Here are some things said to me shortly after my father's death when I was 10. I think these things should not be said to a child or to anyone, really. 

"Your father is burning in hell. Burning in hell right now. Don't let anybody ever tell you different!" exclaimed an older relative to me at my father's wake. After the few months of horror in which I had tried to convince my father to live time and again, I was not really in the mood for this verbal assault. I still think it's outrageous that she said this to a grieving little girl. And so began my disdain for people who try to use the Bible as a weapon to hurt children or justify their reasons for hurting children.

"It would have been better if you had died instead of your dad. At least then your mom would have had your dad to lean on," said one of the more active women in my church when we stopped by it after my dad's death. I mean, even if you thought something that incredibly fucked up, couldn't you control yourself and not say that to a KID? I have eye witnesses to this. I am not exaggerating. I never returned there again. The preacher was a real asshole anyway who used to preach and brag about beating his son; I'm glad I never went back. 

"No man will ever want to date you someday if you say that your dad committed suicide. You should say he had a heart attack instead." And so began this worry in my head a lot as a preteen. Another thing that made ME undesirable! 

"You will have suicide demons follow you all your life, too. Better be careful." Yes, it was told to me, a young child just a day out of fourth grade, that I would be doomed forever, too, to have these fictional suicidal demons following me. Imagine the terror when I was then brainwashed to believe in demons! 

"Ew, your dad committed suicide. I'll bet you will, too," said to me with a look of utter disgust by a kid in the schoolyard after hearing the rumors about why I was so morose, more than likely. Not that I really got along with people very well with my social anxiety disorder, but, again, keep things like that to yourself. I was more mature than that as a toddler. 

If you want to comfort a child whose father has died, be careful what you say, or shut the fuck up.

Choosing to end his own life is what my father did on traditional Memorial Day in 1989, just a few months after I turned 10 years old. It was my first day of summer after the fourth grade. As you might can easily assume, Memorial Day has never been a holiday that I felt the need to celebrate in any sort of frivilrous way. (Even if not for my own situation, I never understood making light of such a day of remembrance, as seems to happen.)

Here it comes again. The impending day usually sends me into some sort of gloom at some point in the month. Since it's been a difficult year, I got quite sad far ahead of time. I worked through it, and it's okay. Knowing that sadness is only temporary is helpful. The things you learn as you grow older.

I was lacking that perspective one May when I was in my second year of college. 

I was a very lucky girl to be going to college in NYC. (To this day I am paying for that decision with half of my income going towards loans for that experience, but I remain forever grateful that I got to do it.) I was lucky in many ways, but deep, dark depression can creep up on the lucky ones, too.

I had recently screwed up a film project that I was doing for a class that my mentor taught. I loved my mentor so much, and failing so horribly really upset me. It would take me a few years before I could even go back to my mentor because I was so dreadfully upset at having messed up on the movie project. (I had run out of money altogether for it, and I know that the actors involved simply saw that as unprofessional.)

I felt unloved and unlovable, even though that may have been an irrational way to feel. I was worrying on how I would continue to go to my college with the financial problems we faced. I was fearful that I would have to leave what I had found and loved so very much in New York City.

Also, I was recently rejected. I had been very careful to never assume anybody "liked" me. I had been taught in high school that guys found me repulsive, and I was not going to put myself on the line for any further embarrassment.

But this guy would always seem to "flirt" with me; he pretended to pour Snapple on my head a lot. He'd say nice things when this other friend of his (who hated me for reasons unknown) would say something snide or rude to me. In retrospect, he was just being polite or, if it was flirting, was just something he did like breathing. It affected me a lot, though, as I was not used to such attention, and I fell for this guy in a really big way.

His spectacular (spectacularly silly in retrospect) and seemingly cruel rejection of me (he would not even accept a cupcake for his birthday from me) really hit me hard. Yet another reminder that I was unlovable. On top of the incredible pressures I already was facing, that just crushed me.

At the same time I missed my canine companion, Marta, so incredibly, achingly much, and I felt guilty for going to school so far away from her. I was worried that perhaps she would be better off without me altogether.

I could try to lock down exactly what brought me so far down to that hopeless place, but I don't know that those who go through with suicide even fully understand that part of it.

So, one teary night, I walked from my New York City dorm on 23rd Street down to the Kmart on Astor Place. I looked for a rope. I really needed to just end this. I sobbed as I shopped; I was never one for controlling my emotions very well unless I was in a "numb" period, and this was not one of those safe times. I was desperate. Reminders of things that made me happy seemed to only stab at me as I shopped. I had to close my eyes to happy scenes in picture frames and keep my mind focused on finding the rope.

Through my teary stupor I managed to ask someone where hardware was. Perhaps the rope would be there! He pointed me in the direction with a look of confused sympathy. I thanked him as best I could.

I found the rope after some searching, and I slowly brought it to the counter. I did not rush, but I did not linger very long. This was time to end it. The cashier seemed to look at me a bit curious at my single rope purchase and the tears that rolled down my face as I realized the implications of my purchase. She didn't hesitate, and I paid her in cash. 

I walked out into the night. I had a bit of money left, which was fortunate. At that time McDonald's was serving veggie burgers, and that made me smile. I had enough for one so I went to eat it. The cashier did not charge me. She simply moved on to the next customer. Since I had so little money, I thought, wow, what luck. I went to eat my veggie burger, and a mean-looking security guard came to stare at me as I ate. I felt so guilty that, even without this pressure, I would have gone back and paid for the veggie burger. So that's what I did. I felt disturbed at having my "last" meal ruined in this way, though, so I was overall disappointed with the experience.

I strolled back to my dorm. It was getting late. I wanted to see my friends, but I was really shy. I loved being with friends; I loved that I had a group of friends here, although I failed to understand why anybody would want to be friends with me. It was all so nice. Yet, I just felt so undeserving. I felt that perhaps they all secretly hated me.  

I folded the plastic bag with the rope in it over a few times, hoping that it would disguise the contents of the bag if I did happen to run into anybody. This guy who had so thoroughly broken the pieces that were left of my already shattered heart just so happened to be waiting for the elevators at the same time I was. How embarrassing. He didn't say anything except hi. I smiled a bit. I knew he hated seeing me more than I was glad to see him; in spite of the awkwardness, I had felt a bit of a joy surge in my heart at the sight of him. He had been hope at one point.

I got off at the eleventh floor and strolled to my room. I had my key out so that I could quickly get into my room. It was small with a loft bed. I climbed up to the bed with the rope in my hand. I was so very tired by that point, though, so I tossed the rope back down to the floor. I would deal with that tomorrow.

The next day I skipped class. I just wasn't feeling it. I could not go on as though I was a carefree college kid when I had such certain plans for my future. A friend came by after class, though, and knocked on my door. I was invited to Long Island for the weekend. I went there, and it was fun. Her parents paid for my breakfast when we went out to eat; I felt so guilty. I wanted to pay, but I didn't have the money on hand. Explaining that I didn't have money for things was not something I was able to do at that point in my life, though, so I would either end up appearing as a flake or a leech. Her parents did not seem to mind and would not let me pay even when I offered, though.

I went back to my dorm on Sunday. I made an excuse to leave early as I wanted to go ahead and get this over with. However, after paying for the train back, I had no more money at all. I had to walk back to my dorm room without even the money for a subway. I was desperate for some chocolate. Yet I couldn't even scrape together enough to go buy a candy bar at the convenience store. I called my bank hoping for a spontaneous change in the balance, but there was none at that time.

So finally I looked at the rope. Kmart was open for another two hours. 

For the sake of a bit of chocolate, I returned the rope. This time it was also through tears. I do not know what this perplexed-looking customer service agent was thinking as she processed the small refund for the unused rope, but she must have gotten the gist of it through my tears. Returning the rope suddenly meant something more than the fact that I had a hankering to eat more chocolate before my untimely death. Suddenly I realized that perhaps I truly did want to live. 

I went to the candy section in Kmart and got my favorite type of candy: peanut butter cups. 

I'm glad that I chose chocolate over death. In truth, I chose those I love over death, of course, as well. Things have not exactly been easy for me since that sad little May, but I have had lots of joy along the way. I am excited about many things on the horizon now. So much we would miss if we gave into the darkness that sometimes calls to very sensitive spirits.

Throughout this season, I did not think the judges treated Melissa fairly. Granted, I am not a fan of "judges" and competition in the first place. For me, I'd rather see everyone dance each week minus the rude comments or competition. A focus on improvement and fun would suit me best as a viewer. I know that's not what others want or what the station thinks we want so it is what it is.

However, even within the format and rules of the show, I thought Melissa was treated unfairly. She danced very well, and some of the comments were baseless and just plain rude. As the legend, actress, and artist that she is, I feel that she deserved much more respect than they showed her.

Another fail for the show, I felt, was that they did not acknowledge (from what I saw) the fact that Alison Arngrim (who played Nellie on Little House on the Prairie) came to see Melissa perform. They could have really played that up in a cute way or at least gave props to having two television legends (who happen to be close friends in real life unlike their characters on Little House) being together again.

Anyway, despite these little gripes, I absolutely adored watching the show this season because of the incredible dances from Melissa and Maks. The other dancers were top notch this season as well, and it has been a very entertaining ride.

I really wanted Melissa Gilbert to win that mirrorball trophy, but I think she got much more out of the experience than a trophy from what she has stated with her classy and graceful way of accepting all that has happened on the show. 

In the interest of full disclosure, I've been a very big fan of Melissa since I fell in love with "Little House on the Prairie" in kindergarten. I remain very thankful that I was given the opportunity to write the biography on her official website; she kindly gave me credit for it on the page. I also have the letter I saved from her when she was President of the Screen Actors Guild. That just so happens to be when I was offered membership into the union after my debut speaking role in film as the character of Dana in The Third Nail. I very much admire her.

I am so proud of Melissa Gilbert for what she achieved as a dancer in Dancing With the Stars. Way to go, Melissa. I hope we see you on the dance floor again really soon.