(NOTE: This is NOT a plea for reassuring compliments. Any such commentary will be immediately deleted.)

I’ve never thought I was attractive. I mean that. I don’t mean “I’ve never thought I was beautiful.” or “I hate the way I look.” I just mean that I don’t consider myself to be an aesthetically attractive person. And I’ve sort of come to peace with that. 

Don’t get me wrong; I have days where I think I look better than usual. I felt that way on my wedding day, once during a Spring Festival Court I was nominated to in high school, once during a photo shoot north of Cairns in Australia. But these days are few and far between and seem to feel like breaks from my usual visual self.

It hasn’t always been that way, of course. In my early teens I was at the tail-end of early-adolescent-awkward-glasses-and-braces-hideousness and chose to ignore my appearance altogether, often dressing for utilitarian purposes and avoiding interactions with my mirror at all. Later in my high school experience, I was encouraged to explore my appearance as I was attending an arts school for theatre and an actor’s main tool is his/her body, so it was imperative that I looked at myself objectively.

When I looked, I saw the same thing I see now; a slightly overweight, average-looking girl next door. She wasn’t particularly unattractive, but she certainly wasn’t one of those women who would turn heads in hallways and on city streets. She was an under-the-radar mediocre and, as an actor, that should have been enough to work with. 

(This idea, by the way, was the basis of my relentless Low Self Esteem [LSE] and resulted in years upon years of allowing emotional abuse in exchange for the male attention I desperately craved. This, of course, is something I’m sick of talking/thinking about and is way way too cliche for my demographic, so we’re going to tactfully gloss over that entire aspect of my struggle with LSE so as not to make this another one of “those blogs”. You’re welcome. [insert smile here])

But naturally, as with most things in my late teenage years, I rebelled against this notion of mediocrity, grappling for a visual identity in a plethora of sartorial identities and never feeling a resonance with any of them. Eventually, I began hiding out in androgynous looks, wearing cargo pants and shapeless sweaters everywhere. This escapist look carried me into my college years and, although I took a few risks here-and-there, I always treated these bold new looks as crazy experiments, not suitable of someone like myself. I would love to resort to outlandish outfits with melodramatic zeal,  in hopes that everyone else would get the evident joke that I was desperately trying to make: I get that I’m not hot enough to pull this look off; it’s irony, people! 

The looks became increasingly bolder and, in my early twenties I found myself hiding out in them every single time I felt uncomfortable in my own skin on a public level. (Which, when added to my social anxiety was A LOT.) When I wasn’t hiding out in baggy, nondescript clothing, I was hurdling myself to the other extreme, going over the top with “looks”, coating on dramatic makeup and putting on airs like it was all just an act that everyone was in on. 

Not only this, I started obsessing about my appearance, taking photos of myself on a daily basis and plastering Photoshopped/retouched images all over internet forums and networking sites, practically begging for the confirmation and adulation I desperately wanted. I was never comfortable completely exploiting myself (unless I was annihilated/inebriated/drunkbeyondreason, of course. Then all bets were off.) but I was prone to narcissism to an embarrassing degree, all in hopes that I could quiet the resounding knowledge that I was average-looking. Somehow, seeking attention and compliments translated to happiness and comfort in my appearance in my messed-up thinking and I was a junkie for it, no matter the source. And all the while I knew that it was all entirely driven out of the fear that I wasn’t any sort of notable beauty, that I wasn’t one of those people who would ever command attention from her looks, and, mostly, that this aesthetic mediocrity was what made me worthless as a human being.   

When I met my husband, I was at my heaviest weight ever and had made a lifestyle of sobriety, which included a new modesty in my appearance. I’d dealt with my social anxieties enough to feel comfortable being seen in public, but I didn’t do much to call attention to myself and I had finally begun to settle into accepting what I really looked like. After years of obsessing about my appearance and my supposedly obvious flaws, I was taking the time to focus on my strengths and accepting my body as the vehicle it was designed to be. I started shirking away from cameras, not calling attention to myself through outlandish attire anymore but focusing on the things that were unique and attractive about myself. I started bellydancing and kayaking and going out to do karaoke with friends and finally not worrying about how I looked doing any of it. 

Now, I’m about the same. I’ve dropped a significant amount of weight since before I was pregnant, which lends itself to easier shopping and general movement, but I’ve finally resolved myself to the fact that I may never be a striking beauty that people whisper about and envy and that’s alright with me. My whole life I prayed for a significant other who would tell me I’m beautiful every day (I even argued constantly with one of my exes because he would rarely dole out compliments… sigh...), and today I have a husband who does just that, even when I was at my most pregnant or my heaviest in post-pregnancy or when I’m at my most disgusting in the early morning or when I’m a sniffling, coughing, snotty mess. Although it’s a completely new concept for me, not caring about how I look but knowing that I do visually please my partner is a welcome relief from my old habits. I still dodge his camera lens when I can, but I take a lot of comfort knowing that the weight of my old low self-esteem is being helped along by someone who loves me. 

But my focus isn’t entirely off aesthetics altogether. I’ve now become obsessed with the beauty in my daughter, often gazing at her for hours and admiring her perfect skin and puffy cheeks and wispy blonde hair and devastating blue eyes.  I love her pudgy thighs and tiny toes and pointy ears and crooked teeth with more enthusiasm than I ever loved any teenage crush.

And yes, I’m fully aware that she’s not what most people would classify as the epitome of beauty. I’ve honestly never cared less about those sort of societal standards in my life. I’m perfectly happy moving the spotlight to her, turning the attention from myself to her on every possible occasion I get, plastering images of her to show off to friends and family. For the first time ever, I show off these sort of images without a care in the world as to the responses they garner. I beam at the compliments she receives but they don’t affect me in any way after my smile ends. I am certain that if she never received another compliment about her appearance for the rest of her life, I would never find her any less beautiful.

I’ll admit it’s a strange way to find confidence despite the opinions of others, but I genuinely can’t think of a better way to learn such an important lesson.

There’s this Girl, see. Ever since high school, I’ve had this weird love/hate relationship with her, mostly based out of my own insecurities and jealousies over the fact that it looked like she always had everything I wanted. My envy started during my freshman year, when she was cast as the lead in the school play, won the school’s annual beauty pageant (it’s a Southern thing, I think) and started dating my first ex-boyfriend (while I was still unabashedly madly in love with him, of course.) She was the smartest girl in the class, blonde and perky and freaking adorable, and seemed to have the world on a silver platter. She was one of those annoyingly perfect types, the kind that teachers love and men crawl over themselves for and was president or vice president of every possible school organization and pretty much made dowdy, overweight, insecure brunettes like myself completely sick. During my sophomore year, she continued to make me seethe with envy as she got the lead in yet another school play and giggled her way into more popularity, more general perkiness, more gaping windows of promise and possibility. God, I hated her.

(Yes, I realize this is all evidence of me being a selfish, insecure, horrible person in my younger years. I’ve got that, thanks. No need to rehash.)

When I left my public school during my junior year to go to a local arts school, I heard through the Great Southern Smalltown Grapevine that she had wandered astray, dyed her hair black and run off with a college boy to the other side of the country. But, when I went to see my then-boyfriend graduate high school, there she was, leading the class, giving her valedictorian speech with confidence and pride like nothing had ever happened. Her successes seemed effortless and again, I was filled with bitter jealousy.

Long story short, I went off to college, went more than a little nuts, found myself stuck back at home, attending a university in town because of my appalling grades elsewhere. My first semester as an English major, I sat myself in a classroom to study the movements in Contemporary Literature. Moments before class was due to start, the door swung open and there She was. Awkwardly, we gave each other a “Hi?” before settling in to our seats, all the while cutting sideways glances at each other as if to say, “What the hell are YOU doing here?” During a shared cigarette after class, I finally just blurted this obvious question out, only to learn that she’d hit a bit of a rough patch in her collegiate career too and, like me, was back at home recovering and trying to finish her education. I was stunned that someone so confidently assured and successful was literally in the same exact spot as I and, in the next year we bonded over this and many other mishaps. 

A few years later, things have changed between us pretty drastically. In our transition from youth, we still managed to beat a little drama out of each other from fear and our own insecurities and, in my staggered attempts at sanity and sobriety, she was witness to a few of my very worst moments. Over time we managed somehow to exchange romantic partners, exchange Christmas gifts, give each other generous favors, call each other in desperation, love each other, loathe each other, and still come back, interested in the middle ground. How one defines such a relationship is anyone’s guess, but these days we’ve resolved ourselves to the fact that there may always be some strange bond and caring between us, wherever we happen to be in our personal lives. 

After a few years of keeping our distance from the other, we’ve recently spoken of getting together like adults, going out for karaoke and maybe trying to see what the other is actually like with a few more years under her belt. I sent a text yesterday to ask if this proposed evening was something she’d like to do in the near future and received a reply that she’d had it with her job, she’d quit and was moving out of state to chase her dream of going to a decent university for post-grad work. While she’d thought about it for a while, she had just decided to do it yesterday, had suddenly called her job to tell them to get bent, was packing her bags and leaving today to stay with some friends that she knows far from here. At first I was sure she’d lost her mind, possibly fleeing something she wasn’t ready to deal with here or running because she was confused or having a meltdown. 

And then I realized I was, again, aching with envy at her courage and freedom. Since my last year at university, I’ve longed to throw my belongings in my car and get away to chase my dreams in a better town than this. I had a new life all planned out for my life in post-graduation, planning to move to Asheville or Portland, working in a coffee house by night and going to classes at a small, liberal arts university to earn my Masters and start teaching English around the globe. If Greg had wanted to join me in this quest, I wouldn’t stop him, but I loved the idea of being young and not tied down to any one spot for any reason. Naturally, the news of my daughter’s imminent arrival put a small damper on these plans and Greg and I hurriedly made a comfortable life in which to welcome her without a moment’s hesitation. The Universe graciously handed us a number of opportunities to help us get on our feet and we were so busy being scared and nervous about this new life that we never stopped to think about anything else. As the excitement from the wedding and the new baby has gradually slowed down, change is something we think about constantly. We think about applying for new work, moving to a new city with better education and better demographics and more culture and art and life, both of us embracing our talents and being active parts of a growing society. I, personally, daydream of the days when Chloe is old enough for us to get out of the house more, when I can delve further into my education and pursue one of my dream jobs instead of sitting at home, stagnant and unimportant to this big world swirling around us. Selfishly, I long for the freedom to see the world, to chase after my dreams, to precariously pursue a dream lifestyle with nobody to worry about but myself. Never have I wished that Chloe and Greg were no longer a part of my life, but I often wish I’d spent my youthful freedom taking more chances. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy encouraging my responsibility-free friends to do this and, even though I loudly applaud her efforts, I am selfishly aching with jealousy and desire to do the same. 

Naturally, like all my personal conflicts these days, this lead to a little introspection. (I know, what a shocking change of pace for me.) Why was I jealous? Because I don’t have the freedom to go and chase my dreams or because I haven’t actually mustered the courage and initiative to put some change into motion? And then, once again, here I was looking myself dead in the face and realizing that I’ve fallen short of my abilities and need to start making some changes, dammit. (At this point, it seems like personal change is RELENTLESS.) Sure I have a baby and a husband in tow, but there’s nothing really holding us to one place except my fear of putting myself out there. I’m afraid I won’t be good enough. I’m afraid I can’t hold down a job. I’m afraid nobody will hire me because of my lack of work experience in the last couple years. I’m afraid to build a resume because my life won’t look all that impressive. Wah wah wah, so on and so forth. 

I could sit around, battling this depression and living up inside my head for the rest of my life, wondering what I possibly could do to make myself happier and promising to make big changes once I reach that Elusive Bliss for the rest of my life OR I could start aggressively working to give myself my dream lifestyle rightthisminute and never regret that I didn’t try. What an amazing notion. 

So, I’m laying out plans and starting real work toward change. No more wasting my time on side projects or sitting around waiting for the depression to dissipate before I live a respectable lifestyle. I’m filling out resumes and applying for jobs and seeking out part-time childcare. I’m building a portfolio and looking at post-grad night classes and setting some realistic goals and timelines.

And, the whole while, I know I’m doing this because I’ll kick myself if, when I get to be 50, I hear from Her again and feel a great envy for her even still. I’m ready to live a life I’m proud of, instead of making excuses for living in fear and stagnation. 

Okay, yeah, it’s admittedly a little sad/pathetic that a weird, one-sided, high school-reminiscient rivalry is what lit a fire under my ass to start making changes in my life, but, from where I stand, I’m just chalking the whole thing up to inspiration. This is a pathetic high school jealousy that I’m actually grateful for. (Oh, the irony.)

For someone with chronic guilt issues, having to decide when to stand up for herself is a toughie. And when that person has a tendency to wear all her faults, vulnerabilities, and innermost emotions right there on her sleeve, it’s even harder to know where and when to start drawing lines. 

My first response is always to launch into a diatribal monologue that exposes my every feeling toward creating whatever boundary needs to be created. I need empathy and sympathy, I need the person I’m defending myself against to know my every single reason and my every possible sentiment on the situation, I need to express my every motivation for doing what I’m doing and I need to defend why I’m choosing to defend myself, as if to justify my strong-arminess (new word alert!) to everyone on the planet and convince this person I’m defending myself toward that I’m not a bad person, I’m just looking out for myself. It’s the ultimate in passive-aggression and yet it’s so difficult for me to make the move, to stop whatever’s hurting me with a definitive “NO!” 

It doesn’t make any sense. If someone was attacking me physically, I wouldn’t say, “Um, I’m sorry to tell you this, but that knife is really frightening me and, if you don’t mind, would you just put it away and leave me alone? I’m sorry to thwart your plans, but I really just don’t feel like being stabbed today.” I’d bellow, “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” and kick and scream for my life. 

But when it comes to emotional pain, I’m somehow a giant wuss when it comes to defending myself. I feel guilty telling people to back off their agendas, that what they’re doing hurts me, that their actions have very deep repercussions to me that aren’t healthy to my mental state.

I don’t know, maybe I assume my mental well-being isn’t as dire a thing to protect as my physical well-being… Well, that’s just effing ridiculous. If I’ve learned anything about myself, it’s that my mental condition is the thing that has to be the most guarded. It’s pretty damned fragile. 

Maybe I assume that people don’t take my mental state as seriously as I do… But in The Four Agreements lifestyle, I’m supposed to be not caring what other people think of what I need.

Maybe I feel like I deserve to feel bad, especially when it’s from people that I’ve hurt previously… 

…Well, now I think we’re on to something. My sponsor’s been telling me for years that I can’t be held hostage for the mistakes I made years ago by myself or anyone else. But, the minute someone I’ve previously hurt needs or wants something from me, I bend right over and let them take it from me in hopes that this redeems me from whatever it is that I did to them. Even if this person has openly forgiven me, I’m the most vulnerable to him/her because I desperately want to prove myself as a better, selfless, more giving person. In fact, I don’t think I’m more giving to anyone else than I am to those I feel I’ve wronged. 

And this has definitely caused me a lot of heartache. For the first few years after I started The Steps, I’d let both family and friends remind me of how much I sucked as often as they needed to to help them express themselves. I learned to let go of trying to control everyone around me and let everyone react to me the way that they wanted, which really hurt but felt like I was finally doing something right. As those close to me slowly learned that I wasn’t going to slip back into destruction mode, they started resting a little, letting things go, really forgiving and forgetting what had happened. And then I started going after that Step 9 with a vengeance, seeking out every single person I’d ever hurt and trying to make things right. Even people I didn’t necessarily care about heard sincere apologies from me and could have had me jumping through hoops had they only asked. I wanted so desperately to prove to myself and those who knew me that I was actually changing, getting better, working toward a better life that I totally immersed myself in seeking redemption. 

I’ve talked about it before, but in the years since I’ve become the kind of person who admits she’s wrong even when she might not be. I’m the first one to tap out of a fight, assured that I’m just being an asshole again and I’m constantly offering apologies, admitting to my obviously ever-present flaws, generally apologizing for any hint of burden or trouble I’ve ever caused anyone. Somewhere along the line, I stopped seeking redemption and started apologizing for being alive.

I am a modern day Eeyore. 

So, recently, when I found myself being indirectly hurt by the actions of someone I’d hurt in the past, I was stumped. My first reaction was to spill my every emotion on the matter, how I felt guilty, how I cried about it, how I was angry at being hurt, I was frustrated for being put in an easily-manipulatable position, I was miffed about feeling taken advantage of and disposable, I was pissed for having my kindness being complicated and overextended, I was pissed for having my feelings and vulnerability taken for granted, I was scared to defend myself but I’d bitten my tongue long enough, yada yada yackety schmack andsoonandsoforth. Knowing me, I could have belabored it for hours, explaining my motivations for saying “No”, delving into the very depths of my psyche and my past and how it all resonated and what it should mean to this person who was causing me pain.

And then, of course, I immediately felt guilty for wanting to say anything at all. Who was I to stop this person’s agenda? I’d screwed things up for them before, why not feel some more on my side? Maybe this person had things to express, things I needed to hear! Maybe my pain hadn’t been rehashed enough! Maybe there were things I needed to feel more so I could extract more lessons and more humility!

My mind sloshed back and forth between the two extremes for a while until I was sufficiently terrified to do anything at all. Resolved to just keep my mouth shut, I surrendered myself to whatever pain may come in hopes to keep the boat steady and on course. 

Until something kicked me in the ass:

THIS IS THE FUCKING LESSON, DUMBASS.

And I strapped on my big girl stompy boots, wrote a letter unabashedly defending my emotions and needs, and sent it without a second of regret. 

Score one for me. I think my new resolution is going to be trying out assertiveness. I certainly need it more than weight-loss, even if I was 250 lbs.

My Gran used to call them “pity parties” to make fun of our human need to feel unabashedly pitiful every so often. Dane Cook talks about them in all their messy, redundant glory, pinpointing all the hideous, grotesque natures of them and our complete release of inhibitions during them. I’ve heard that we all do it and yet it’s something that happens only once biannually for me, something I never think to resort to even though it’s the one thing that can really make me feel both rejuvenated and exhausted when it’s all over.

The Great Cry was imminent.

Here I am. 36 hours into increasingly-melancholy sleeplessness and a strange hungerless starvation, days into abandoned hygiene, three-ish months into yet another battle with this stupid mental illness that just will not go away despite thousands of dollars in medication and doctor’s bills. The one-day pile of dishes in the sink is insurmountable, the daily “To Do” list is nothing short of impossible, the teething baby can’t seem to settle into a routine without wailing for constant attention. Every conversation is a massive undertaking, every action equivalent to hauling stones up an Egyptian Pyramid and the redundancy of this obnoxious mindset is enough to irritate anyone into insanity.

Still, though! I’m pushing forward! Valiantly! Getting out of bed! Bravely! Washing linens! Courageously! Caring for baby! Trying to make myself write essays for deadlines, make phone calls, respond to emails, help out an old friend, tidy up the house, mail letters, make grocery lists! Taking a shower! Nobly! Forcing food down my gullet! Fighting the good fight! Not letting my mind get down on myself! Yay, me, for beating back my stupid effing neuroses for one more day and doing what I needed to do to be functional like every other normal person in America can without extra effort!

Suddenly, It was upon me without any prelude or hint of warning. It was like the rug I personally crafted every morning in determination to face another day was suddenly yanked out from under me and I was crumpled on the floor, crying great, heaving sobs in unfiltered self-pity, exhaustion, and frustration.

I was shuddering in devastated agony, not just about the dishes or the laundry or even about my greasy hair or lack of sleep, either. I was sobbing about everything my mind could possibly manifest that has ever made me feel dilapidated, unsuccessful, and pitiful up to this point in my tiny, decent life. I cried about repressed personal issues I’d never stopped to explore my feelings about and stupid things I’ve delved into and cried about ad nauseum over years. I cried about times I’d royally screwed up everything and times I thought I’d screwed up everything that probably weren’t even a big deal to anyone else. I cried about how ill-equipped I feel to handle my daily life and I cried about how I have no idea what I’m going to do with my future as a whole. I cried because the clean clothes haven’t been put away and I cried because I don’t know what my purpose in the world really is. I cried because I want to be successful and then I cried because I’m often too terrified of various minor obstacles to let myself be successful. And then I cried because I felt so guilty for crying in the first place.

For about a half hour, I stopped putting on the happy face, stopped glossing over all my insecurities and outright fears, stopped fighting my underlying emotions, stopped making jokes, sat on the floor and let myself become a sniffling, helpless wreck. I really milked it, too. I kept feeding my mind all the pathetic, self-pitying notions I possibly could conjure until, gradually, the heaves became smaller and the tears slowed to occasional drips.

Finally, I helped myself to my feet, exhausted and still wiping drops from my puffy, blood-lined eyes. I brushed the wrinkles out of my clothes, took a single cleansing breath and was finished. There was no more energy for pity, no more interest in tears or doubt or nagging self-deprecation. The ever-present Critic in my mind was finally quiet. The frustrated lump that resides in my throat was somehow gone. I was suddenly buoyant with an unusual lightness, almost like I’d checked off that one giant task on my “To Do” list that I’d been putting off for ages. My mind was clear to think about being normal, functional and rational, my body wasn’t tied down to the racing thoughts of my overbearing subconscious. My body and mind were working together like a well-oiled machine for the first time in a long while, communicating between each other without getting tangled in the wire-trips of my fears.

Assuming that this specific episode is evident of the very worst my neuroses and memories and self-pitying/loathing can possibly make me feel, I realized that I had survived it without a single scratch or loss to my overall well-being. Which meant that even if I should encounter this level of insane, overwhelming, hysterical grief again, I would be able to embrace it in the knowledge that I’ll feel refreshed and cleansed afterward [instead of chronically terrible for the rest of my life, which I was somehow expecting.]

Makes me wonder what the hell I was fighting so hard to avoid feeling in the first place.

I’m not going to say I pwned depression or anything outlandishly brash, but I suddenly feel more equipped to handle the constant pressure of my oppressive neurotic thoughts, knowing that the worst self-inflicted feelings imaginable are all survivable. This massive wailfest doesn’t feel like a daily/weekly practice, of course, but more like a tremendous ritualistic release that I’m suddenly not so afraid of, should it crash over me again. It’s like having a secret antidote tucked into my arsenal for when shit really goes down. Actually, it seems like all the destructive power has been stripped away from those deeply-seeded subconscious mantras of mine now that I realize that they can’t really do anything worse than what I’ve already experienced firsthand. Wow, that’s liberating. I’m not saying I’m cured, but I’m definitely hitting a new level of optimism and not a moment too soon.

So, what I’m saying is: Bring on the Pain. I have another strategy to work with.
(Preferably after I blow-dry my hair, though. And take a nap.)

NOTE: I’m literally exhausted from the last few unbelievably mental-havoc-wreaked days, to be completely honest. I think it may be time to hermit myself away for a while and meditate quietly to myself for a change. If nothing else but to rest up for more of the same, although I’m planning on being more optimistic than that. (Depression makes for terrible blogging, I’ve noticed.)

This may be the nerdiest thing I’ve ever confessed to, but I so very badly miss being in an active university environment. I miss having my work read and criticized by egotistical professors, I miss getting into screaming arguments with other strongly-opinionated students (and sometimes professors) about things that absolutely didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, I miss the engaging conversations about ideas and revolutions all these other inconsequential luxuries that a well-rounded wealth of knowledge provides.

I know, coming from someone who failed out of university for three solid years and took 7 whole years to acquire an undergraduate degree, it sounds really ridiculous.

But the truth is, at my core I’ve always loved learning and the idea of school. When I was just starting kindergarten, my mom got me my very own desk and I loved sitting at it for hours doing “homework”, sometimes until the sun went down and she called us in to dinner.  (This usually consisted of me coloring in a coloring book or “practicing my penmanship” by scribbling my first name matched with the surname of my favorite New Kid on the Block.) I loved the feeling of accomplishment that I felt when I made decent grades and my parents eagerly encouraged my advancement in school.

Soon, I was that annoying kid in my class who was always making straight A’s and always acheiving a little more than what was required. In kindergarten, I read more books than anyone else and my teacher took me and my bestie to dinner and a movie. (Funny story: She was supposed to take us to see ‘Honey, I Shrunk the Kids’ but forgot to check the local listings at our town’s tiny Cinema 4. So, instead, she took two 6-year-olds to see ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’. True story.) In first grade, I scored 100% on every single spelling test I took all year. In third grade, I did more voluntary book reports than anyone in Mrs. Moore’s class and I won her annual Multiplication Bee. What’s even more nerdy and embarrassing is that I didn’t enjoy the adulation as much as I genuinely loved learning. I consumed piles of books and delved intensely into researching any little thing that fascinated me and I was quick to try to engage my peers in discussing what cool things I was uncovering in my extracurricular explorations… And, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why I got picked on so much.

Then, around middle school, I started dealing with my first devastating depressions and my grades plummeted. My poor parents thought I was just being teenager-y but the truth was that I’d lost all interest in anything that had excited me. I dragged myself through school, hid away in dark colors and layers of self-loathing until college when it all collapsed into a drunken, insane mess. Gross.

During that time, there were glimmers of my real curiosity that would peek through my own shroud of doubt and fear. One semester, I even traveled abroad and performed in an award-winning comedy troupe, but I wasted many nights of my adventure shaking and sobbing in overwhelming attacks of panic and depression. This sudden relapse ultimately caused me to fail out of every class I’d been succeeding in until the last two weeks of my stay and managed to set me back tremendously in my general recovery.

Only during my last year of college, after I started receiving adequate treatment for my depression did I start to recapture that sense of excitement with trying new things and learning everything I could about anything that piqued my interest. My senior year, I threw myself headfirst into bellydance and kayaking and student organizations and my classes. I stopped missing classes, and started talking and engaging in friendships with other BA’s that roamed the halls with me daily. Although my habitual inner-critic was working overtime to scare me back into my hole, I pushed forward and was able to really enjoy myself for a change. I really felt I’d recaptured this part of myself that I hadn’t seen since I was very young and had honestly believed had perished with age. And, even though my new friends picked on me about it, (Ahem…Hayley.) was glad to see my inner nerd return.

You know the rest of the story. (Through working with various student publications, I fell for the student magazine’s sexy art director who whisked me off my feet and had me pregnant and engaged within months. Two years later, we’re married with a one-year-old and living happily while working in our respective fields of expertise. M’aawww…)

I think I was too excited to really notice how much I missed school when I first graduated, because I was so busy being excited about my pregnancy and hurriedly preparing for my daughter’s grand entrance. I read every bit of material about the stages of pregnancy and parenting and What to Expect and thoroughly exhausted myself with diving right into this new, uncharted territory that I didn’t have time to notice that I missed deep, theoretical conversations about linguistic history or Victorian-era scandal.

Now, after sitting at home with a baby every day for a year, I find that I am suddenly ravenous, not only for human interaction, but for mental enrichment. I’ve finally started making time for pleasure-reading again, which has found me reading contemporary classics and popular spiritual new releases, but this just doesn’t seem like enough for some reason. I’ve even gone so far as to create an online writer’s workshop among some friends within a popular social networking site in hopes to recreate a sense of growing through critique that I so enjoyed about being a literary English major. (I know, totally nerdy). More than once, I’ve discussed starting or joining a book club with friends, but my time is so limited I can’t actually make that sort of commitment just yet. So, right now, my enthusiasm for learning is being quelled by a couple hours of The History Channel after dinner during the one night of the week with Greg and the few hours of reading I get after Chloe goes to bed on the nights that Greg has freelance work to get to. I’ve ordered a few books from Amazon to learn about various topics of interest, like the Women’s Movement or the Sexual Revolution or, most recently, The Gnostic Gospels.

I hate the idea that I’m wishing my daughter’s life away but, sometimes - especially when things are particularly unglamorously stressful on the homefront - I really look forward to the day when I can go back to school and really throw myself into graduate work. I feel like with the enthusiasm I have for continuing my education, it won’t be hard to recreate the momentum I had at the end of my undergrad career. And I know in a few years when she goes off to school I’ll have more time for selfish things like a career and more education, but being that patience has never been my strong suit, I’m having trouble accepting that I might just have to wait that long.

In 2009, I’ve decided to quit holding myself back. This habit is extremely long-seeded and is an every-single-moment-type meditational process. I’m so used to second-guessing and thwarting every single action that I take that I’m having to slowly coax myself through each day, internally encouraging every decision I make and constantly repeating the mantra “Push things forward.” From getting on the treadmill to spritzing a new perfume that seems too flirtatious for how I view myself, I’m pushing myself to step outside my comfort zone. On day 4, it’s already starting to seem easier.

Aaaaanyhoo, it seems I’m enthusiastically plunging forward with creating my Yum in the Tub Scrub business and I’m getting excited about making this my side project for this year. I don’t hope my line becomes the next Blue Q or anything, but I’d like to make a couple thousand every year selling my product online and in boutiques in the area. (And if Oprah wants to feature me on her Favorite Things episode, then so be it.)

I’ve loved preparing this project alongside Greg, who’s an expert in marketing, designing packaging and other aspects of commercial graphic design I couldn’t begin to understand. Every night for the last couple weeks, we’ve worked on banging out web advertisements (like those seen at MBRN.com), print advertisements (like those I’m hoping to get into Bust Magazine by the end of 2009), labels for regular jars, labels for sample jars, packaging for shipments, business cards, promo stickers, new webstore layouts, etc.

The thing is, when we’re collaborating, it hardly seems like work and we find ourselves sitting up for hours working on photo editing and designing other things for around the house and in our personal lives. In fact, at the moment, we have a few side-projects going that we eagerly get to every other evening or so. Who knew I’d actually think it was nice being able to work with one’s spouse creatively? Hunh…

However, as my list of Things To Do for the Business piles up, I’m starting to get overwhelmed. What do I know about pitching a product and creating retail price packages? I don’t know anything about taxes! I don’t know how much I should charge for a sugar scrub in a market where people are literally selling homemade bubble bath in schwanky boutiques for $36!! (In South Carolina! Can you believe it!?) Suddenly, my small side project has taken on new life. I’ll need printed labels and shipping materials and should I apply for a business loan or a business credit card and where should I get my wholesale products from and should I go ahead and stock up on supply or wait until I have an actual buyer and should I be taking small-business classes over at the local tech school or just kind of wing it and should I jack up my online prices if retailers choose to sell my product for double my online price!??!? I’m up until 2 a.m. these days making lists of materials and expenses and things to get done and then, of course, the lists of the lists so I’m staying on top of everything.

The hope is that once all my overhead planning is out of the way, that my business will be able to run like a well-oiled machine where I can provide retailers with product monthly and introduce new products gradually, perhaps once every six months when I’ve had some time for R&D. But right now? It’s turning into a lot of work having to do with numbers and contacts and graphs and learning about business and paperwork.

And somehow, despite all this discomfort and uncertainty, I’m getting more excited about my tiny business every day. This is a good feeling.

Attn: MSNBC, CNN, NBC, Reuters, BBC, CBS, and… FOXNews (if we must)

I’ll advise you to go ahead and cancel all other news stories today to make room to discuss my infant daughter recently STANDING UP ALL BY HERSELF without ANY exterior support from ANYONE for almost a WHOLE MINUTE!!!!!!

I will be issuing a press release shortly to cover details of this momentous occasion and field questions pertaining to Chloe (11 months old), who has been publicly recognized and critically lauded as The Most Beautiful, Brilliant, and Talented Person Ever to Inhabit the Globe. Please no shouting or flash photography around Ms. Pardue-Schultz and DO NOT bring up the Poopocalypse Incident of last September or all cameras and notes from the event will be confiscated and a press package will not be issued.

Thank you,
Castallare

“Men can starve from a lack of self-realization as much as they can from a lack of bread.”                                    ~ Richard Wright

I’ve often been accused of being a bit of a “bleeding heart” in that I cannot say “no” to cookie-bearing Girl Scouts or overpriced independent merchants just as much as I can’t bypass a beggar without sharing what I have or walk away from a charity without giving at least something. But really, I’m a pretty Americanized version of a bleeding heart when it comes right down to it. Before I was pregnant, I dreamed of joining the Peace Corps to play pretend in another country and observe their lives from the perspective of an overprivileged Westerner. I imagined myself working side-by-side with natives to learn a language and build schools and hospitals to return home and tell everyone I knew about this beautiful, vast world that exists beyond the commercial bubble we pride ourselves on maintaining. I even imagined the smug new attitude I’d gain as I became more worldly, more “experienced” in things like poverty and despair that obviously would make me a better, richer, more self-fulfilled human being who could educate these ignorant Americans to the great struggles of the world around me. I thought, foolishly, that traveling out and seeing these things for myself were the only ways I could actualize myself as a generous, caring person who was helping the world instead of sitting inside my little wealthy bubble and wondering what I could do to look better, make more money, gain more fame.

Naturally, when I made the decision to raise a daughter and marry, I assumed the responsibilities of giving Chloe the best life she can possibly have. We have plans to travel and live abroad, but admittedly, we will plan to live in areas that are “safe” and socially sound, instead of risking ourselves and our cleanliness as we might’ve done if we didn’t have a little one in tow. Now when we peruse emigration possibilities, our interests settle on places like Australia (duh), Italy, Spain, Ireland, and Greece instead of India, South Korea, Peru, or South Africa as they were a few years ago. I feel myself pulling back into my eliticism and I’ve been struggling very hard not to hate myself for subscribing to such a spoiled, self-centered/serving mentality in this new domestic life I’ve obtained.

In my depression, my mind first begins to convince me that I am worthless, usually by pointing out that I give nothing to society. Recently, this has been really pulling at my conscience as I find myself staying at home and watching my daughter day in and out, only emerging to replenish our household needs or attempt to sell someone something for the purpose of making a little money. Most days, I am embarassed to be so “kept” and comfortable when there are people starving and struggling to stay alive in regions of the world I have never visited. Even moreso, I am ashamed that my mind is convincing me to consider suicide when I have so very much to be grateful for and live a life of luxury that many cannot fathom. It’s enough inner-turmoil to drive a person insane.

In my search for purpose and peace, I’ve decided to take a new route with my service and understanding of the world. Instead of whining that I can’t contribute to the world at large, I’m taking action larger than I have before. Usually, I’m pretty charitable in general; I give blood every 6 weeks, I donate money regularly to CASA, I rescue kittens and find homes for them, I buy $1 umbrellas to keep in my car and hand to those trapped out in the rain as I’m driving around, at Christmas I choose a child from one of the McDonald’s Angel Trees and go on a shopping spree for everything on their wish lists (this usually maxes out my credit card because I LOVE shopping for kids.) These things make me feel useful and helpful within my community and yet, I still feel completely disconnected from the sort of aching and despair that I’ve read and heard about for the entirety of my life. I still feel like a social fat cat, sitting in my palace, sprinkling my spare change on those who are begging to stay alive. Gross.

So, I’m making some changes. I’m starting small and starting with myself. For a few weeks, I’m assuming a diet of 1 cup of beans, rice, OR oatmeal for every meal, to better understand hunger and what it means to not have the option of more. (I won’t be weighing myself, by the way, so this isn’t some gimmick for weight-loss.) I’m not naive enough to believe that I will have a complete understanding of hunger and loss during or after this experiment, being that I will be enjoying these meals with my family in a heated house with the option to eat more if I decide to, but I hope the monotony and time away from culinary indulgences will lend me even a little bit of perspective. Additionally, I’ll be limiting my indulgences on a number of levels. I’m the queen of indulging myself to make myself feel better, always making time for a nap if I feel I “just can’t handle things”, or having a once-monthly cigarette “to treat myself”, or snacking on something calorie-laden after a rough day “because I deserve it” and, naturally, none of these things actually make me feel any better about myself. (I know, this is painfully obvious to most people.) Sure, momentarily a nap makes me feel luxurious and pampered, a cigarette makes me relax, and eating icing from the can makes me shudder with chocogasm, but in the long run, they haven’t strengthened me and have turned me into this self-indulgent wuss. I’ve gotta change that if I’m going to grow. It’s seriously overdue by at least a half-decade. So I’m also cutting out my leisure time spent on the Internet, flipping through vapid magzines, and watching mindless television. I’m stripping my life down to simple pleasures and finding purpose and contentment in tasks and routine. It’s a life I’ve always admired and it offers me no chance of escaping into hours of mindless facebook/celebrity-site-stalking or “Desperate Housewives” reruns on Lifetime or reading about Heidi and Spencer eloping in US Weekly (ugh.) I want to be happy and content with being organically, soberly alive and I feel certain I’ve got to strip myself of all my typical, habitual diversions for a while in order to do that. Finally.

I know, it seems like a rather selfish mission with a few ulterior motives, but isn’t everyone’s humble quest to better themselves a little selfish inherently? Even Mother Teresa worked to serve others, but she still took time to focus on herself and better herself as a person, if only to be a better servant. Meher Baba declared “Mastery in Servitude” to be his movement’s motto in 1938 and many flocked to his beliefs in hopes of finding salvation through giving. I don’t think these leaders were wrong in their methods for self-actualization. To me, it’s all about learning to love yourself and learning to give to/love others all at the same time. I think it’s all cyclical and, mostly,  I know that I can’t be of any service if I’m not a functioning, capable tool.  [Insert "tool" joke here.] 

Also, I’ve finally stopped making excuses and have adopted a child through Compassion which I’ve always heard is very reputable and a great overall organization. Although I’m not necessarily fond of the whole missionary/Christian/bible-thumping-agenda tie-in, I like that they have a longstanding healthy relationship with each country involved and a dependable history in general. I’m sponsoring a 15-year old girl in Peru who enjoys listening to rock music, playing volleyball and reading… So maybe I’m playing favorites a little. However, I wanted to choose a girl who was right in the throes of adolescence as those are the years girls in Peru (and other povertous countries) tend to drop out of school and turn to alternative employment. I like the idea of giving her the creative outlets and an opportunity for a voice that I was awarded when I needed it in my teens and, while I’m sure I won’t be able to save her or anything, I feel like I’m doing something important for someone outside my little American bubble. That’s brought me a little peace already.

Those are among the new steps I’m making to get out of my head, find some sanity/purpose and work on a global scale. Like Ed Norton’s character Sheldon Mopes says in Death to Smoochy, “You can’t change the world, but you can make a dent.” I’d like to start working on my dent, which seems like a better new direction than the ones I’ve been trying to find something tangible and alive to focus on.

I don’t expect this to revolutionize my soul or create some newfound energy in me where I want to conquer the world a la Winfrey, but I hope that this small meditation and change in my habits will give me a place to stand firmly and rebuild some sense of self. I feel optimistic.