#Spiritinspiredsoul

By Melissa Love-Glidden

#Spiritinspiredsoul by Melissa Love-Glidden

In this inspirational memoir, Melissa tells her story of self-redemption after darkness hijacks her childhood, her health, her marriage, and her happiness.

#Spiritinspiredsoul is about self-discovery, healing, and triumph. Its about unleashing the infinite potential that lives inside of us. Its about the importance of discipline and discernment when we reinvent who we are to become happier, healthier, and more successful in life. Its about living authentically, freely, and independently from the wills and judgments of others. Its about courage, forgiveness, and what it means to be a warrior of light among the dark shadows of the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984509420

Melissa Love-Glidden

As a former Atheist, Ive spent the past 15 years awakening to the mystery of God. For two decades Ive studied yoga, energy medicine, metaphysics and mysticism. I co-founded MOSAIC Yoga (exploremosaic.com) in 2010 in San Diego, CA with the vision to Awaken & Uplift the consciousness of the world, one person at a time. Prior to co-founding MOSAIC, I spent over a decade working in corporate HR for a defense consulting firm and other national companies. In addition to holding a B.A. from James Madison University, I am a Yin Yoga teacher, the President of The MOSAIC Foundation, MOSAIC Yoga CEO and team lead for MOSAICs Soul Programs.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Melissa Love-Glidden.

Library of Congress Control Number:             2018902157

ISBN:                         Hardcover                             978-1-9845-0940-6

                                  Softcover                               978-1-9845-0941-3

                                  eBook                                     978-1-9845-0942-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 02/15/2018

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

773981

CONTENTS

Prelude

Transition

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Afterword

Resources

PRELUDE

The room is spinning. Overhead fluorescent lights turn on, temporarily brightening the inevitable darkness. I slam my empty glass on the bar and scan the room. I’m alone, without any prospects. I hate going home alone.

I spot a nice-enough-looking guy walking out the door. I push my way through the stumbling crowd and fall into him. He smiles in return. His friends smile too. That’s enough for me. I’m not alone anymore.

I open my eyes. I don’t recognize the alley or the cars parked around me. My body aches. How long had I blacked out? I feel my phone in my back pocket and take it out. It’s 4:30 a.m. I stand up. I stumble as I try to walk toward the street. Thankfully I still have my clothes on. I’m alone again.

As I walk home, I try to piece together the hours between leaving the bar and now, but I can’t recall any details. Best-case scenario, my new friends walked me close to home and trusted that I would find my way through the front door. Worst-case scenario, my body was used as I lay unconscious, unable to protect myself.

I feel out of control and reckless. Realizing this truth turns my stomach in knots. I feel like I want to vomit.

I keep walking north. Hopefully I’ll start recognizing street names soon. I just moved to California ten days ago. All the houses look the same here. After an hour of searching, I find my street. The sun is starting to rise. I feel so tired as I climb the stairs to my apartment. I open the blue door and collapse on the cold floor. As I drift off to sleep, shaming thoughts reverberate in my head. I’m pathetic. I’m weak. I’m such an embarrassment to everyone who knows me.

I wake up a few hours later, grateful to be in my bed this time. I return a text to my friend,

Yes, I’ll meet you at the bar at noon.

TRANSITION

That night was my breaking point. I’ll never know the details, but I assume the worst thing imaginable happened. Other life-threatening dramas occurred before and after that night, but for some reason, that particular instance marked the epitome of disrespect to myself and to the life I’d been given.

We’ll get back to that pivotal time and what I did to rise above it, but for now, let’s begin with why I ended up broken in an alley, drunk and unconscious, deathly afraid of being alone.

If you don’t know why something is perpetually broken, you’ll never know how to permanently fix it.

CHAPTER 1

Melissa, we just saw you last month. What brings you back so soon?

My stomach hurts … again.

I’m so sorry to hear that, sweetie. You’ve had a tough time lately, haven’t you? We’ll try to get you fixed up. The doctor will be in to see you soon. Are there any changes we should be aware of since the last time we saw you?

The reply in my mind is different than the one I speak.

More gas, bloating, and pain, I say in an embarrassed tone. Silently, my reply continues with I’m really depressed and scared. I feel like my parents don’t really love me. I’m lonely. I don’t know how to make sense of all that I’m feeling. Sometimes I feel like I’m absorbing what my parents are feeling, especially when I hear them fighting. Everyone around me seems sad and shut off. I’m confused, and I’m not happy.

The pediatrician walks in.

Is everything okay at home? he asks.

Yes, I say, gazing down as I lie.

He looks at my mom. She says nothing. He says nothing. The silence is full of truth that no one is willing to speak.

I stay silent to protect my family. I omit saying that I feel more and more alone, isolated, and unloved. I refrain from sharing that I’m a regular witness to severe shouting matches that leaves me frightened and bathed in shame.

He orders a battery of tests but states that he believes stress is the cause of ailments. (We leave with a prescription for a psychiatrist. I don’t know what that is. Mom says she’s going to talk to my father about it.) She drives me back to school. I retreat deeper into my silent sickness.

I see a handful of psychiatrists but find them unworthy of my time. Talking about the potential origins of my sadness and stress doesn’t feel productive. I want to do something about it. The psychiatrists never give me suggestions on what to do. They just want me to talk. And so, like a song on repeat, I say to each new therapist I meet, I feel trapped in the life my parents chose for me, and I want to escape it. I don’t want to live with either of them or my stepparents. I want to be free from the negatitivity. I receive blank stares in return. Psychiatrists don’t get me.

It’s Saturday morning. I wake up with what I think are normal menstrual cramps. I pop an Advil and go to work at the car wash at my high school as planned.

The pain intensifies.

Fear sets in.

Something more serious is developing.

I don’t feel good, Ginny. It’s more than just my period. I feel really weak, and the pain isn’t going away. The Advil didn’t help like it normally does.

Do you want me to drive you home? she said in a concerned tone.

Yes. I need to lie down.

I arrive home, buckled over in pain, and try to take a nap, hoping that sleep will alleviate whatever is happening.

It feels like a thousand knives repeatedly stabbing my abdomen. The burning sensation deepens and begins to radiate down into my thighs and legs.

I can’t catch my breath. I begin to feel the familiar tendrils of panic pulling me downward.

Toughen up, I can hear my mom saying. So I try to endure the pain.

But this time, something feels different. My intuition is quietly whispering, Call 911. Call 911.

Mom, I gasp while going down the stairs. I need … to go … to the … hospital.

She rushes me to the ER. I can no longer walk, so the nurses meet me at the car with a wheelchair.

The pain radiates into my spine. My entire abdomen is clenched, gripped in a piercing bolt of burning pain. All I can do is curl up into the fetal position and try to breathe without adding to the agony.

I lie on a cot in the corner of the ER as we wait to see the doctor. They give me nothing for the pain.

Several interns come to crowd the space around me. We’re in a teaching hospital. I am the guinea pig.

When was the first day of your last period? one of them asks bluntly. He doesn’t introduce himself. He doesn’t ask me my name. He barely looks up.

About two weeks ago, I say in