(RE: The Title. Name that showtune!)

~ There are two moments in sitcom history that make me cry everysingletime I see them in reruns. The first is when Jack and Karen sing “Unforgettable” in the series finale of “Will and Grace”. The second is episode 424 of “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air” (’Papa’s Got a Brand New Excuse’) when Will’s father Lou shows up for the first time in 15 years. They bond and decide to turn over a new leaf, Lou (played by the incomparable Ben Vereen) agreeing to let Will travel with him back to the East Coast for the summer. At the very end of the episode, however, Will’s dad bails on him again and leaves the news with Uncle Phil who tells him what a disgusting father he is. This is enough to get the Choke Throat but when Will learns of it he presents this monologue that is perhaps the most moving thing I’ve ever seen Smith perform and easily one of the best moments ever on prime-time television. (Watch the 3-minute monologue HERE. And get some tissues ready. That last line is the nail in the coffin.)

~A reader just told me she missed my prattlings so this is really what this blog entry is about. I’ve been superbusy between this new business prospect Greg and I are fervently collaborating on and working toward, battling this ongoing undiagnosed gastrointestinal problem, studying like a maniac for the GRE (and only feeling dumber by the day, still), running a functioning household, holding down the freelance writing gigs I do have, and trying to talk myself into starting Chloe’s socialization practices (Mother’s Morning Out, playdates, etc.)

I’ve still been writing to my pen pal every week and I’m honestly still enjoying it and our deep conversations. Although we haven’t spoken directly about her specific crime, she has mentioned that a lot of people have sent her hate mail over the years after seeing her listing on WriteAPrisoner.com but she feels the same way I do in that she doesn’t require forgiveness from anyone other than herself, her Higher Power, and those that she has directly harmed. It sounds like, after 7 years in the slammer, she’s really used the resources that the prison does implement to start mental recovery. She’s mentioned that, if anything, the penal system only produces criminals unless the prisoners actively seek out help and reform, which is what she feels is the best expenditure of her time. I admire that. I also really like that she’s not an idiot. I know that sounds bad, but she never graduated from high school, so I kind of expected someone not quite literate or some other shallow preconceived notion of what an unfinished undergrad education would provide [that I realize is horribly wrong of me so there's no need for a preachy commentary.] However, not only is she rather intelligent and self-educated, she’s really into literary criticism and philosophy, which I love! I’ve been looking for someone to indulge my penchant for critical analysis and general bookish nerdiness and that’s something we both share, not having anyone to really compare mental notes with. It’s nice.

Me and Greg are working hard on our new project and hope to launch it in the next 6 weeks. I’ll be sure to start plugging it publicly once we’re on the brink of a formal presentation. Although it’s a bit of a risk and there’s no guaranteed success with it, it’s something we’re excited about simply because we feel like we’re being proactive about our progress and our future and we finally have something that we can work on that isn’t directly dependent on the responses of other people. (Although any business eventually is, it’s not up to other people whether or not we get it started.) Plus, it’s inexpensive and will only cost our time and energy, so this makes it another appealing risk that we can afford to take at the moment. Sorry to be so vague; again, details will come in the next month. I promise.

Somehow, I’m staying busy but still managing to read a new book about once a week, which leads me to highly recommend Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Jesus’ Childhood Friend. First of all, it’s HILARIOUS and, although irreverent mostly, it always keeps the pure image of Jesus intact so there’s never any rewriting of recorded history involved (and, thus, no book burning by crazy Christian fanatics whose faith is threatened by literary musings… idiots…) Like other Jesus fanfiction I’ve read, Moore tries to fill in the blanks of what really happened during those years between 12 and 30 but, unlike the other works (the dreadful version Anne Rice cranked out is what I’m mostly referring to), he never diverted from fact, but really gave Jesus a humanistic character, in that he had the same cravings and feelings of any young man and wasn’t some omniscient being right from the start. Moore also takes the time to make a few little side jokes pertaining to modern cliches and unanswered religious traditions. For example, Christ and Biff spend their adolescence(s?) seeking the 3 wise men who apparently knew that Jesus was something important when he first showed up on earth and trying to get answers about his supposed identity from them. They spend Christ’s 18th birthday with Balthazar, who lives in a fortress with a demon he keeps captive in exchange for eternal life (not relevant to this story) and 8 Chinese concubines (who are fantastic lovers and have hilarious names to coincide. Like the girl called “Keeper of the Three Tunnels of Excessive Friendliness”) who make him a glorious feast of Chinese cuisine. Biff points out that eating Chinese food on Christ’s birthday is a tradition that Jews have maintained up until today. Heh. That’s just clever. So yeah, it’s the best book I’ve read in a longlong time, which was sadly followed by Rue McClanahan’s “My Five Husbands” which is the most boring piece of drivel I’ve ever picked up. (Seriously, it’s like she didn’t even have an editor.)

So that’s the news in brief. Correspondence, perpetual health issues, plans to visit my Gran in a couple weeks, reading, studying, working on secret business mission, writing, researching grants and scholarships for both grad school and this research book I’m still planning to write… You know, the norm.

The Bear is 17 months old this week which means it’s time for another trip to Wal-Mart for ubercheap pro photos to send to family and friends. At the moment she has 2 ear infections (I hope we’re not going to have to get tubes put in,) a disgusting scalp condition that is requiring a steroid cream to treat, and the worse diaper rash she’s seen yet (which really isn’t that bad considering this is only her second.) So between my mental and gastrointestinal prescripts and her various drugs, I’ve been to the pharmacy 3 times in 8 days and I’m sure they’re convinced I’m a hypocondriac. Although aside from prescription buttcream, I HIGHLY recommend Bordreaux’s Butt Paste (that’s the real name) for diaper rashes even though it smells exactly like every Ben and Jerry’s Scoop Shop I’ve ever visited. (Seriously. I don’t know why.)

~ This all brings me to the piece de resistance, which is for me to indulge on my worst guilty pleasure to date: American Idol: Season 8

First of all, even though I wasn’t particularly “rooting” for anyone, I’m really glad Kris won. Not only was he by far the most talented musician, but he brought something new to the show, which was the exercising of artistic talent. I loved his rearrangements of popular classics and really think he’s one of those artists we may be watching for a while. Granted, I don’t really get into the whole Jason Mraz/Jack Johnson/Ben Harper acoustic-sensitive-guy thing so much (I tried. I really did. I just can’t. After DMB’s “Crash” I just lost interest. I need rock. All the time.) so I won’t probably won’t be buying his albums, but I think he has great potential to turn that genre on it’s ear. And that’s exciting. Also, while Adam Lambert is fun to watch and/or look at, his need to shriek his high-note talent at the end of every song like it’s a freaking magic trick is going to get really old. Plus, he really didn’t do anything too different to compete with Kris’ arrangement talents and, the one time he did, it was kind of boring. I will say, however, that his finale show with KISS was b’dass and I was totally enrapt during the whole performance. It’s amazing someone could make KISS fun and relevant again, if only for a few minutes.

The other unsung performance of the finale show was Cyndi Lauper and Allison “The Latina Kelly Clarkson” Iraheta doing a beautiful rendition of “Time After Time”. And who knew Lauper could rock a dulcimer?! She wins bonus bonus fanpoints from me.

And then, of course, there was Nick Mitchell “Norman Gentle”’s unexpected return to the Idol stage, which sent me off my seat in excitement. Sure, the boy’s only got one song that’s worth a damn, but I think he’s genius for having the balls to take a comedy-based fictitious character/performance art piece to a pop-oriented show like AI. I hope to God he gets some gigs and starts running the cabaret circuit. I’d buy tickets to any show he books anywhere close to the Southeast.

The rest of it was just kinda “meh” for me. I don’t like Rod Stewart at all, but watching him drunkenly stumble around was interesting. And Greg and I do a great rendition of Lionel Richie’s “All Night Long”, so it was fun to treat ourselves to that. And that was about it.

My blog entries in the last few weeks have been really boring. They’ve just seemed rambly, like I’m just pontificating to hear myself talk. I don’t know; maybe after the wave of depression recessed, I’m just having a subconscious mental break or trying to clear everything out of my mind before I start working on writings or thoughts that are worthwhile. (”The Etch-A-Sketch End of the World” as Eddie Izzard put it.)

I had a lot of things I thought I wanted to say today, that I was thinking, that I thought about expounding on. Like everything else I’ve written recently, none of it was moving or even consequential.

I sprawled across the living room floor for hours playing with Chloe, who is running around and babbling incessantly these days. After we laughed and chased each other for the entire afternoon, she walked over to where I was sitting, stepped up on my legs, wrapped her little arms around my neck, leaned her head on my shoulder and sighed. We sat like that for about an hour and, until her Daddy excitedly threw open the garage door and disturbed our reverie, I was still, smiling, and unable to think of any words perfect enough to describe today.

I didn’t waste too much time trying to think of any.

Sometimes, when I get really down about the menial tasks in my present life, wondering where I could be if I’d made different decisions, what might’ve been if the circumstances in my immediate reality were slightly different, God drops the veil between my present life and the Parallel Universe, showing me what my life would be like rightthissecond if I’d have stayed on track with my original plans, unchanged, doing the same thing with the same people in the same place with the same objectives. Suddenly, I am staring into the Looking Glass, peeking through a portal into my previous inevitabilities, like Ebenezer Scrooge during his visit from the Ghost of Christmas Future.

At first, I stand, stunned at the familiarity of a reality that is now so distant a memory to me. My eyes are wide at the horror of what I used to tolerate, what I used to consider healthy and productive, what I used to define as “love” and “trust”.  I cringe at the embarrassment of the conspicuous self-loathing I used to emote and look away from the arrogant foolishness in which I performed my shamelessly youthful convictions. My heart goes out to the dilapidated woman I see before me, bedraggled and exhausted from years of emotional turmoil and the tragic, unrewarded hope of a love requited.  The maternal part of me longs to reach through the Glass, wrap my arms around her and pull her through to where I stand but, in our powerlessness, we stand, staring at each other in the remembered grief of lost dreams.

Then, slowly,  I turn from the Glass to look at this stage that the tech crew of fate has set around me. My lips begin to spread as my eyes fall on the piles of dirty dishes and mounds of baby poo-laden clothes that surround me. I see assignments that I haven’t yet undertaken, pounds of pudge that I haven’t had time to be rid of, knots of filthy, greasy hair that I haven’t washed in days, scores of voicemails and emails I haven’t paid any attention to, let alone responded to and the smirk becomes very soft chuckles. I look at myself, a postcollegiate stay-at-home-mother with little to no intellectual stimulation, hardly any social life, and no daily productivity to speak of except amassing hoardes of rancid diapers into an overpriced vessel in the nursery and soon I am giggling hysterically. I see a devoted husband, a chatty toddler, a bitchy queen of a cat, piles of debt, excited Christmas mornings, years of financial stress, hurried school-morning breakfasts, uncertain living situations, drama with the inlaws, failed culinary ventures, the Tooth Fairy, second mortgages, career changes, white picket fences, unfinished photo albums, Stepford Wives running playdates, broken curfews, mid life crises, and more loads of laundry than I could possibly compute.

I am roaring with laughter, sitting on the floor, tears streaming down my face, slapping my thighs, gasping for breaths between outlandish guffaws. The woman on the other side of the Glass knows I am laughing at her, but I simply can’t help myself. I am delirious with glee and this sudden ambush of gratitude. Gratitude at being on this side of the Glass, gratitude at the changes that shaped my present Self when I wasn’t looking, gratitude at the precious, beautiful, perfect gifts that I wake up to submerge myself within every single morning. Gratitude at the realization that there are worries and troubles used to be a part of my daily lifestyle that are now so foreign to me that I had to peer through the Glass to remember their very existence.

If ever I needed a reminder, this is it. As the roads diverged into two separate sides to the veil, my path provided me with Love in every raw, tangible, organic form. Relief and gratitude consume my entire consciousness.

The walls shatter end the roof begins to sag as my home rumbles with rejoicing worship and the insane gales of grateful laughter.

~ We still have the mattress my inlaws slept on last weekend inflated in the guest room. Every day, for about 30 minutes, Chloe climbs to the middle of it and I sit on an office chair, lean back, and plunge my feet into the corner of the mattress in rapid succession, thus bouncing her all over the mattress. There are two perks to this activity. Not only is this is the hardest she’s ever laughed in her entire short life, but it also provides me 30 minutes of intensive cardio that focuses on my glutes and abs. Score! I’ll be sure to post a video as soon as I can get Greg to hold one steady while I bounce Chloe around. The mattress is slowly starting to outrank RockBand2 as the Best Wedding Gift Evar. (I would say the NIN tickets, but Greg didn’t actually get one of those, so it kinda doesn’t count.) 

~ Although I’ve mentioned my libidinal (libidinous? Which is right here?) return in depth (6, by the way. 6 times since last Saturday. Muahahahaha! [insert thuunderbolts here]), I should mention that I’m mostly awash in gushing, mushy love these days (which I’ve also mentioned.) This is the part that I’m starting to worry may begin to annoy my husband after a while, but I can’t imagine a man getting tired of having his laundry enthusiastically washed, his dinner excitedly made for him, and a woman who eagerly watches a rerun of Star Trek: The Next Generation every night before bed. This seems like a fair trade for hours of talk about our “feeeelings” and a daily barrage of kisses, general groping, and gushing, shameless [sometimes extremely dirty] text messages. 

I don’t know, I still feel like this is the first time since we were first dating that I’ve been mentally or physically able to pour into Greg the love and affection that I feel he deserves, especially in the aftermath of our intensive last two years. Additionally, I’m only going to be a newlywed once; I should really embrace this era and emotional high as long as it lasts. 

~ It is time to start writing again. Sure, I’ve returned to a daily blogrun, but it’s time to jump back into the saddle and start producing marketable essays and short stories. I even have an open gig as a food critic with a local golf website that I’ve been neglecting as of late that I really need to start giving my attention to again. It’s great to have a little income, but also it moves me back into the routine of writing in a more formal genre. So, starting this weekend, I’m going back to allotting at least an hour every day to tidying my portfolio, writing from the prompts given by the magazines in which I’ve been previously published, and exploring the various premises for short stories I’ve begun. Although I’m not going to be producing mass amounts of material up front, I think that gradually reintroducing a daily writing routine will be good for me given that I’m just emerging from a massive mental slump. Baby steps. Who knows? Maybe after a month I’ll even be getting up at 5 am again to work on Morning Pages. But, um… that sounds a bit ambitious right now. Baaaaby steps. 

Anyway, start watching for more self-explorative Intensive Pronoia Experiments in the near future as these have formerly provided me with great new mental avenues and introspective experiences. And getting out of my usual over-analytical blog blathering might be a much-needed change. At least for you guys, I’m sure. 

~ In shameless, mindless pop culture commentary news:

I like that both of the Muppets’ saxophone players have rhyming names. Zoot, of course, is the sax player for Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, better known as the house band on The Muppet Show. And Hoot is the resident sax player on Sesame Street who seems to have an endless contract even though he’s only featured about once every two years or so. Zoot and Hoot? Cute.

I’m terribly embarrassed that me and another brilliant young woman recently engaged in an artistically critical discussion pertaining to the possible motivations for Hannah Montana’s new, shorter wig. Ultimately we concluded that Disney is slowly allowing Miley to emerge as the predominant character in the show (and in their marketing) by making her more visually appealing as Hannah becomes a sidelined character. This is a great setup for the upcoming Hannah Montana movie in which Miley has to choose between her life as a normal teenager or her secret life as an international superstar. ANYWAY, at the end of this conversation she was at least able to justify her interest in and knowledge of Hannah Montana with the fact that she has an 8 year-old daughter. I, on the other hand, have absolutely no excuse. 

Really? We’re now calling The Rock by his real name? After he’s made tons of movies and other performances under his wrestling alias and will probably always be referred to as The Rock years after he’s made the switch to Dwayne Johnson. I’m sorry, but I’m just not buying it. 

It’s absolutely none of our businesses whatsoever, but it still hurts my heart that Rihanna and Chris Brown are reuniting. Not that I’m condoning any sort of abusive relationship, but it would be slightly more understandable if she was a poor, cloistered woman who had no other financial or emotional support than the husband who keeps her in violent captivity. Somehow, this seems a little more justifiable an explanation for a woman tolerating abuse. However, the fact that Rihanna is a massive celebrity with literally millions of men willing to take over the role as her lover and hundreds of million dollars in the bank doesn’t necessarily make her less susceptible to going back to a man who publicly humiliates her and beats her almost beyond recognition. I guess love is blind to personality or lifestyle, which I really should have learned from Ike and Tina or Bobby and Whitney. Ah well. We can surmise all we’d like but really, the only power any of us have over this situation is to pray for her wellbeing. Still, though, I don’t think it’s terribly out of line for me to feel pangs of sympathy for her. On another note altogether, it does piss me off that this is the only time the mass media takes to focus on domestic violence although it happens every single day to thousands of women (and men) across the nation (and let’s not even get into the abuse women suffer across the globe.) It only reinforces the sick idea that other women’s struggles with violence are somehow unworthy of a fight or attention unless they are beautiful or famous. Sometimes I really loathe America’s obsession with celebrity more actively than my general quiet disdain. 

Not that we’re constantly planted in front of the televison or anything, but when we’re not winding down our night with Star Trek: TNG, we always tune in for The Office. In doing so, we’ve found ourselves sitting around for the following episode of 30 Rock and, I’m not gonna lie, that show is far far funnier and brilliantly written than I’d ever supposed, even with my knowledge of the extensive talents of the beautiful, illustrious Tina Fey. And, even though I’d always supposed that he had more in him than the writers of SNL would allow, Tracy Morgan is really emerging into his own on this show and it’s a real delight to watch. Plus, Kenneth is one of the greatest characters ever created for television. Seriously, he’s more adorable than words could possibly express and I just wanna put him in my pocket and give him little treats all day long. Little guy. 

God, I hope Amy Poehler’s new show tanks. I freaking loathe that woman, mostly for her ongoing arrogance that overpowers any character that she may have taken on in the last 10 years. I actually kinda liked her back in her Upright Citizen’s Brigade days, but since she got a little attention on SNL, she’s just turned into a female version of Jimmy Fallon, sans the redundant giggling into the camera during everysingleeffingsketch. (And let’s not even get me started on Fallon’s new night show. Gah-ross.) The same friend who engaged in my aforementioned Hannah Montana banter stands by her convictions that every character Poehler took on at SNL was brilliantly implemented because it required her to overact with a sense of extraordinary self-promotion, but that sounds absolutely ludicrous to me. If anything, SNL has had a history of placing genius in the many characters that allow subtle, laid-back acting to dominate the sketches. Even the coked-out Chris Farley managed to overact with an inherent sense of humility and genuine commitment to each character, something Poehler seems completely incapable of understanding, let alone executing.

:::  Le Siiiiigh ::::

~ The sharp stench of baby poo has permeated my house from across the room. It is time for me to stop rambling, now. Such is the undeniable glamour of my daily life.

~ You know what’s better than raiding your old high school closet? Raiding your little sister [the Skinny One]’s high school closet. W00000T-ah!

~ For the first time in about a month, I’m starting to get my appetite back. This, ordinarily wouldn’t be an issue of excitement, but given that I’ve been having to force myself to eat somewhere around 600 calories a day, I’m more than glad to see its return. 

~ One of the greatest discoveries I’ve learned in my time as a parent is the fact that dancing as a response to music is instinctual. Chloe began wiggling to music with her gleeful smile long before she saw any of us dancing to music. This response is heightened with high-pitched squeals of rapture when she’s dancing to songs she particularly loves, most recently the theme to “Sesame Street” and the sub-show “Elmo’s World”. During these times, she opens her mouth in an exuberant smile and emits “EEEEE!” at a level that barely escapes the dogs-only range while she looks back at me as if to say, “Join me in the dance, mother. Won’t you?” I can’t help but laugh giant, amused laughs at her every time she does it. Best part of my daily routine. Hands down.

~ I’m sorry to resort to such triviality on my blog that’s attempting some sort of esteem, but what in Jesus-fearing hell was Kanye West’s female backup singer wearing in last night’s American Idol performance?!? I can’t find an image of it, but it literally looked like exaggerated football shoulder pads (seriously. They were at least 3x the size of normal shoulder guards. No joke.) cut into angular curves as if it was a sci-fi representation of the late XFL. Bad. Bad bad. Please. Please, God, don’t let this catch on. I beg of you.

~ My daughter is using my brush as a rake in our potted plants instead of watching “Sesame Street”. I’ll resume with the random inconsequential thoughts later.

There are some days when the bear has been crying relentlessly without rest, the phone has been ringing incessantly, the massive pile of tedious, menial things to get done seems bleak and endless, I’m unbathed and feeling trapped in a soundproofed box, and I look around at my life and think, “Christ, I’d give anything to be a starving artist, peddling my wares while I kill time at a boring, shitty temp job for just one week.”

Despite my love for my husband, my love for my child, there are many many days where I wonder what the parallel universe of my different choices would have held for me on a daily basis.

Today is one of those days.

So we’re doing better. After gratuitous vomiting (her) and sobbing (me) she’s taking some soft foods, a little bit of juice and, most encouragingly, she’s babbling and sitting up and engaging with me more, which gives me great relief. 

My baby is sick. My inlaws are coming to town today. I am running low on cash. Suuuuch trivial housewife problems. Soooo mind-monopolizing. 

These are the days I miss drinking the very most.

There is something very wrong with my baby today.

Usually, she is awake before us, playfully singing and babbling to her stuffed animals. When I enter her room she is standing at the edge of her crib and greets me with a jubilant “AAAAHHH!!” She is immediately energized and excited to greet the world, screaming gleeful greetings to her father, the cat, her breakfast, the ducks outside our window. She dances at the theme songs to reruns while I catch up on email or start on a load of laundry and she runs around the house creating excited chaos until she crashes for a nap, anywhere between 11 am and 2 pm. This is how I’ve seen her every day since she was about three months old. 

Today, however, she is eerily different. I went in to wake her at 8:30 and she looked at me lazily, turned back over and attempted to go back to sleep. When I picked her up, her little body collapsed against mine and any time she tried to move her little limbs trembled as if she was cold. I took her temperature, changed her diaper and took her into my bedroom where she curled up next to me on the bed and slept until about 10:45, when my patience gave out and I decided I had to do something. 

We turned on “Elmo’s World” (the sacrilegious last 20 minutes of “Sesame Street” that are now monopolized by the overrated red monster) which usually ignites her enthusiasm and pushes it into a complete frenzy of excitement but, today, only saw her staring at the television as if in a state of lethargy. She managed to take two whole bottles, but refused food and is now laying back in her high chair, staring blankly at the television with her head slumped over to the side. She doesn’t reach for the Cheerios on her tray, she doesn’t acknowledge the curious invasion of the cat within her personal space, she doesn’t respond to any of my smiles or attempts for conversation (which we do have, actually.)

A part of me is terrified that she’s somehow suffering from a bout of infant depression, which I realize sounds ridiculous except that her actions are so similar to mine when my mental illness is going full force. 

I’ve been chased by a wild animal down a mountain of a national park. I’ve been in social situations where I was more than positive that I was going to be very harmed or worse. I’ve experienced dark paranormal activity. I’ve been dangerously close to death (although this was of my own volition at the time.) And yet I’ve never experienced terror as severely as I do when there’s something wrong with my daughter. 

Once, when she was about eight weeks old, she woke up in the night panicking and struggling to breathe. I leapt to my feet from a deep…

A half hour later.

Holy shit. As I was typing, Chloe suddenly pushed herself to a sitting position and forcefully vomited across the kitchen floor. She immediately collapsed back onto herself and looked as though she was going to pass out. She is resting now in her crib (I’m checking on her maniacally) as I’m scouring WedMD and sitting on hold with the doctor. While she may just have a stomach bug,  I’m terrified she’s going to become dehydrated. 

Fuck. I’m scared.

(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.

My darling little girl,

After years of evidence, I was fully convinced that no person is capable of changing him/herself solely for the benefit of another third party. Even when I myself attempted to change to please someone else, I found myself falling short of that person’s standards and inevitably disappointing everyone involved, despite my best intentions. When I met your father, I was presented with an ultimatum that forced me to look myself dead in the eye and change the path my life was on in order to acquire the healthy, happy relationship we’ve been blessed with today. But even still, I was prone to shortcomings, often losing my footing and drifting into my conditioned habits.

And then I met you.

The list of characteristics I have developed since your conception is far too long to reveal here. From the moment I knew you were coming, I began to actively transform into someone deserving of such a beautiful gift and, through patience and soul-shaking, exuberantly overwhelming love for you and your life, I’ve somehow become as close to a decent person as I’ve ever been in my life. And still, I feel that no matter how much improvement I make to myself, it will never be perfect enough for you.

In the last few months, however, I have found myself sucked back into the vortex of my inherently tyrannical illness that disables my thinking and my ability to function on a physical plane. This is something I have had years of experience dealing with but never to such a staggering degree. Heartbroken and devastated, I have watched as this illness has caused me to fall short of my responsibilities to you. In my darkest moments, your Granny has unflinchingly swooped in and taken you to her home to give me time to recouperate and fight this monster that eats at my consciousness. On these days I stand at my front door weeping in the knowledge that I am wasting these precious early years of yours fighting deeply-rooted demons instead of tending to your every desire as you so deserve.  I’ve sobbed to God, to doctors, to therapists for relief so that I can return to your side and lose myself in your infectious joy and eager acceptance of this beautiful world around you and the incredible gift of your existence within it.

With this extraordinary weight, this relentless pressure, and this seemingly insurmountable guilt constantly growing in my delirium, I am far past my usual breaking point. In the world that existed before you, I would have surrendered to the demons months ago, flinging hope and sobriety to the side and plunging headfirst into whatever demise I could create for myself. (This is the path that I have taken more times than I am comfortable admitting to anyone, especially you.) This bout has been more exhausting, more driving, more painful. This round has seen my mind up the ante, pulling the rug out from my reality, breaking out new strategies to turn my consciousness against me. This round has seen me shut down completely and throw up my hands in the struggle to clutch at hope.

In the midst of my bleary, exhausted reality, however, you come to me more clearly than any other truth I may be feeling. Your unconditional love and constant joy weaken the ties my mind has on my emotion, while your whole-hearted innocence fills my whole body with the hope it so badly needs. Without any effort at all, you make me crawl back up to my feet, as I know beyond any delusion or psychosis that this woman my mind is capable of manifesting is not the mother you deserve. This empty, dysfunctional woman is not someone I want you to become familiar with, to identify as your only option for a mother figure. She is not someone I want you to grow up around or remember years later in your adulthood. She is simply not good enough to be your mother.

This is why, although exhausted and annoyed at the redundancy of my belabored intentions and methods, I continue to struggle against this mental undertow. I continue to sit in stuffy doctor’s offices listening to advice I could have scripted myself, I continue to put my body through the hell of finding the right medicinal cocktail to quell my mind, I continue to take fearless moral inventories of myself on a daily basis, I continue to at least keep going even when I feel that I physically, mentally cannot.

Every night, when I watch you resting in your perfect serenity, I am reminded of how badly I want to be the one that always holds you when you are scared at night and always comforts you when you are heartbroken. I want to be the safe haven for your thoughts and dreams, the refuge for your pain, the foundation for this beautiful life you are already building. I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything else.

You are the hope that delivers me to tomorrow.

For this and countless other things, I will never be able to thank you enough.

Much much love and light,

Castallare