Melissa Richardson Banks

About a year ago, a series of monthly mishaps took place that, even taken in a singular fashion much less as a group, were life-changing. It began with a car accident backing out of my driveway, which should have been the other guy's fault, and wasn't; continued on with a near-electrocution caused by a leaky roof and the neglect of a slumlord, an unexpected fall into a manhole on the 6th Street Bridge of which demolition was slated to start the next day, and ending with a sucker-punch assault by a murderer on parole in broad daylight near some of the city's most stellar cultural venues. I say "ending" but that was the beginning of renewed panic attacks and what I now realize was post-traumatic stress disorder. These events reminded me of a story by my father told to me often over the years about recognizing signs and taking personal responsibility for moving on. The story goes something like this: a man was stranded on a deserted island, and prayed to God, askin

It's been years since I've written on this blog, and this past year -- 2016 -- was such a helluva one that I realized I should be writing about it all. After all, I survived an auto accident, falling into a manhole on a bridge slated for demolition, getting randomly assaulted by a murderer on parole, and traveling cross-country with two dogs, my mother and most all of my possessions in the heat of summer. It's been hard for me to figure out where to write ... my handwriting is painful to execute nowadays so typing is best, and I've struggled if I should share online or file my thoughts and experiences offline. Ultimately, I decided it was best to share online because I hope for interaction since I mostly work in solitude and crave communication. While I'm perhaps best known as an extrovert, I'm really an introvert who keeps everything inside. So, here's to a new day ... daily meditations, reflections, observations, and more as I move forward, one ste

My father passed away. I knew it would happen someday, but I never expected it at this time. Since 1993, he's been asking me to come back to Texas, and so finally this year, a few months ago, I returned. I knew I needed to see him, and waited until I could slip away for a couple of days. I surprised him, and suddenly realized how ill he really was. He always sounded so positive and upbeat during our regular phone calls. I was glad that my brother Eric was with me so we could attend to his health needs, but it was too late.