a bit of a weird girl who always turned her work in first, kept to herself and was known to chatter on to a mouse figurine named Cheesecake. I might not have had friends, but I did have access to a pool and that kept me contented.

One day, my mother, a couple of her friends and I were on our way for ice cold sodas, cigarettes, booze or drugs — who knows. I was settled in the front seat on her friend Michelle’s lap. Mom was driving, pulling out of the complex parking lot just like she did on any given afternoon. One moment we’re living an average life in the constant heat of a regular Arizona day, and then the next moment, there’s a terrible jolt, an explosion of shattering glass, flashes of light, darkness, pain and shock. We had been struck by a motorcycle going over a hundred mph. Having been sitting on a lap and not wearing a seatbelt, my nine-year-old self went crashing into the windshield, shattering it entirely. I don’t recall what anyone else was doing, where they were or what was going on after the accident. All I remember is standing by the puddle of this young man, intensely concentrating on what he was saying about the Super Bowl. I wondered if he was in pain, how I could help and how he could possible still be alive and talking because his blood was spread across the road, absolutely everywhere and his pieces weren’t together any longer. Suddenly our neighbor John was by my side quietly ushering me away.

Two weeks later, we were sitting in our apartment. My mother, Michelle and Larry were talking intently across the short coffee table to each other. I wasn’t paying attention to their conversation as I was daydreaming about playing with my Barbie RV I just knew was wrapped and under the tree. The Mr. Christmas lights we had just trimmed our tree with twinkled to music programmed in the green box. And then it shorted out. Suddenly, the drying tree was engulfed in flames, then the ceiling and the walls. It looked like a raging ocean of fire. The adults ran to the apartment door only to find it vapor locked. I was frozen, paralyzed in the middle of the room. My head started to burn, hair seemingly evaporating. When the pain hit, I let out a scream that our neighbor John later described as the scream of death. With him on the outside of the door and us trapped inside, Larry ran and threw himself out the second story apartment window. With a big surge of fire, the vapor lock was broken and we all fell out to the balcony. My mother, during one of her most heroic acts, ran back inside to save the pets, even punching a fireman who was trying to prevent her return. She wasn’t going to let any soul die that day.

Our lives changed after those two weeks of chaos. My mom lost her job for “being bad luck” and went on to manage another complex in the city. This next job didn’t last long as she told me someone tried to kill her by trapping a deadly spider between the kitchen window and screen. For me, Phoenix was a weird, dramatic place. One I don’t care to return to, even though I’m sure a stay at the Hyatt, chilled drink in hand by the pool, would be nothing less than divine.

As I got older, I found I wanted nothing to do with driving. I’m confident most of this stemmed from the wreck. However, no matter how much I did not want to drive, I also knew I did not want to be crippled by fear. Throughout my youth, many people offered to teach me to drive, and one by one I turned them down. Finally, as a teenager in the Midwest, I signed up for a driver’s ed course. I didn’t do this to please a parent or to reduce future insurance rates. I did this because I knew what motivated me — grades. I’d learn and even excel if my grade depended on it. And, I knew that by the end of the class, whether I was still scared of driving or not, I would have the skill set needed to be an independent, functioning adult. There was a lot of the country and world to see and I didn’t want to be held back. All I had to do was find the right motivation. I still use this trick today, although my motivation often comes in the form of travel or chocolate.

Fire is a different matter. I still wake up in the middle of the night with the smell of smoke in my nostrils. I often pull my tired self out of bed to obsessively check ovens, heaters and depending on the season, Christmas lights. I prefer flameless candles to real and even have a fake woodstove that provides me with all of the charm I desire and none of the residual fear. Needless to say, I never became a smoker. And all of this is okay for me. Until there’s a very good reason I have to use matches and flames for survival or incredible life enhancement, I’m happy to enjoy my substitutions.

I’m damn well not going to let fear dictate what I do and don’t do. But, here’s the thing, I’m not going throw myself into every uncomfortable situation that arises. I have nothing to prove to anyone. My goal is simple, to live my life to the fullest and on my terms. What that means to me evolves as I evolve. I believe we sometimes think we must do or have things because that’s what others do or have. But you know what? That’s not the case. A lot of people may try to define success for us, but at the end of the day, their definitions don’t matter. Your pursuit of happiness is your own. Period.

What is your definition of success? I’d love to hear!

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post How I rose from the ashes in Phoenix first appeared on Lesbian.com.

Back in the late 70s, when most eight-year-olds were spending their days going to school, watching cartoons and maybe reading some “Sweet Pickles,” I was starting my first full-time job. Something about my mother’s third husband being one of Houston’s biggest drug dealers and her pouring boiling hot dog water on him during an argument being a bad idea. You know what they say: Life is in the details.

Frankly, I was relieved to get away from the loud parties with live bands in the garage and naked revelers in our pool. And, after constantly sparkling from all the cocaine in the house and having my Cairn Terrier overdose on pot brownies, I was ready for a change of pace. I guess because scaring a major criminal comes with some sizeable consequences, there were concerns for my safety as well and I was sent to live with my grandmother. Her rambling spirit had found her calling a traveling carnival home and her entrepreneurial spirit had her creating an additional game for me to run. An extra body meant an extra income after all.

An event tent, some Coke bottles, some wooden crates and a couple softballs later, I was in business. I learned a lot from running my own Coca Rola game. Aside from honing some math skills while discovering I could make a lot of dough from men who didn’t want to be shown up by a child and a new appreciation for fried cheese, I found that I missed school. I missed reading, music and math that didn’t have to do with my new found job. It didn’t take much at all to convince my grandmother to haul my lanky self to the store. There she let me choose all sorts of workbooks, novels and gear. I worked on my Roman numerals, read “Little House on the Prairie” books and explored space with the help of my new telescope and college level astronomy book. My grandmother didn’t even wince when I transformed our little travel trailer into a 30-foot musical instrument complete with rubber band guitar halls and percussion rooms. I was set.

Not surprisingly, I still get ribbed about having been a carnie; some people even act a bit fearful of me after learning about this year or so I spent rambling about the great state of Texas. But here’s the thing, I learned early in life that I am responsible for my own education. I’m not limited by classrooms, syllabi or convention. Today, more than ever, we have the global knowledge our fingertips. Learning languages, delving into art or practicing the basics of Krav Maga has never been easier. The resources for planning life altering trips, finding incredible volunteer opportunities and broadening our minds are there at our fingertips. With the abundance of university lectures available online, social apps introducing us to like-minded individuals and more, there has never been a better time to be curious. What are you curious about? I’d love to know. Leave a comment, tweet or Facebook me.

Miki Markovich is a seeker of beauty and truth, traveler of interesting roads, saver of furry souls, typer of words, iPhone lover and mac head. You can find her on Twitter at @mikimarkovich and @fiveminutezen. If you’re looking to go from pissed to blissed in five minutes flat, find balance or improve the quality of your life through self care, check out her website at fiveminutezen.com.

The post Carnival of life: Everything is a learning opportunity first appeared on Lesbian.com.