“I feel like there’s something wrong with you.” One of my dearest of friends started one of our quarterly conversations with this sentiment.

I was quick to assure her that I was fine, if not wonderful. Really. “No! We’re great! I just spent a month vacationing with friends and family and we’re getting ready for Burning Man and the Bear is at a really fun age and we’re good. Seriously, everything’s fine.”

“Okay, well, I hope you don’t get mad at me but I really think you need to hear this and I feel like you’d do the same for me if the roles were reversed and I think being a good friend is telling someone the truth and I want to be a ‘good friend’ instead of just an acquaintance…”

Crap.

“Every time I see a picture of you or visit you, you’re wearing the same outfit and it’s starting to make me sad.”

It was true. I’ve always been one of those people who finds something she likes and just clings to it. Usually said article is extremely comfortable and somewhat flattering (although this wasn’t necessarily the case for the wood-and-leather clogs I wore every day in high school, but was certainly at least halfway true for the cargo pants I wore during that era…) This has gotten much worse in the last three years, however, as my life has become completely based on sitting around the house with a small child.

See, I have this great wrap skirt that I bought a few years ago at a hippie store called Loose Lucy’s. It’s lime green, flowy and doesn’t constrict when I’ve had a little too much to eat on vacation. I wore it through my pregnancy because of its expandability and will wear it around the house year-round because of its incredible comfort and versatility. Usually, I pair it with a light lavender t-shirt that’s fitted and comes down below my waist, giving me a fantastic hourglass shape while obscuring my little bit of loosened-by-pregnancy skin with a great big stencil-type graphic. This outfit is comfortable without being trashy, versatile and casual and cute and bright and easy. I love it. And, so, in my typical fashion, I wear it a lot.

But, unlike before, I can now get away with wearing clothes more than one day, so, I usually take advantage of that, safe in the knowledge that the only people who will see me are my husband, my daughter, and strangers in the grocery store. Plus, it’s not like I’m doing anything strenuous, so who cares if I throw it on two days in a row; as long as it doesn’t smell, it’s fine, right?

At this point, the ensemble is loaded with holes. The skirt’s ties have had to be reattached at least twice. There are bleach stains from when I spilled cleaning solution one day while scrubbing the tub. I know, it looks rough but, again, I figure nobody’s going to see me in it so who cares? It’s really become more of a functional uniform than what one would call an “outfit”. And, really, I’m fine with that.

But my friend - the dear, wonderful one - recognized this as a cry for help. A mother of three, she told me about how, when her children were born, she would throw on a pair of black overalls over clean underwear and a fresh shirt every day, believing - like me - that it didn’t matter what she looked like. She told me about how, slowly, this subconscious idea that she wasn’t important [or doing anything important] enough to care for on a daily basis started to become a belief and how it moved her into a rut that affected her whole life, causing her to stop caring about things that really mattered and falling short of her personal standards. And she told me she was worried about me because she saw me slipping into that based on my self-maintenance and didn’t want me to have the same mental experience she did.

I was floored. First of all, I see this friend about once every two years and talk to her about 4-5 times a year, usually after months of “I swear we’ll catch up soon!” We’re the types of friends who can go for ages without talking but can pick right back up where we left off and know that, if something awful is happening, the other one is there. (Pretty good for a friend I made while exchanging sarcastic commentary from the back row of a Shakespeare class. We were like Statler and Waldorf with boobs.) So the fact that she was perceptive enough to observe this habit of mine over photos I posted on Facebook and stop to consider that this may be a sign of something deeper says a lot about how much she cares. My heart hurt with gratitude.

Still, she couldn’t stop apologizing and justifying this sartorial intervention. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m a bitch. I’m a bitch, Liz. I just hope to god that if I started dressing in the same thing every day like a crazy person, you’d tell me. You’re too pretty to do this to yourself. I’m sorry.”

About a month ago, I had another one of my best friends call me and tell me we “needed to talk.” She was busy with other things all day so she couldn’t talk until 9 a.m. and I spent all day going nuts, trying to think of what it could possibly be that I’d done wrong. Later, on the phone, she gently explained to me that, for some reason, when we get out in public, I tend to get really judgmental and I cross the line with my jokes a lot. I also really hurt her feelings during these times.

I felt like shit. Not only did I have absolutely no idea that I was doing it at all but I had no idea where these sorts of things would even come from. This is one of those friends that I’m so nuts about that I constantly joke about how I sound like I have a fangirl crush on her and how I feel like she’s way out of my league as a friend. In my whole life, I’ve never had a friend who stuck with me and was so good to me as this one and I was sickened and heartbroken by the idea that some stupid, completely unconscious side comments would make her doubt her inherent awesomeness for even a second. (I know, I sound totally worship-y but she’s really, genuinely a great person. Ask anybody.) I was disgusted with myself on a really deep level.

The thing was, though, that this had apparently been going on for a really long time and, because she knew that I really do love her, she’d never said anything until now, figuring that I didn’t mean it (which is true, although that doesn’t make it acceptable.) And, instead of just saying, “You know what? You turn into a real bitch when we’re out in public and really suck as a friend. I’m done here.” she came to me and told me about it in a rational, straightforward tone and said, “I know you don’t mean it and I have faith that you’ll work to change it.”

I don’t mean to sound completely conceited or self-servicing but, frankly, that’s perhaps one of the greatest compliments a friend could give to another, I think. Valuing someone’s companionship enough to want to keep them around despite their shortcomings is one thing but believing in your friend’s ability to become a better person enough to point out a major character flaw? That shows an incredible amount of respect and faith in my rose-colored book. And, naturally, it makes me want to meet that set of standards for a friend who obviously cares a great deal about me. Those types are rare; I can’t afford to mess that up just from being a stubborn idiot.

I know looking at criticism as one of the greatest blessings in my life is a little weird and may make me sound like a glutton for punishment but I’m sure I don’t care. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not going to keep friends around who are hypercritical and constantly tearing down my character or holding me hostage over my flaws, but having friends who believe that I deserve to be a better person than I am and gently demand that I try harder? I don’t think many people have that sort of luck.

So, yes, I’m throwing away the skirt and the shirt. Because someone loves me enough to tell me not to dress like a crazy hobo.

And that fills my heart with happiness.

NOTE:There are a couple things I’ve promised myself I wouldn’t write about on this blog anymore, including depression/mental illness because I’m just over it and, even though I might be duking it out with my brain’s chemical makeup for forever, I don’t need to dwell on it and rehash it all the time anymore. I’ve done gobs of therapy and heaps of acceptance of the illness and have a grasp on how to tackle it and deal with my bouts and symptoms and I know that sitting around discussing it publicly just perpetuates the idea that it rules my life, which isn’t true at all.

However, because a few readers have expressed appreciation for it, I may continue to mention it from time to time. I’ve found that, even after over a decade of dealing with mental illness, there are so many facets and avenues I’m still uncovering and grappling with that I really haven’t considered as separate subcategories under what seems to be the endlessly massive umbrella of “Depression”. Somehow, it makes me feel better to have acknowledged these to myself and, truthfully, I always feel incredibly comforted when I get the occasional email from a reader saying, “Oh, thank God… Me too.”

ALSO NOTE: I apologize if the language in this is hard to follow. I think the text explains/excuses that a little.
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Up until recently, I’d always thought that there were only two types of depression in the technical, chronic mental-illness/chemical-imbalance category (versus the post-traumatic or “longterm blues” varieties.) There’s the chemically-induced stay-in-bed-all-day-unable-to-focus-on-anything-long-enough-to-make-any-physical-changes-to-your-situation-while-time-escapes-you type of depression that I deal with in giant waves about once annually. And then there’s the I-hate-myself-and-my-life-is-a-black-hole-of-nothingness-and-it-would-make-everyone’s-life-easier-if-I-wasn’t-here type of depression that I haven’t dealt with in a long time thanks to major life changes and years of therapy. (Naturally, I’ll have spells where I’m positive I’m wasting my life and I’m just a worthless person but, really, I think any introspective person is prone to those every now and then and they aren’t unhealthy if I can take something productive away from them.) And, of course, there are instances of depression that are combinations of both of these types, although perhaps involving different ratios of each. (For example, I started out with the chemical type in my preadolescent years, which developed into and later fed into the emotional type for a number of years until I got a handle on the latter and went back to just having the former, with tiny bouts of the latter every so often. Does that even make sense?)

ANYWAY, recently, I’ve been having a type of depression I can vaguely remember having when I was very very young and that might be more frustrating than any other: In the last few weeks (especially last few days) I’ve had this heartrending feeling that “something is wrong” and I can’t seem to shake it. It’s not a feeling of fear so much as a feeling of longing and heartache, where my chest seizes up and I feel like I’m on the brink of tears for absolutely no reason at all. It’s kept me awake until 2 or 3 a.m., just lying awake and shaking, with my mind uncontrollably reeling with memories and instances in hopes to figure out just what exactly it is that I’m so heartbroken over.

Even if I try to sit and meditate and repeat my mantras to myself and have fully realized that there’s no reason for this sadness and pain, it still persists. I begin to hunch over and stay quiet/secluded and I pull my sleeves down over my knuckles, even in 80-degree weather. All I want to do is stare blankly at the television or listen to “Surfer Rosa” on repeat. I fight the urge to self-medicate with mind-hushing wine or a couple Unisom. Sunlight physically hurts and social engagements are exhausting, if not overwhelming. I get angry at people around me for what seem like completely valid reasons at the time and then aren’t thirty minutes later. And I huuurt. It feels like someone is tightly wrapping a fine steel floss around my heart and it hurts to breathe, not unlike the symptoms of teenage heartbreak. Also like a post-breakup adolescent, I’m prone to crying in great, heaving, soul-jarring jags with no forewarning or buildup. (For the record, I’ve never even been this bad when I was um… hormonal.)

Again, usually when there are bouts of emotional depression, there’s something to focus on or some sort of trigger on which to blame the oily cloud of gloom I seem to drag around with me but, this time, there’s nothing, which I think may be somehow worse. At least when I’m all weepy and self-loathy about a personal shortcoming or an existential crisis or whatever may be momentarily plaguing me, I don’t have to waste energy trying to figure out why I’m upset; I can use all my resources to try to drag myself out of the funk and back to a level of regular functionality. My present situation is exhausting on a new level because, not only am I actively fending off the typical symptoms and habits of depression and working to move forward but I’m also unable to stop wondering “Where is this coming from? Is there something legitimately wrong going on in my subconscious? Do I need to go see a hypnotherapist? Maybe I can replay every painful event from my past - again - to see if any of those memories strike a chord with what I’m feeling. Good Lord, has my depression evolved again?”

I’m reminded of a weird joke one of my old pastors told that everyone laughed at but couldn’t pin down why exactly:

A little boy goes to his mother and says, “Mommy, it hurts when I do this.”
His mother responds, “Well, then, don’t do that.”
The little boy then tells her, “But that makes it feel better.”

Sometimes I honestly wish that I would just go ahead and lose my mind completely, so I wouldn’t have to struggle so much to wrangle in my thoughts/feelings. Like I’ve said [repeatedly], I’m really over all this and am ready to move onto something else that defines my immediate reality. One would think that, after so much time and treatment and medication, my mental health would get to a point where low-energy maintenance-only effort would suffice.

Don’t worry; I’m still keeping up hope that it can. This is just a bump-in-the-road of a different color and I’m taking it as a lesson to be wary of mental curveballs.

I won’t get all long-winded about the backstory like I usually do but, in the last week, I’ve really been struggling with a haunting from my past and an unclosed door with a broken-heart situation and how it relates to my current life and what I’m doing that’s wrong in it and all that noise. It’s been really attacking me, actually, and gave me a hell of a depression spell for a few days.

And then I realized that, in order to actually, totally forgive myself, I have to stop giving a shit whether or not anyone else does.

I’m starting to think that basic life principles need to come with footnotes for those of us who don’t automatically realize the implied intricacies.

‘Pronoia’ p.271 #1: Have you ever had permission to indulge in a marathon of braggadocio? Have you ever gotten an invitation to bluster on endlessly about your own charms without feeling even a touch of guilt or inhibition? I hereby grant you such a license right now.

To whet you imagination, read an excert from the boast of Eric Baer, a participant in a Brag Therapy session hosted in Milwaukee. “I have opposable thumbs, ” Eric exulted. “I can read. I breathe all the way through the night even though I’m asleep. I have access to emporiums where I can choose from 25 different brands of toilet paper. I know how to turn food into energy. I live where knuckleheads run everything and yet nothing ever blows up.”

NOTE: I’ll be honest, it honestly took me a couple days to muster the gumption to do this exercise. But what the hell? You only live once. Here we go:

I sing rock songs done originally by men so well that I don’t have to pay a bar tab at most karaoke bars, and not just because I don’t drink alcohol. I put brown sugar in my tea which makes it more awesome than usual. I have the prettiest, healthiest, thickest hair of anyone I know - and the color is divine. I was curvy before it was trendy. I can say the alphabet backwards. I have hitchhiker’s thumbs. I have a soul and believe in helping people who can’t help themselves, which means that I may have to sacrifice some of my luxury to do so. Sometimes when I get on a roll I’m funny as shit. I can win debates with about 85% of people and I can level those people with calm, stealthy rhetoric. I’ve sampled more types of chocolate than most people my age. I have unbelievably dark and long lashes. I’ve rung up a $50 tab on sashimi all by myself. I can alternate reading the same 5 books and still remember where I was and what was happening in each of them. I believe in changing energies and the Law of Attraction and perform rituals to do so. I can do the best Ethel Merman impression you’ve ever heard. I can dance like a fiend. I only get about 4 zits every year. I can eat a whole gallon of chocolate ice cream in one sitting. I wrote my first piece of erotica at 12 years old. I can sing every song on Styx’s “Paradise Theatre” and “The Grand Illusion” albums by heart. I’m not allergic to ANYTHING. My child literally uses manners in her sleep because I rock at setting an example. I spoil my friends with presents, even when I can’t afford them. Actually, I love giving people things in general and have been known to make myself broke by making donations to charities, people, bums on the street, etc. I waited until I was totally ready to lose my virginity and, no, I don’t think I was too young and, no, I won’t be upset if my daughter loses hers at the same age. I’m more introspective and proactive about changing my dysfunctions than at least 70% of the rest of the people in the society in which I was raised. My nose piercing has looked the same since the minute it was done - no swelling, no infection, no redness, just adorableness. I’m the biggest ‘Sesame Street’ nerd I know. I have a fantastic alias/nom de plume. I totally pick up on social cues even though I choose to ignore a lot of them. I have five short stories I’ve been working on for a year now. My body magically knew to provide me with too much seratonin and dopamine during my pregnancy as a defense mechanism against my chronic depression. My eyes change color every day. I know how to spell. Every time that I’ve done something that someone else has perceived as psychotic, I’ve been fully aware that that was what was going to happen and I went ahead and did it anyway - sometimes just to freak people out. I’ve never ever cried to get myself out of a ticket. I look adorable in earmuffs, a furry hat, pincurls, dreadlocks, kitty-cat ears and 1950’s style A-line housedresses. I’ve had over 20 diaries and journals since I was 5 and I’ve kept all of them. I know exactly how to be annoying and I can cite the minute it happens with anyone I’m targeting. Oh yeah, and I annoy people I don’t like but have to be around because it’s totally fun and I’m thoroughly amused by it… and because I have to let my inner brat out from time to time. I pwned the 12 Steps and tools of therapy. I’m so irresistable I’ve had to put out not one but two restraining orders on people. I won a multiplication bee when I was in the 3rd grade and, because the teacher preemptively knew I’d win it, she bought me some Sherlock Holmes books ’cause she knew I loved reading them. I’m fully aware when I say things that make me look dysfunctional. I was the only one giggling when I saw both “Titanic” and “The Notebook” (I was dragged) in the theatre. Despite what my high school drama teacher (”facilitator”) said, I got my own paragraph-of-glowing-praise in the public reviews from the only two community theatre productions I’ve ever been in… and in one of those productions I didn’t even speak. I make ideal pancakes. I have over 40 mix tapes and CDs that were made by friends in the last ten years. Oh, and I make arguably better mix CD’s than most people. I saved at least $1,000 by buying all my textbooks from Amazon.com and teaching my family how to do the same. I work every day on self-betterment, even if I don’t have time for it. I didn’t marry an idiot. I have my own desk, my own computer, my own filing cabinet, my own Etsy store, my own three domains and my own two blogs. I get gifts from across the planet every year. I make the most artistically badass scrapbooks I’ve ever seen. I’ve played a 200 year old piano located at Juliette Gordon Low’s house after the tour guide said, “We only let one girl do this every year.” I’m so irresistable I’ve had not one, but three “stalkers” (crazy people who won’t leave me alone and keep calling/harassing me because they’re in love) and have had handfuls of people I’ve heard can’t/won’t/don’t stop talking about me even years after I’ve forgotten them. I live in North Carolina. I know a real enigma. I survived both jr. high and high school. I’m not a bigot. I’m a neo-feminist which means that I can enjoy baking, sewing, knitting, etc without feeling some sort of guilt that I’m backsliding or being a slave to societal patriarchy. I look awesome in red. I also look awesome with purple highlights in my hair. My guitar was given to me by a Grammy winner and Top 40 recording artist. My top half is two sizes smaller than my lower half. I can recite every line in “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” The Movie. I’m no longer envious of, threatened by or hateful to beautiful women (and not just because I’ve embraced the fact that they turn me on.) I have a Pick of Destiny. I get more excited about autumn than most [Christian] kids do about Christmas. I’ve never seen an episode of “The Hills”, “Laguna Beach” or “Jersey Shore”. I won/earned a Girl Scout Silver Award before anyone else in my troop did and I earned every Try-It that Brownie Girl Scouts could in the early 90’s. I’ve traveled abroad and have been to all but 15 of the United States. I’ve learned how to cut needy idiots out of my life once they’ve screwed up too many times instead of staying emotionally invested and draining myself for no reason. I stopped biting my fingernails. I have the cutest child on the planet who also happens to be polite, selfless, sociable and giggly. After years of apologizing and making amends for all those years I was a terrible, awful person, I’m finally in the clear and don’t owe anyone anything [for the moment]!!! I had the best wedding I’ve ever heard of in my entire life.

In order to get my Chapter III off to a strong start, I’m hitting the “reset” button on everything and putting myself through a 90-day rehab of sorts. Due to external conflicts, I couldn’t actually start this on my birthday, mostly because I intend to incorporate a lemon-and-cayenne-nastiness Master Cleanse fast for the first week and my whole little family has a disgusting case of the Ick that I needed to tackle first.

(Also, NO, I’m not doing the MC in hopes to lose any weight; I know I’ll gain whatever I get rid of right back after the week is over and I’d never want to lose weight through starvation anyway… Losing hair, muscle mass and skin luster is gross. I honestly just have so much gunk from the last two/three months in my system and I really want to get myself to a healthy, balanced state to work from. I’m even doing the salt-water flushes, but I draw the line at colonics… and not just because I can’t afford them.)

I don’t intend to go into great detail in public about my motivations or intentions with my DiY rehab but I really want it to be a means of flushing everything out (physically and mentally) and building my daily life from scratch, which will have a great ripple effect on the Bigger Picture. Frankly, I think it’s a change that’s long overdue and I’m excited to see where I am on April 25.

So anyway, I thought I’d give everyone a heads-up since I’ve heard the Cleanse does crazy stuff to one’s mind and, although I’m going to try really really hard not to, I may be prone to spouting some insanities publicly.

Maybe I’ll just make a rule to keep to myself for the 7-10 days.

* This is a continuation of my confessional post from the other day. I enjoyed the exercise so much I thought I’d overdo it. It’s my deal.

I only clean my house six times a year at most, but I do laundry and dishes daily. I adore TCBY but I always order the same thing (white chocolate mousse with cookie dough) because I don’t get to go there often and wouldn’t want to waste a visit on medioce yogurt. Whenever I stay in a 5-star resort/hotel or rented home, I always pretend I’m a princess being doted on in her castle. I can’t sleep unless I have a heavy cover on me, even if it’s a hundred degrees in the room. I long for red hair but look awful with it. I’m one of those weird people who calls companies to praise them (this is a good way to get coupons and freebies, though.) I have an unhealthy addiction to useless knowledge and will waste eras on MentalFloss.com or watching History or Travel channel shows that NOBODY would tune into. (Did you know that Dr. Seuss invented the word “nerd”?) I used to take handfuls of Unisom for a cheap high, so now it takes about 4 to have any effect against my insomnia. (I don’t buy it anymore because I’m afraid I’ll detroy my liver with that many, so I deal with a lot of insomnia.) My favorite part of the morning is when I refill the Bear’s juice cup and yell, “Order up!” and then meet her at the gate in the doorway of the kitchen where she responds with, “Oh, up! K’shoo!” (Translation: Order up! Thank you!) I get a laugh at fragrance commercials because they are so unbelievably pointless. I only bathe about 2-3 times a week, unless I’m doing lots of physical activity - this is something I stand behind and believe in as my skin and hair are remarkably balanced due to lack of overstripping its natural oils. I giggled at the ridiculousness of my arrest, so I’m smirking in my mug shot. I make an abundance of confessions and self-expositions so people will assume I don’t have any really deep, dark, awful secrets, even though I’m pretty sure nobody I know is dumb enough to believe that. I have to write things down in order for them to seem “real” to me, so I have an overwhelming abundance of lists, ranging from my daily “To Do’s” to my 1, 5, and 10-year plans. I can’t apply fake lashes to save my life. I love telling people that I’m a writer and my husband is an artist and I recently learned that he loves telling people about us being weird, artsy folk, too. I absorb information better when I’m doodling henna-knockoff-style doodles. I literally get aroused when I see leaves changing in the autumn. I’ve shaved my upper lip since I was 11, so I can vouch for the inaccuracy of that old wives’ tale about it growing back thicker. I have this need to physically own books and music that I love so, even if I haven’t read a book in years or have all my CDs in mpg form, I still hoard the originals on numerous bookshelves. I look awful in yellow. I get the most disgusted at myself when I realize I’ve been acting like a victim for no reason. I indulge in one trashy, awful, shamelessly annoying, trite reality show every year as a means of taking a mental vacation - this year is “For the Love of Ray J.” I’ve made a pledge to donate 40% of my winnings to charity should I win the lottery or some enormous contest, which really bothers my husband. I always eat ice cream from a cup (instead of a bowl), using an oversized spoon and shaving layers off the top and sides. I write about 6 fan letters to obscure celebrities every year. I love [and collect] hats but loathe baseball caps. I enter at least 300 sweepstakes every year. I think the sexiest thing a man can do is tap dance. I like the feeling of being cripplingly sore after a day of vigorous activity. I don’t give a shit about love stories, but I’ll bawl my eyes out in movies involving parents being removed from their children. (”The Land Before Time” has gotten me since I was sobbing in the theatre at 8 years old.)  Every few weeks, I do my hair and makeup and put on something a little slutty before my husband comes home, knowing I won’t be able to do it too much longer before the Bear catches on. I love the word “Man” as an expletive or generic addressee title, but because a lot of people don’t get that I’m being ironic with it, I give off an inappropriate sense of informality sometimes. I keep 3 blogs and 2 handwritten journals, all with varied levels of security and in specified genres. I love scrapbooking like a 40-year-old mom at home alone while her kids are off at soccer practice. I hate the Looney Tunes.

That’s all I got on that pass.

Ms. Prejean,

Stop. Stop talking. For just a few minutes. Seriously, I don’t know why nobody has told you this before now but all you’re doing is making it worse. I would say that your publicist should have the sense to tell you to can it but, truthfully, that guy’s pretty smart if he’s letting you ramble, make an ass of yourself, lie to the mass media and prolong this side show you seem oblivious to be emceeing.

Look, ordinarily, I really don’t care about beauty pageants. Frankly, I got over being judged in middle school so I don’t understand why people would volunteer to do it on the off chance they may win some cash and 12 months of recognition. (And, yes, I happen to be a decently attractive human being, so this isn’t just an angry ugly chick rambling at you here.) But, because you have made such grandeur public statements on behalf of “young Christian women”, you’re now suddenly dragging me and some of my good friends into the fray, which we really don’t appreciate.

Believe it or not, the rest of the world kind of doesn’t like Americans right now. (I know we’re big into screaming about how awesome we are all the time but, really, that just makes everyone like us even less.) They’re all pretty sure that we’re all a bunch of vapid, surgically-enhanced, superficial, Bible-beating hypocrites. And the real problem with that belief is that there are people like you WHO ARE LIKE THAT who are making international headlines and perpetuating these godawful stereotypes.

Since you seem a little clueless when it comes to abstract thought, I’ll make a list of grievances so you can clearly understand what I’m addressing here.

The Stereotypes You Are Perpetuating That We Wish You Wouldn’t Are:

1) All Americans Have a Victim Mentality, Especially the Young Ones.
No matter how much you publicly whine about somehow being “wronged”, it’s painfully obvious that you weren’t. And by continuing to whine about it, you’re just making yourself look like an idiot. Here’s what happened: You won Miss California. Good for you. The folks that run that particular organization forked out a lot of money to have your body surgically altered if you’d sign an agreement to jump through their hoops and live by their standards. And then you didn’t. And then you lied about it. And then you tried to sue them for holding you accountable for your actions. (Also another American trait that’s cringe-worthy.) Sure, the gays that chair Miss California Inc. were devastated at the ignorant, bigoted answer you gave but even if that wasn’t a factor, you were still flaking out on the boat shows where you were scheduled to appear and the Family Dollar grand openings where you were due to cut the ribbon. So say what you will about the Gay Mafia coming to get you because you “love Jesus” and are just trying to spread “His Word”, you were wrong. And, as an adult, people expect you to be accountable for your actions. Oh, and FYI: because you’re not, you’re just making yourself look even less credible.

2) Christians Hate Gay People and Jesus Did Too
I could literally spend all day rambling about how inaccurate this is but I’m sure that would be fruitless. However, let’s talk like two people who were raised in Sunday School. The cool thing about Jesus that made him so healing and appealing to everyone is that he loved and accepted everyone for what they were. In case you’ve forgotten, he hung out with drunks and murderers and hookers and all sorts of really gross people and he’d probably even hang out with you, too. His message was ENTIRELY about love. And he offered love and forgiveness for any type of sin, including lying or stealing or drinking to excess or adultery or murdering or - if you think love is somehow a sin - having sex with someone who has matching genitalia to yours.

So, running around telling everyone that Jesus has a problem with gay people and that you’re just this soldier standing up for your beliefs is not only incredibly hypocritical but just innacurate. You’re not a martyr for spreading hatred and intolerance. You’re not doing Jesus’s bidding by campaigning against people being in love. I mean, if we’re going to try to stop supposed “sinners” from getting married, are you going to try to stop drunks from getting married? How about non-Christians? I mean, technically, if you really believe this, you could spend the rest of your life limiting marriage to just Christian heteros.

I’m not so much a “Christian” as I am someone who recognizes God in all forms and respects the teachings of the people who spoke of Love (like Christ.) And, unfortunately, when you misrepresent someone who represents and initiated ideas that I believe in, you offend me personally, because I really don’t appreciate looking like a moron along with you.

3) Beauty Pageant Contestants Are Just a Bunch of Mindless Whores

I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure there are a couple thousand beauty queens who want to punch your face in. (And, no, not because they’re totally jealous of your rockin’ bod.) Some of these girls are actually intelligent, with ambition and talent and would kill for a media platform in which to share their beliefs and spread awareness about noble causes. There are girls who could actually be talented actors/singers/models or who want to make extra money for grad school or who want to do something important with their lives other than be a beauty queen for a year if they could just get that big break. But, instead, we have you, yet another oversexed, greedy twentysomething hottie, wildly flailing around, contradicting yourself by yelling about morals and then having nude photos and a sex tape (God, how cliche can we be, here?) magically leak and then going out and writing a book about how all of this that has made you famous has destroyed you as a person.

AND YOU DIDN’T EVEN WIN THE DAMNED THING.

::Sigh::

You see where this is going? Even the poor girl who spent just as much time as you in the gym and rehearsed her interview questions just as hard as you did and invested just as much time and money into the Miss USA pageant as you did and actually won the “coveted” title isn’t getting as much press as you. What was her name again? And her mission was what? I’m pretty sure she’s talked to a couple hitmen.

Meanwhile, you’re showing the world that yes! You proudly let an organization purchase breasts for you! And yes! You have the obligatory spray tan and bleached hair and overwhitened teeth! And yes! You believe in Jesus but have no idea what he was actually about! And yes! You proudly argue like a 7th grade girl who’s being made fun of for being flat-chested! And yes! You do all this loudly and publicly with no idea how stupid this is making you look and no desire to step back and try to salvage some dignity or self-respect! Hooray for America!

I’m surprised your co-contestants haven’t tried to kill you already.

So, let’s recap: You’re making a lying, idiotic fool of yourself and your parents and your friends, of course. And you’re doing the same for those people who share a religious title with you. And you’re doing the same for beauty pageant contestants. And you’re doing all this in epic, international proportions, completely oblivious to the fact that in a couple years nobody’s going to care what you have to say and honestly don’t care now but we can’t peel ourselves away because we haven’t seen such a personal Hindenberg incident since Britney shaved her head and beat up a car.

Stop trying to be heard; you’ve made your statements, backed them up with your contradicting actions and the damage is done. Stop trying to make money. Stop trying to stay relevant. Stop telling everyone that you’re some sort of hero. Stop letting your publicist sell you out while you’re making money and getting attention for him. Stop lying to everyone about everything because we know and you’re just making it worse. Stop talking on behalf of people who are absolutely nothing like you. If not for us, then do it for yourself. Have a little dignity and just go away.

Because the blatant truth is that you’re not the Victim here; you’re the Lost, Self-Destructing, Dollfaced Moron. And haven’t we seen enough of that in pop culture?

Most sincerely,

Liz Pardue-Schultz

I give a physical, facial reaction to everything, including thoughts/memories and television programs.   I paint my nails only once or twice a year. I remember obscure things for so long that other people involved usually suspect I’m obsessive. I love writing and receiving letters and have had at least two penpals at any given time since I was 6. I only like about three physical attributes of myself. I still play “dress up” and “pretend”, although having a daughter makes it more justifiable. I listen to CDs of stand-up comedians I love on Repeat, even when I can recite the entire monologue by heart with all the right inflections. I talk incessantly because I’m afraid I’m a forgettable person - I can’t stop myself. I can remember how much I weighed every single year since I was 11. I have a giant, furry trapper hat with huge earflaps that I like to sit around the house in. I become physically ill when presented with images of certain people, some I know and some I don’t. I like to smoke cloves and read Walt Whitman and imagine myself worthy of his company and conversation. I can’t listen to some of my favorite musicians anymore because of the memories associated with them, but I still keep their records on hand just in case. I love my handwriting. I am sure that the dreams I have for myself are far larger than my purpose; I fear an overblown, delusional sense of self-importance more than anything. I get nervous around beautiful people, but not those plastic, LA “Beautiful People”-types.  I have to work really really hard not to correct every author of a misspelling I encounter daily. I involuntarily discount a person’s intelligence if I spot a misspelling in their writing; this goes double if they misspell things on purpose (i.e. Netspeak, etc.). I don’t believe humans have any Answers, but I still enjoy asking everyone for them anyway. I’ve always wanted dreadlocks but I love my hair too much to sacrifice it. I want to found a national holiday. I’ve always wanted a trampoline; it’s been on my Christmas list since I was 8. I finish about 1/3 of the harebrained projects I start. I pay extra for de-boned, pre-skinned chicken because the few times I’ve done it myself I’ve literally passed out. I realized recently I have an extensively long history of sabotaging myself from success because I’m alllll about the self-fulfilling prophecy (this is something I’m working valiantly to change.) I am overenthusiastic about reconnecting with old friends and acquaintances; I’m slowly backing away. I miss the purple streak I had in my hair. I’d love to pose for Playboy, but I’d much rather write for them. I never ever ever want to be famous, but I’m anticipating a couple of my friends becoming wildly famous because they’re truly genius and I’m excited about possibly getting to meet the cool literary celebs they’ll rub elbows with.  I really hope my one-line life synopsis hasn’t been written yet. I whittled my FB friends list from 900+ people to 350-ish in the last year and am much much happier with that level of “intimacy”. I want to be eccentric and creative without feeling like I’m putting on a show for the white-breaders around me. I don’t actually think I’m that eccentric and creative. I visit websites like ItMadeMyDay.com, PeopleOfWalmart.com, and Regretsy.com every day because the giggle value keeps me sane. I’ll wake my husband out of a dead sleep at 2 a.m. if I realize we’ve forgotten the Goodnight Kiss. I haven’t made any adjustments to my car’s musical rotation since my daughter was born - I don’t plan to. I’ll refuse to go on the news in a bizarre story because I do not want a spot on “Good Morning America” to constitute as my 15 Minutes. I like saying “Hollaaaa!” because, coming from a white girl, it just sounds ridiculous. I’ve sent 7 postcards to PostSecret and none of them have made me feel better. I have no idea how I’d blurb myself. About once or twice a year, I secretly perform a premeditated random act that could very easily classify me as insane. (Don’t worry; nobody’s getting hurt.) I used to have to argue with ignorant douchenozzles all the time but, as I have grown older, I really just enjoy sitting back and letting them make asses of themselves in the realization that they inevitably live in their own hell. I delete/destroy at least 99% of photos taken of me, even if they’re on a friend’s camera. I’m so exhausted listening to people whine about being offended; doesn’t anybody “get” that whining all the time just makes one look weak, dependent and obsessed with what others think? I miss drinking when I’m scared or insecure the most - not when I’m depressed. I was recently liberated earlier this week when I realized that, for the first time in a very very long time, I don’t owe any single human being anything anymore. I’d love it if God just loaned me the Script for a couple days.

I’m exhausted with self-exploration… altogether.

Last year, one of my friends told me: “All your fears are lies.” This is something I’ve believed for a while now but I’d never really thought of it in such a stripped-down, obvious concept: Yes! Those restraints holding me back in the form of tangible fear are fortress walls that simply do not exist. Not only do they not exist to anyone else, but they don’t exist to me, either. This is one of those things I repeat to myself daily.

However, there was a second level to the principle that my self-provided lies held me captive, that I recently discovered has been an even bigger contributor to/foundation of my general mentality and motivations for a couple decades now. And I don’t know if it necessarily applies to everyone, so I can’t make a grandeur universal statement about it like the one my friend brought to me. So instead I’ll just try to explain.

For no discernable reason whatsoever, I’ve always had this inexplicable habit of subconsciously assigning everyone I meet with a level of “Importance.” This doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re good people, it doesn’t mean that they’re intelligent people, hell, it doesn’t even mean that I like them. But, for whatever reason, in my mind, every person I come across gets placed on a scale of “Importance” and, from then on, I keep this status of them in my mind from then until forever, allowing them the appropriate level of respect or clout.

Okay, let me stop right now and explain profusely that I honestly don’t know where in hell this came from, why in the hell I do it, when exactly I started doing it, and what in the hell it all means. It could be a product of that inevitable/imperative time in adolescence when some alpha-dog bully wrangled power away from me and controlled my emotions, it could be based in some bizarre biological recognition of societal survivalism principles, or it could just mean that I’m a hypercognitive wackadoo. But, whatever the case, I’ve aaalways been one of those people who allotted a hierarchy to everyone in my immediate surroundings and adhered to these completely fabricated rulings as if everyone I knew was aware of and participating in this specific political structure as well.

[Though, to be observational for a second, I believe a lot of this exists/begins in superficial social situations like high school or Hollywood. For example, a bunch of people think So-And-So is pretty so everyone else goes along with that inherent belief even if they don't necessarily agree and she ends up winning Homecoming Queen every year or being invited to parties by people who don't even really enjoy her company, etc. (This isn't something I'm proud to say I relate to by any means, but I think it's about as close of a parallel as I can draw to what I'm talking about.)

But, outside of the aforementioned superficially-based environs, the best example of people having assigned others around them to a personal level of "Importance" to which they adhere is found in abusive relationships. Any man or woman who would abuse their partner is disgusting to begin with but there are so many times where a victim tolerates the abuse of someone who is nothing short of repulsive (in intelligence, appearance, competence, motivation, etc.) because they believe that person is "Important" or, at least, moreso than themselves. (I'm speaking in generalities here, although I have had enough friends prostrate themselves and take entirely too much abuse from hideous, uneducated, self-centered morons who would be attractive to nobody with objective taste for me to believe that this is more than a coincedence. But then, attractive, well-educated, self-aware men/women don't hate themselves enough to be abusive, so it's all cyclical, I guess... ANYWAY.)]

In hopes to find a remedy, I sat down a while ago and made a list of all the people who I’d subconsciously deemed as “Important” at any time in my life and noted how that invisible caste system had effected how I reacted to events in my relationships with them, how I thought about myself, how I made my decisions, etc. And once I’d gotten the obvious people out of the way, I started assessing every single person that I’d ever been in some personal relationship with (friends, family members, co-workers, professors, etc.) and was shocked when I realized just how screwed up my mentality had been for forever, it seemed. There were people who had the ability to make me feel unimportant or full of self-doubt who contained every single horrible trait that I loathed, and yet, they had remained on my subconscious “Important” list and I’d never stopped to think that maybe they didn’t belong there. Meanwhile, there were people who have never been anything but amazing to me and who go out of their way to love me and never say otherwise whose combined gestures of kindness couldn’t cancel out one gesture of one of the crappy people on the “Important” list in my fucked-up mindset. What the hell?!

Needless to say, I was pretty embarrassed. Especially because none of this was really news to me but, because I’d never looked at all of it objectively and admitted “I give people I don’t even like more sway on my emotions than people who actually respect me.”, I was willing to dive into drama with people I genuinely thought were gross wastes of time instead of doing anything else - including being with people who were awesome to be around… or just doing nothing by myself… again. Anything. Anything else. - just because I’d at some point deemed these people “Important”. For no valid reason. I was willing to shrug off my morals and dignity and time on people who just didn’t matter at all. And I’m not even talking about the Big false-”Important” people, but also about the more minor players of that category, like distant family members who made me feel insecure for the half hour I saw them annually or asshole former acquaintences who were mutual friends with one of my Facebook friends and would attempt to pick fights with me via “Status” commentary. The whole thing was just so stunted and backward, I felt like a naive 3rd grader who just realized that all adults don’t know everything.

So, in order to rewire my brain and reverse the current, I started over by making two new Lists. I know. I know it seems ridiculous and even more juvenile than the first subconscious “assignment system” but I figured I had to undo the procedure in an equally effective method. I literally spent a few hours going through every person I’d been in some form of contact with in the last 10-ish years and put them on a list of “Important to Me” and “Not Important to Me”. (The “to Me” part was included because I’m sure everyone is important to someone else. Just not to me. I can’t be a judge of their overall importance, you know?) I was pleased to find that the “Important to Me” list far outweighed the “Not Important to Me” list, but the few of those who were in the grey area received the benefit of the doubt and were put on the former of the lists. (Everyone’s “Important” until they prove otherwise to me. Everyone.)

I started to wonder if this categorization method, too, was unhealthy but then I realized that everyone has people who are more important to them than others. This doesn’t mean that everyone walks around and judges everyone else’s Importance (and it definitely doesn’t mean that everyone has a list sitting around of who’s “In” and who’s “Out”), just that everyone values each other differently. And I needed to work out my own personal economics for once without getting involved in everyone else’s exchange rates…

The funny thing is that when I sat and looked at the “Not Important to Me” list, I was shocked at how many of these people had not one appealing trait. Most of the people on the list sucked very very badly, but had at least one or two decent qualities to make me doubt their “Not Importance” from time to time. However, the handful of those who didn’t were just another glaring reiteration of the power of my personal agreements, especially evidenced in the way my mind automatically flipped completely over to “Yuck!” mode once I physically moved those names onto a “Not Important” list. Seriously, it was kind of bizarre. I’ve had this thing for a while that, when I find someone both annoying, intolerable and physically unappealing, I cannot make eye contact with them anymore. (I know. That is just an awful thing to say out loud. When I get to hell, I’ll get Kathy Griffin’s autograph for you.) I’ve done this my whole life, actually and it’s just something I can’t fix [or don't want to yet.] I can watch any sort of sick video you can whip out (I literally just watched a video of a girl having sex with a giant teddy bear before murdering it with a knife. Not kidding. -Thanks, Brody!) but put me in a room with someone I think thoroughly sucks and I’ll involuntarily cringe and look away the whole time. So, within a matter of a few hours, people I’d always deemed to be somehow worthy of persuasive powers and general attention became mentally unbearable once looked at objectionably. So it actually worked.

God, this whole thing reads as kind of nuts, but personally I wouldn’t have done it any other way as it’s seemed to work. And in the many months following this, I’ve made assessing the value of the people I choose to keep around me a regular practice, as I’ve chosen not to waste any more of my time on people who aren’t important to me. (Obviously, this doesn’t mean I’m not ever going to make any friends or give to charity ever again; again, I think everyone is “Important” until they prove otherwise. Isn’t that kind of a given, though?) And I am pleasantly surprised at how much better I feel in my daily life and in my relationships… although I’m still pretty embarrassed it took me this long to get to this step.

When am I going to start “getting” things when everyone else does? Why are common realizations so easy for other people but it takes me months of overzealous deliberation to understand the most basic social concepts or implement the most obvious habits? Is every Great Life Realization going to take this kind of mental defragging procedure for the rest of my life…

::shrug::

Schmeh. Better late than never.

Earlier today I wrote a blog post in which I addressed my 13 year old Self, hoping to pass on a little hope and wisdom to her years ahead. Although it wasn’t anywhere close to my best work, I found it to be healing and significant nonetheless.

This afternoon, I went to the local DMV to finally apply for a North Carolina drivers license. When I was filling out my registration, the agent mentioned that I was already on file from 1996, when I received a government ID in order to fly alone, which I had forgotten about until that moment. A freaking HOUR later, I sat in the chair and tried not to look dead-eyed for my license photo (Unsuccessful.) When the agent took my picture she glanced at the screen and kinda snorted before giving me the universal “Heh. Come here; you’re gonna love this” hand signal.

I turned the corner and was instantly stunned into paralysis, while the same brace-faced, clueless 13 year old girl I’d only just spoken to earlier today smiled back at me from the screen. (Apparently, they never discarded my photograph for official documentation purposes.) Her face, full of monobrowed, padded-headbanded glory and aching insecurity sat directly beside the image of my immediate Self, who appeared calm, suitably groomed and a bit more sure of herself than she actually is.

And for a moment, there at the Sanford DMV, it was just the two of them staring at me and the two of me staring back. And none of us knowing what it meant but all of us knowing that we understood.

Later, I asked my husband if it sounded crazy to wonder if my sentimental message of hope and love released into the Universe in hopes to reach 13 year old Me actually did have any sort of effect on how I was able to maintain a glimmer of hope in the times between 13 and 26 years old when there seemed not to be any left at all. He said it didn’t sound insane to him, but then, he’s used to obliging my Crazy - so long as it’s of the harmless variety - so I’m still a little leery.

Something about directly conjuring her image last night and admitting to myself that I did love her, I do love her, I always have loved her and writing it all down and sending that love and forgiveness and hope for her out into the Universe (via blogosphere) only to be directly confronted with her in the physical realm later that day in a completely unexpected situation that was just a random occurrence… her image taken at that exact, crucial age, during the Autumn, in a place I would never expected to encounter her again… It all just seems like a bit more than coincidence, given the specifics and the time frame.

I’d like to believe I received a “Thank you”, sent from a Self I was many years ago. Suddenly, I feel connected to this Self again with the realization that we’ve healed from each other. I’m not busy hating her and blaming her for her inevitable flaws because I see where this rugged, nearly insurmountable path has lead me, with her as my guide. And she doesn’t have any more pain from my abandoning and betraying of her at every opportunity I had, mostly because she sees how it is helping her grow, (even if it’s not her first choice method.)

Whatever insane, metaphysical energy shift that just happened, I do know that this tiny event/coincidence will warm my heart far longer than any other relationship’s resolution has.

I wonder what our reunion will look like when I am 39.