Day Zero

Change happens when the discomfort of the present moment outweighs the uncertainty of the future.

My life had become difficult enough to step out into the ambiguity.

My divorce was just a matter of processing time. Almost eighteen months after Kurt’s initial relapse, he was still in and out of sobriety. I had finally cut off all communication. I had a pending buyer for my yoga studio. I had cut back on my workload so much that I was finally able to breathe. I was just about to finish up a major yoga event which would put a little money in my pocket, and check another huge commitment off my list.

But I wasn’t bringing home enough money to pay the bills. Although I was scared, I wasn’t willing to force my body back into exhaustion mode just to survive. My health still sucked. I was fatter than ever before, and the threat of cancer often sent a wave of panic through my body. There was really just one thing in my life making me happy. Surfing. I had been reserving two hours every day to load up my board, drive down to Sunset Cliffs and longboard with my friends at sunset. I had also been giving myself four to five hours to surf on Sundays. I knew that if I spent this precious time working instead, that I likely wouldn’t be struggling so much financially. But I simply wouldn’t force my body and brain into submission anymore. I wanted to go surfing. I needed to go, now. I felt like a wild thing on the verge of breaking free.

Like a newly graduated high school senior taking some time off before college, I felt I would be completely free in just a few months, free to do whatever Melanie WANTED. And for the first time in my life, Melanie not only knew what she wanted, she also wasn’t paralyzed by the guilt of what she should do.

The idea that my friend Rifiel had given me, that I could just leave and travel and surf, would not leave my mind. I stayed up late, researching where I might like to go and the cheapest places where I could stretch my money the farthest. I researched Indonesia, Panama and Mexico. At first, it was just a silly idea. I had lived in San Diego for almost ten years. I had friends, responsibilities and stuff. I was still comfortable.

My hometown was comfortable. I had worked hard to become a part of my community. It took years after leaving Michigan to feel like I was connected in California. The community I lived in, Ocean Beach–or OB, as it is commonly known–was such a cool little place to live. We called it “The Bubble” because no one ever wanted to leave. The town sits on a peninsula, with limited roads in and out. The traffic to leave The Bubble is a struggle, so no one did. The mall was five miles away, but it might as well have been fifty. Obecians, as we called ourselves, lived in OB, worked in OB, shopped in OB and dined out in OB. If you were from OB, then most of your friends also lived in OB, because you never leave–so they are the only people you meet.  It made for a very tight-knit community. Opening a yoga studio in this neighborhood was an honor. I felt a huge sense of pride for being a contributing member of the community. Getting to know local business owners through mixers, seeing my yoga students while surfing or out to dinner, and being able to serve on the town council, I felt like I was a part of something bigger than myself. I had at least four awesome girlfriends within two blocks, all of whom had non-9-to-5 jobs. I could call any of them at 1:00pm on a Tuesday to go for a quick walk. I frequented two or three surf spots, where I was guaranteed to know several people in the lineup.

In OB, I felt plugged in, connected, loved. I felt like I was a part of something that was going somewhere. As part of the OB town council, I was a key organizer in community events like parades, holiday food drives and public forums with higher-up elected officials. If I wanted to go out on weekend nights, I could walk into any bar in town and see friends shooting pool and tequila. The drug store, the post office, the coffee shop..it was impossible to not see someone I knew when running an errand. I was known, I was seen, I was loved. And it wasn’t enough.

Now that Kurt and I were no longer on speaking terms, my heart ached with loneliness. I was completely starved for male attention. I hated my new, disgusting body and I couldn’t stand the company of myself. So, I quickly accepted the company of men to help fill me up and reassure me my body wasn’t that bad afterall, as long as they posed no threat to my soon-to-be freedom. I temporarily filled the need for validation with a guys who I already knew where all wrong for me. The first guy was wonderful. He was handsome, sweet, kind and too dumb to fall in love with. He was safe. Then there was the guy who owned all the restaurants, who was super fun. He took me on awesome dates and treated me wonderfully, but he was too old for me to fall in love with. He, too, was safe. There was the insanely hot guy who took me on the best adventures but had all kinds of drama with his kid’s mom. He was too much drama for me to fall in love with. He was safe. Then there was the multi-millionaire. He was handsome, age appropriate, brilliant, spiritually evolved, and treated me like a goddess. I almost fell in love with him. He wasn’t safe, so I broke it off and went back to a hot, broke guy. I couldn’t shake the idea of leaving it all behind to go surfing. I resisted anything that might have grounded me.

I found a boutique resort in Mexico willing to house me in exchange for playing hostess. There was surfing right out front and two meals a day were included. My choice was made. I told everyone, including myself, I was going away for just over three months–one hundred days. I wanted to want to be gone for only one hundred days, and then return to my beloved OB, my amazing yoga students, my 1971 cherry red convertible, my flavor of the month boyfriend and my Princess Cave. But I knew I was fooling myself.

I found a manager willing to run the yoga studio while I was gone, and while the sale was pending. I found a friend to sublease my apartment. I told my most recent man that I was leaving for a few months. He believed me, while I tried to believe myself. He would wait for me to come back. I really liked him. I also really liked OB and my apartment and my classic car and camping gear and snowboard equipment and designer heels and artwork and boxes of books, all stored in my garage. Yes, I would be back in one hundred days, right?

Saying goodbye to my Al-Anon friends was the easiest, because the only thing we Al-Anoners know how to do is support each other. Leaving my church was harder. Leaving the town council gave me incredible guilt. I felt like I was leaving them hanging, like I had let down my fellow Obecians. Saying goodbye to my yoga community was the most guilt-inducing of all. No one knew I planned to sell the studio as soon as I had a buyer. I told everyone I’d be back in three months, but the tears I cried at the end of the last class I taught revealed what I knew in my heart: this was goodbye.

The hardest was leaving the guys with whom I had wasted so much enjoyable time, watching waves with folded arms and swapping stories after epic days of surfing. Paul helped me pack my truck and hugged me goodbye, fighting back his own tears. Richy warned me I would end up dead in a Mexican ditch and told me not to go. Chad, who had done nothing but support me for our entire friendship, said he was jealous and told me to enjoy every moment. Rifiel laughed and claimed it wasn’t his fault.

Day 1

The fateful day arrived. I had a playlist prepared for the occasion. I handed over the keys for my apartment to my subletter. I tugged on the straps securing my three surfboards to the roof of my truck. I popped a bottle of water into the cup holder. Paul took a photo for me, and away I went.

I hit the gas as I turned onto I-8 East, headed to Arizona. My plan was to spend the night in a border town, then drive two hard days to the inland city of Guadalajara, Mexico, where I would meet my flavor of the month, Sean. I could actually have fallen in love with Sean. He would assist me with the rest of the drive to the resort town of Troncones, Mexico. I was terrified of the two days of solo driving, south of the border. Anyone who hadn’t done the drive warned me not to do it. Anyone who had done it told me it was all nice toll roads, and I would be fine. As I merged onto the 96 East, outside the San Diego city limits, I texted my best friend from back home in Michigan.

OMG Kate, I’m doing it!

Adrenaline and good music pumped as I crossed the California border into Arizona. Here we go, here we go, here we go! The cruise was set to 80 mph. I hugged the left lane and I felt I could take on the world.

WHAM! SMACK! I screamed, the cur lurched left. The rumble strips were deafening. Something black smashed into the driver’s side window as I slammed on the breaks. I hit the hazards and pulled off to the side of the road. The traffic flying by felt like it would suck my truck back onto the freeway. I opened the door to have a look. My front driver’s side tire was completely shredded. A six inch piece of rubber running the entire circumference of the tire had come completely loose and must have hit the front bumper as it flew off. The bumper was hanging by a thread.

I got back in the car. I started to cry. This was a sign I shouldn’t be doing this. God was punishing me. Guilt overwhelmed me. Suddenly I was starving. I reached for my bag of snacks and tore open the first package I could find. I sat there, munching salted almonds, numbing the fear. The Voice started in on me,

What now? What have you gotten yourself into?  What have you done? Why did you give up such a wonderful life? What were you seriously expecting? You are crazy. You are stupid. You are ignorant, You are ungrateful!

I ran through my options. The first thought was to turn around, go back to safety, admit defeat. I would ask a friend if I could stay with her. I would get a waitressing job. Or maybe I would go back to Michigan and live with my parents. I picked up my phone to call Sean for advice…no I don’t need him. I put the phone down. I picked it back up to call my Mom, No way. I definitely don’t need her. I put the phone back down. More traffic whizzed by and my truck was shaking. I picked my phone back up to call AAA to renew my membership. I Googled the number and hit send. I was on my own now. I could figure this out. Time to put your big girl panties on, Melanie! I would tell no one until after I had already found a solution myself. I could do this on my own and I was going to prove it!

One tow, four new tires, ten zip ties in the bumper and three hours later, I was back on the road. I uploaded the first photo of my trip to Instagram: my truck on a flatbed wrecker, with the caption, “Nothing I can’t handle!” If I had known how minor this was compared to what I would later face, I may have given more serious thought to The Voice when it urged me to admit defeat.

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*some names have been changed to protect privacy

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