Arrested-ish Development - Part 10
The Final Chapter
Aside from feeling like my debated “A.D.D.” was showing, with my subject hopping and accidental typos (that I’ve since corrected), I am overall relieved I pushed through the last post, so that I now may free you all of this series.
I’m just going to skip over the fact that it’s taken exactly a year to get to part 10, as I’m probably spending too much time explaining myself in these introductions.
I will instead reserve my long, desperate, explanations for random app subscription providers I beg to refund me, when a free trial has run its course in exactly the timeframe they warned me it would.
It has been just over a year since I began sharing my story, and when I was in the depths of my pain those many years ago, my goal was to one day accomplish so much, and make such an impact, that the struggle would be worth it, and I could inspire those at the bottom of the heap with an uplifting conclusion from the top.
I am instead sipping lukewarm camomile tea, two months into a layoff from a law firm I had no business working at - so, let’s just begin where we left off.
Arrested-ish Development Part 10: The Final Chapter
I returned to Los Angeles in 2018, meeting up again with friends and horny producers alike, having more “serious” and “focused” meetings than those a few years prior. I was also lucky enough to attend Paul Simon’s Farewell tour show at the Hollywood Bowl, with fans of all ages too high on weed to understand that Art Garfunkel would not be present, while I drank and shouted the lyrics to “Graceland”, directly into the ear canal of my dear friend Greg (who kindly gifted me the ticket).
My stay ended up being just over a month, with another situationship forming (I fear being sued by Big Situationship™ for my indulgent use of the term, but it is sadly what happens when long distance enters the picture) and discussions about immigration causing too many issues when it came to TV staffing. Of course, this was worded along the lines of, “We will for sure have you sit in our writer’s room and figure out how to get you here legally after that.” followed by silence for months with a follow up, “Oh, right! Sorry, we won’t actually do that, but best of luck.” email. And yet, I still appreciated anyone who continued to feed my delusion, and thus, my will to live, even if their words were hollow.
The year following brought back all of my old feelings of having a place and life where I belonged, just out of reach, while I tried to make sense of who I was back home.
A childhood companionship of mine had a beautiful renaissance, with my friend Angela’s return to our home town. This inspired a script that gained recognition in an online script pitch competition…that I never ended up writing an ending for.
Ah - *french accent* classique Mindy!
Angela and I spent almost every day together, with a shared job at a paint and decor business the following year. The same place I met a customer who, for some reason, I could not shake from my mind. And after repeated jokes about him one day being my boyfriend, and my coworker finding out he was a friend of her husband’s, we eventually connected months later on Facebook, and dated almost immediately after.
Was he twice my age at the time? Sure. Should this pattern in my life be examined? That’s none of my business!
[Trigger warning - reminder that Covid-19 happened, and ruined full seasons of our favourite reality TV shows]
The armageddon bell rang in March of 2020, and two months later I had moved in with my new boyfriend, now off work due to the pandemic. My brother wanted me out of his house, and after a very upsetting and panicked week of not knowing what I was going to do, my crush-turned-partner insisted I move in.
Before this move-in, anxiety that had paralyzed me the year before was back and stronger than ever. In both instances, I turned to a form of coping I had never even considered in the past. I still have shame around the topic, but I think it’s important to be honest and potentially help anyone else who has resorted to extreme forms of numbing (typically associated with troubled teens) into adulthood.
Actual trigger warning this time: self-harm
When PMDD (premenstrual dysphoric disorder) and PTSD triggers would arise (in this instance, feeling alone and ashamed and abandoned) I would take a swiss army knife I had since childhood and draw blood. I chose my stomach, because it was hidden and doubled as self punishment for gaining weight. I as a person in their right mind, do NOT believe weight gain or loss is “good” or “bad” or deems someone attractive or not. However, when my mind reached that level of mental turmoil, it would cling to an obsessive thought and not let go until some form of release had been reached.
In this case, the pain being redirected to my body provided a sense of relief for my spinning brain. I could also see the marks (now 2 small scars) as a real tangible thing. Something that could heal before my eyes. Progress I could monitor. How could anyone tell me my pain wasn’t real when I could see it slowly “recover” each day in the shower.
To be clear, I understand this wasn’t healthy or okay. My brain was not well and years of repressed mental poison I had packed tightly away was spilling out in a way that felt out of my control. To be a full grown adult in this mental state, right as I was meeting someone I was falling in love with, was not only scary, it felt shameful.
A lovely friend and co-worker recommended a counsellor who to this day has been a god-send. This counsellor explained that this “cutting” was actually a common form of coping in extreme distress and that my shame around it was only making it worse.
Thankfully, as Covid progressed, my relationship started to provide a feeling of safety and healing from the months prior, and I celebrated every win along the way.
“We got a plant!” “We biked today!” - you name it, if I was feeling happy and grateful… the internet was going to hear about it!
One day as we sat in the living room, I received a text from my brother saying a police officer was looking for me at his house. My first thought was to text everyone close to me to make sure they were okay. I then called the police department and told them what happened, asking that they call me back when they have any information.
Each minute that passed felt like an hour as we sat refreshing my phone.
Something about the “Bad Reputation” by Joan Jett ringtone blasting from my phone with the police on the other end just “hit different”, as the kids say.
I answered and heard a man ask if I was “Melinda Furano”. This was my first sign that I either did not know him, or he was my seventh grade elementary school teacher.
He let me know his name and that he was a local detective who had been contacted by the Kitchener-Waterloo police.
My entire face dropped. I had somehow not even thought of this.
“We just wanted to let you know that [insert name] has been released from prison and is a high-risk offender. He will be able to travel at some point for work and you can be updated on his whereabouts if you choose to register as a victim of crime on the government’s victim’s portal online.” The detective calmly informed.
An online victim’s portal…for little ol’ me?
“We only had the address you were living at when you lived in Waterloo, sorry for the confusion and to deliver this news.” He continued.
By this point I was crying. Mostly from shock, partially from being allowed to. I often worry that I feel too much or cry when I shouldn’t, but if I can’t shed some tears when my offender’s released from prison as a high-risk to the public, when can I truly?
After I thanked him and hung up, my boyfriend held me and I let myself feel all of the things I told myself I hadn’t felt the past ten years of my life.
The next day, my counsellor called to let me know her facebook page was filled with news posts and statuses about the release of my offender in Waterloo. She seemed to have more friends and family still living there than I did, because I hadn’t heard a thing.
Apparently these posts had also been up for a couple of days. Not the first time CTV had information on my life before I did.
She wanted to warn me in case I “stumbled” upon the posts without warning, and to make sure I was okay.
My instinct was to joke my way through it and act okay as I had to this point, but with this now affecting young women in the university town I once walked daily, I felt disgusted with the justice system and determined to say something. Like many cases in my life, the moment it became about women and injustice as an overarching theme, joking it off didn’t feel like an option.
I posted a status with the news article on facebook and twitter. I let anyone who hadn’t heard through word of mouth or me directly know what had happened those many years ago, and that this man was wandering around (in school merch, scrolling dating apps and violating the terms of his parole repeatedly) in a city flooded with young students. For all he knew, he had killed a woman days before the night he met me.
By this point, there were already protests and interviews on the news about his release.
(I cropped out the image of his face. We don’t need that taking up mommy’s precious Substack real estate)
The wave of support I received after I shared was overwhelming and genuinely shifted something in me.
It was like all of the doubts I had in my mind for a decade about who knew, what people thought, if others had felt the same as me, if I ruined my life by not figuring out school etc. just melted away. It didn’t matter. It was like we were all on the same page now.
Some reached out to share. Stories of abuse, of assault, years of pain and one-time incidents they told themselves somehow didn’t matter. These people now knew they had somebody who understood and in return, so did I.
As Covid progressed and I tried to find a new career direction that made sense in my small Canadian city, the feeling of being able to help others and the promise I made to myself that night in the hospital became my new focus.
I contacted the Crown Attorney from my case who I had never met. After realizing who I was and recalling my case, she answered questions I had about the case and her work with victims. I asked if there was some sort of role I could take on to help advocate for victims or spread awareness.
She connected me with the Sexual Assault Advisory Committee at the hospital here so I could join, and we discussed paralegal work and how I could maybe one day shift that to help victims. A long stretch, but something I for some reason latched on to.
I started a remote Paralegal program that abruptly shifted to in-person out of town half way through the course. Unable to pick up and move for an online course, I started as a legal assistant at a friend’s law firm. I was a fish out of water and dissociating for most of the day. Not only was this not the area of the law that I would need to be in, it was also very isolating near the end.
I left to work in mental health as a support worker and to try to focus on writing again, until my break up (we tried our best) and move back with family left me in no position to support anyone mentally, and in need of more hours to find my own place.
Fast forward to the past two years, going back and forth between my dad’s and brother’s and visiting my mom, until I could find a temporary roommate and solid full-time job.
Once I found a full-time job and supportive roommate, both allowed me to move into my own apartment, as I waited for a lay off I had been anticipating since the spring. A job that triggered me daily, and mentally set me back a lot, but was also a stepping stone to the safe and peaceful home I am now able to enjoy and fully exhale in.
When I started writing this series, I was staying at my dad’s, in the same bedroom I used to listen to the 2010 playlist in, after watching House MD and drinking camomile tea. The year I started to find myself. The year I had initially planned to write a short Substack post on and SOMEHOW leave out the part where I was victim of a crime. “I don’t want to be dramatic” I initially thought, as if that’s not my whole schtick anyway.
Currently, I’m once again drinking camomile tea, with the 2010 playlist quietly playing in the background.
I put off this chapter for so long because some part of me wanted to give everyone a happy ending (pause for sex joke), as if there is some “ending” to what happened, and this isn’t my evolving life. But the real hope for those dealing with anything remotely similar, is that circumstances can change drastically in a year. The ebbs and flows will always be there.
I’m still figuring out my next step, I’m still between maintaining my newfound peace, working part-time in the evenings, and wanting to get back to chasing my creative goals. I’ve gained weight and I’ll lose it. My credit score plummeted and now it’s good again. We are not a job or a weight or a credit score.
What would a happy ending to this series even entail? That sounds like I’m dying at the end of it (something I refuse to do until I have my own Wikipedia page without a controversy section).
I want to thank everyone who has supported me while I worked through this story. Sharing each stage in detail has helped me make sense of a lot. To those who paid for subscriptions when I didn’t even make this a paid Substack, you don’t know how many days just seeing that email made me feel less alone and empowered to take writing seriously again.
I may have not “found what I’m looking for” or reached some grand solution, but I’m approaching peace.
I also opened my old script up this past week, and intend to finish it.
This has been an excellent series. Thank you for writing it.
Beautiful, unsparing and ultimately uplifting close