Mel-ancholy.

I decided back in December that this year was going to be my year; I was going to look after myself and get my life together before I shared it with anyone else.  I joined a reading challenge, started a vlog, and actually went out on a Saturday night for the first time in ages, all in an effort to increase my confidence so that I could love myself and make it easier for someone to love me.  And it worked...temporarily.  Every time I finished a book, I'd feel like my mind had been opened a little bit more.  I signed off each vlog post exhilarated and exhausted, thrilled that people would finally hear me sing.  I woke up the morning after my night out, happily hung over.  But within an hour of achieving each of these triumphs, I was in my kitchen, staring out the window wondering what the hell I was doing in a world in which I had no purpose.  I'd stand before that window for hours as a de-motivation tape played on an endless reel in my head.  You're a terrible mother.  You've screwed up your life and everyone else's.  You've made a fool of yourself.  Why were you born?

That tape had been playing since my early teens, and the volume gradually increased until two Wednesdays ago, when a conversation with my mother brought it to an ear-splitting level and I could take no more.  The resultant torrent of blubbering gibberish may have taken a year off my poor mother's life, but it also motivated her into making an appointment to do what I had been putting off for half of mine; seeking help.  I went to my doctor on Friday afternoon and am now finally treating the source of most of my problems.  I'd liken this treatment to cleaning a cut knee and putting Bettadine on it, rather than just slapping on a band aid; it stings, even makes me a little nauseous, but I can already feel the wound starting to heal.  It'll be a while before it scabs over, and when it does I'll more than likely want to pick at it occasionally, but the important thing for now is dressing it before infection sets in, and I think I've done that.  Depression is a very personal topic, some might even consider it taboo, but the reason I wrote about it in this post was because it shouldn't be.  If you're feeling torn apart, tell someone and start repairing yourself, don't smile and deny the fissure exists.

A night on the town.

Despite the fact that I woke up this morning feeling like I'd been doused in honey and glued to a hornet's nest, I feel great.  My mouth is as dry as if I ate a pack of Marlborough's, Keith Moon's playing a virtuosic solo in my head, and I may be having an out-of-body experience as we speak, but I can't bring myself to complain.  The reason for my undue exuberance? 

I went out last night.

It took two glasses of Bailey's Irish Cream and a best friend who claims English as her second language when someone utters the word 'no,' but I did it.  We had planned this a week ago but true to form my nerves soon got the better of me and, by Friday night, I was on the phone trying to cancel. 

She was having none of it.

Yesterday afternoon, she arrived on my doorstep decked out in her Saturday night best.  Ignoring my protests as I let her in, she pushed past me into my bedroom, demanding to see my latest quarry from eBay, (I'm a bit of a vintage fashion collector).  Throwing three dresses onto the end of my bed, she commanded me to try each of them on and report to her in the hallway for inspection.  I obeyed, and we eventually decided upon the pink, polka dotted, a-line sixties dress I had originally intended to wear before I got an attack of hermit-itis.  My bestie is one of those people who believes in imbibing a bit of dutch courage before embarking on a night out, and although this is not something I would normally endorse, on this particular occasion, it did wonders.

I arrived at our chosen venue with minimal expectations, based on previous experience, and decided to have a good time the only way I know how; by acting like no one was watching.  Our laughter, and, I like to think, my 'ribald' sense of humour, attracted like-minded people of both genders and we were soon the most happening table in the tavern.  I received some favourable comments on my dress, and one on my singing by a gentleman who happened to catch my You Tube vlog, (suddenly I'm not quite as embarrassed to have picked a country song), and despite the fact that I make Elaine from Seinfeld look like the chick from Saturday Night Fever, I even indulged in a spot of dancing.  Did I kiss any boys?  No.  Were phone numbers exchanged?  No.  Did I have to go home at nine-thirty because I came down with food poisoning after eating three potato cakes of questionable quality from a dodgy fish and chip shop earlier in the day? 

Yes, but despite the fact that I spent much of the rest of the night practising my scales in a tiled porcelain studio, it still goes down as one of the best nights I've had in a long time.  I talked, I laughed, and other people responded in kind and you want to know something else?  I'm doing it again next Saturday night. 

Sans the potato cakes, of course.      

Comparatively Incomparable

As some of you may have noticed, I have added a You Tube vlog to my list of projects with which to distract myself from the fact that the only male who has kissed me in the last two and a half years that isn't a blood relative has four legs and a tail; (I kid...at least about the need for distraction).  I started 'The Confidence Project' in an effort to throw myself back into the outside world, and thus the dating world, one webisode at a time by putting myself through a series of challenges designed to loosen me up and make me feel like my existence was a valid one.  It's starting to work already, thanks to the comments I've received from the people who've viewed it so far (you know who you all are; I love you dearly).  It's also left me pondering the reasons people like myself suffer from this crippling lack of self esteem, and the one I'm going to focus on here is all too common: comparison.  I'm all too guilty of weighing up other people's assets and liabilities against my own, but does it serve any real purpose?  I'm thirty nine years old, and yet I still find myself looking at pictures of much younger celebrities like Lily Allen and Zooey Deschanel with awe, and casting an intensely critical eye upon my reflection.  I have dark hair.  I'm of roughly the same diminutive stature.  I'm reasonably attractive (my ability to admit this is only a recent development), so why don't I look like I could grace the cover of In Style or Harper's Bazaar?  Why does donning a baby doll dress similar to Lilly's make me feel more like Baby Huey than Indie Princess?  And why do I end up looking like a crack addict going cold turkey when I attempt the smokey eyed look that Zooey pulls off so well?  Because I'm not Lily Allen or Zooey Deschanel.  I'm Melissa Jane Moore, a thirty nine year old writer and mother of one who enjoys Junior Mints and Coca Cola, doesn't run unless something's on fire, and consequently has curves in a couple of places she shouldn't.

Lately, I've taken to beholding that thirty nine year old writer and mother of one in the mirror a little longer, and reminding her that she has fantastic skin, lovely eyes, and a figure that allows her to fill out her favourite red polka dot wiggle dress in a manner most pleasing to the eye, (and some lucky person's hands one day, I shouldn't wonder).  I then sit in front of my laptop and take pictures of her to post on Facebook, despite her misgivings, to let the rest of the world look upon her, and bring her that much closer to being a part of it again.    




 

Rut.

Part of the reason I started this blog was to boost my confidence, and it's worked a treat - creatively.  I'm writing better, and more prolifically, than I have in years.  Personally, however, not much has changed.  I do have brief bouts of boldness, but they tend to fade away as soon as I open the front door and the realisation hits that I'm actually about to step outside the house for some reason other than taking my kid to school or going on a grocery run.  The fact that I haven't dated in (gasp) almost three years isn't exactly inspiring me, either.  In fact, it's the opposite; because I haven't been hurt, angered, or asked to compromise during my time here at the Solo Resort, I've grown rather accustomed to the place.  The general consensus is that I should just dress up, put on a smile and go out with some friends, but I honestly don't think I'm ready yet; pathetic as that may sound.  I knew a woman once who used to have two or three drinks before she went out, to get herself into the party mood.  If I did that, the only way you'd get me out the front door would be on a stretcher, and I'd just ruin the night by drooling on everyone anyway.  The state I've found myself in could be called 'Comfortable Unease;' I know I'm lonely, incredibly so, and sometimes I fear I'll be this way forever, but I'm much too snug in my nice little rut to do anything about it.  To put it simply, if you were to put together a soundtrack to match the vibe around here, you couldn't go wrong with early Radiohead. 

I know things can't stay this way, and I don't want them to, but releasing myself from self-imposed exile seems impossible without the proper motivation.  Earlier today, I was giving some writing advice to a friend of mine, who was stuck in a creative rut.  I told him not to over think it; just sit and write and see what happens.  Don't think about it; just do it.  It's a piece of advice I know I should heed myself, and I plan to...eventually. ;)