Unexpected therapy

Today was my first scriptwriting class. The instructor is quite cool, and as it turns out is also a producer at the BBC.

NBD.

One of the first things she had us do was pair up with a stranger and stare into each other's eyes for 90 seconds. You're probably thinking the same thing I did: UGH. It was exactly as awkward as you would imagine it. Yet for some reason I found myself doing it with very little trouble. When my (younger, obviously) partner would begin giggling to relieve her discomfort, I would just give her a little smile to let her know that was ok, even though I wasn't laughing. I find eye contact terribly uncomfortable, so it was surprising to me that I managed as well as I did. I can't lie, I'm still a bit proud of myself.

After that we had to interview one another, the process of which would give us the chance to determine what type of rock star, politician, and movie character the other would be. After the first few groups went up and got this wonderful/terrifying analysis of themselves done in front of the class (by not only their partner but by the instructor and the rest of the class), I was dying to go up and find out what they had to say about me. Because I am forever assuming how people see me and I just couldn't pass up the chance to see how people actually see me, even if somewhat superficially.

It was possibly the most interesting and insightful thing I've ever been a part of. I won't go into details just because it would take a novel to really dig into it, but I what it made me realize is that I'm actually an interesting person with my own story that's worth telling. I know it sounds kind of like I'm fishing for whatever when I say that, but the truth of it is that most of the time I don't feel that's the case. That I'm just one of the masses. As many people probably do, or why would "Jersey Shore" exist?

Random observation of the day: As a movie character, I was the strong, independent woman. As a politician I was Hillary Clinton. As a rock star I was Janis Joplin or Stevie Nicks. I will definitely take that last one.

2012

What an insane roller coaster this year has been.

A year ago I was finishing my first semester at University. I was in a state of perpetual pretzel hoping that I might be able to spend a year living in London, but had no idea if it would actually happen. I was completely clueless about how insanely difficult it would be to get here even if I could... not that it would have stopped me for a second. I hadn't started on anti-anxiety meds yet. I hadn't experienced doing homework in a pub under Tower Bridge or accidentally wandering past the BBC building or knowing that my corner shop sells bread for 15p cheaper than Sainsburys.

Now I rarely have to look at the Tube map to figure out where I'm going. I know where all the good walking-distance pubs are. I have a GP and a National Insurance Number. I've seen several mysterious filming situations and also the Lord Mayor ceremony while randomly wandering the city. I found the best pub EVER, sang karaoke, had my American-ness drunkenly saluted, danced, and wandered London at 3am looking for the night bus to get me home. There's been money difficulty and culture shock and struggles to keep up with my schoolwork. There's also been new friends and new experiences and a lot of stopping and living in the moment with wonder.

I have no idea what 2013 will bring, but I have no doubt it will be exciting and terrifying and amazing and depressing and just plain awesome. Hope yours is the same.

Just a little slip...

For the past two months, I've been seeing a chemical health counselor in an attempt to alleviate my tendency to sail well past enjoyable levels of drinking and straight into glassy-eyed, slow motion, blackout drunk. Of course most of us have experienced this at some point in our lives; for me, it happens every time I get near alcohol.

There are a number of reasons I binge drink; one of the big ones is social anxiety. I'm intimidated by parties and clubs and all the people that are probably better than me, until I've had ALL the booze. With the help of my chemical health counselor, I've been working on calming down the binge side of binge drinking so that I can enjoy myself without getting trashed. It's a wet program of sorts... the idea is not to quit drinking altogether, but to slow it down and drink at a reasonable level. It's been going remarkably well.

Until Monday.

I thought it might be a good idea to try pushing myself a bit with the social side of things, since I'd experience a couple of social events without blitzing. There's a local gay bar that has a goth/industrial night on Mondays; goth/industrial is the kind of clubbing I grew up on, the kind of music I love dancing to, the kind of people I like to be around - and there is the additional comfort of being in a gay bar. I thought if there was one place I would feel the most relaxed without needing to binge, it would be there.

It turned out I wasn't ready.

One cider became two, which was fine as a start. With the third I gave myself permission to have one shot of cheap vodka (my go-to for getting drunk quick) since I was out and doing this and should be proud and besides it's the first time, I can give myself a break. That was the tipping point of course... once I get the drunk rolling, it's nearly impossible to stop. Shortly after the second cider/shot combination, I found myself kneeling on the floor of the bathroom stall.

As I knelt there with my head hanging over the bowl, I wondered how abasing myself in front of a toilet in a public bathroom with deep beats reverberating through the walls and laughter drifting through the door could possibly be the end result of something so full of hope and desperate need and determination. How it always seems to end this way (or some similar way), every time; how instead of making me loose and fun and witty and desirable the booze only makes me dizzy and confused and sick and pathetic.

I got myself home safe on public transportation and dove into the White Cheddar Cheez-Its which are my guaranteed hangover cure. I didn't slip into a well of self loathing, I didn't cut, I didn't cry. I did wake up with a monster headache, but managed to come through it physically and emotionally unscarred.

It's not the end of the world, I know. It was just... too much, too soon. I think I'll get there eventually, to that place where I don't have to dangle the sparkling bottles in front of my eyes to distract myself from the loneliness and worthlessness that still lives inside me. I hope that someday I'll be able to get out on the floor without the taste of ashes in my mouth; to close my eyes and dance without caring if anyone is watching.

Closing one door, opening another

Today is kind of a big deal. It's the last day at my job of nearly two years… but really it's ending a chapter of my life that started more than seven years ago.

In early 2004, I stopped mucking about and decided on a career path. Time to stop all this mucking about! I thought determinedly. I'm 26 now and it's high time to be an adult! I then promptly began to go about it in the wrong way.

I went to community college and plowed my way through a year of generals just to get them out of the way. My second year of school I was working a 40-hour week, taking 16 credits at another school 50 miles away, and commuting four days a week to go between the two. I look back on that year and honestly, I have no idea how I didn't go completely mad. (I reserve the right to assume I'm not mad on my own blog, so there.)

By the third year I had begun to realize that I wasn't doing as well as I wanted to in school (despite quitting my full-time job and moving much closer to school). But I had already invested time and money, and I wasn’t going to just give up. I graduated by the skin of my teeth and started to slog my way through a field that was showing its true (and not so pretty) colors. After two years of clawing and scraping, I backslid into a position which was related to my field, but not doing what I had been aiming for.

I've spent most of my time at this job slowly and painfully coming to terms with the fact that I had failed at what I wanted; that I'd wasted my time and money on a career that was not meant to be.

Fear not, faithful reader, this isn't one of those tragic emo stories.

With the help of a therapist, I finally figured out that I already knew what I really wanted to be doing. Writing. Acting. Creating. I discovered that all those dreams I'd had when I was a kid were still there, they'd just been buried under years of defeat and self-doubt and forced adulthood. So I dug them out and dusted them off and put them back on. The coolest part was that they still fit, even though I hadn't worn them for the better part of two decades.

The end result of this seven-year process is that I'm starting over. I'm off to school at the University of Minnesota, entering as something between a Freshman and a Sophomore. Because one thing my first try at school gave me, besides a hell of a lot of hindsight perspective, was enough credits to skip most of the boring stuff (like Math… we hates Math, yes we do precious). I'm giving myself a few years off from being an adult to give my childhood dreams a second – well, really, a chance.

All of this has been about six months in the planning, and now this denouement is at an end. I'm about to turn the page on this chapter after a long, long time. Too long, perhaps; or maybe just long enough. I cannot wait to see what the next chapter has in store for me.

Life on the Couch: I'm a whiny beeyotch when I'm sick.

Both of my roommates and a number of my coworkers have come down with some sort of plague, and now it's my turn. I've been hacking and sniffling and weak since Saturday. I'm taking a sick day from work today even though I don't have any sick time left. I'm burning a vacation day to sit at home on the couch and make noises like a dying giraffe.

I also don't have Kleenex or any sick supplies because I so rarely get sick that I don't tend to keep them around the house and I'm too tired to go out and get some. One of the many disadvantages of being single.

I was going to post something awesome and insightful yesterday (as usual), but my poor weak hands could barely reach the keyboard. Woe!

Ok, that was an exaggeration. Still, I was feeling tired and complainey and not very motivated, so this week all you get is a lot of whining and also if anyone would like to bring me some Doritos and Kleenex, I'd be ever-so grateful.

UPDATED - Life on the Couch: A walk.

This post deals with self-injury. If hearing about this is a trigger for you, please don't read it.

I took a walk today.

This is not something I do often (like, once-a-year not often). The local winters aren't very walk-friendly, but more than that I can find the simplest things very overwhelming (see my adventures in cooking for evidence of that). I also have an 8:00-4:30 job that is bloated by a 45-minute commute. Worst of all, I rarely feel like I have the energy to do more than slog through my day.

Some of that will be changing in the near future... the work day with the awful commute is coming to an end in just under five months, and I'm working on coping mechanisms to get me through the simple tasks and activities (like walks and grocery shopping) that seem so impossible to me. I'm trying to eat better and get a little exercise so that I'll have more energy. Best of all, I'm setting off on an exciting journey, going to college to explore where my talents truly lie and to wander the bright and shining path of my life.

I also have an incredible summer to look forward to, starting with an amazing trip overseas, followed by moving out of the basement and into a lovely duplex (a move that is long overdue), a visit from a dear friend, the start of the Renaissance Festival (something I look forward to every year), and finally the end of my job and the beginning of my new life.

There's a lot of darkness before the dawn, though.

I've been spending a lot of time the past few weeks smiling harder and harder as I become more and more desperate. Time seems to be slowing down and the light at the end of the tunnel never gets any closer. Each day at my job has become agony, every small annoyance blown to epic proportions. I come home and lay on the couch and try to block out the room around me. I've been smoking more and drinking more and eating more and doing less and less. I'm holding on by my fingernails, white-knuckling my way through the next two months until everything starts.

And I beat myself up for it everyday. What right do you have to be miserable when you have so much awesome in your future? How dare you whine about having to wait, when the time is going to be gone before you know it? Meanwhile, I'm being crushed under the weight of anticipation.

Friday night, everything went CRACK.

The night was going fine. I started drinking, and was having fun. Then, before I even knew what I was doing, I was cutting. It may have been more gradual than that, but in my memory it seemed to just... happen. When it was over, I was overwhelmed with shame and horror and no small amount of bewilderment. Soon enough, I was berating myself for doing it again when I was supposed to be getting better now.

I got some sleep, sobered up, and hid behind my hangover. I napped, I showered (ouch!), I spent a few hours at my second job. I thought about what I'd done to myself, and why.

Today, I decided to take a walk. To get out of the basement and let myself be in my own head for a while, away from the darkness, out in the light. It was one of those great spring days, about 55 degrees, a little breezy, cloudy. I walked on the wonderful trail through town, looking at the buds on trees, the kind that promise leaves at any moment. I saw a cardinal, and my first robin of the season. I let myself breathe for the first time in weeks.

I knew then that I need to stop ignoring the impatience and punishing myself for it. I have to let myself feel it, and give myself a damn break already. I think I've found a better way to deal with it; instead of pushing it down, I can find those moments that make now enjoyable. Small moments, little things. I can't make time speed up, no matter how hard I try, but I can let myself live in and enjoy the present instead of obsessing about the future.

I think I'll start by taking lots of walks.

UPDATE: I was terrified to post this because some people are going to read it and be all, "Uh. Ok. Back away slowly." Other people are going to think it's a pathetic cry for attention or sympathy. I just needed to be clear that it's not my intention to elicit either of these reactions. The reason I posted this in a public forum instead of on a personal locked journal is because I think it's important to talk about it. To show that people are dealing with these issues, and that doesn't make them a bad person. I don't want to hide this part of me, because it IS a part of me, a BIG part of me, and hiding it only makes it worse. In a way it's like the bullying thing... the way to fix it isn't to stay quiet or hide it away as some deep dark secret. It's to talk about it and bring it out in the open and make sure people know that it's ok to get help.

And believe me, I am getting help. I'm seeing a therapist and am a lot better in a lot of ways. Obviously I do backslide sometimes, and this post is here to show what it's like when that happens. It doesn't mean I'm suicidal or having a breakdown. It means that I'm a human being dealing with some difficult things. Things that do not need to be a shameful secret.

Life on the Couch: Adventures in cooking.

I've been doing this menu planning thing for a few weeks now, and have been actually cooking food rather than just taking it out of the freezer and putting it in the microwave. There's been some frustration and a lot of angsting, but I'd like to share some of my excitement with you instead.

Like stir fry. Why did no one ever tell me about stir fry? It's so easy! The way I make it, anyway. Bag of frozen veggies, packet of pre-cooked chicken cubes, can of water chestnuts, bottle of stir fry sauce. Then you just put it on heat and stir it around. WHAT IS THIS MADNESS? Needless to say, I'm exploring the world of stir fry with a nearly ridiculous amount of enthusiasm.

I also made my first-ever chicken dinner. It was a simple rice bake, but it involved actual uncooked chicken that I had to make so that it didn't give me Salmonella poisoning. (Here's the thing... I have this weird, nearly pathological fear of cooking chicken. I have no idea why. I've never had a traumatic experience with undercooked chicken, I don't know anyone who's died from poor chicken preparation. I just feel like it's the pinnacle of how I have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to cooking. So the chicken bake was kind of a big deal for me.)

I even have a go-to recipe that I call Baked Ziti (even though I make it with penne). It's possibly the most simple recipe in the history of ever, requiring only boiling the penne, dumping it into a pan, adding a bottle of Prego and half a bag of shredded mozzarella and mixing, then sprinkling it with the remaining half of the bag of cheese. Then bake it for a while and I've got five meals. FIVE. Awesome!

I've got some more adventures in my near future, including fish – FISH! - and from-scratch veggie burgers. I'm also glad to report that I've successfully navigated the grocery store a couple of times now, with almost no blank staring or aimless wandering or panicked beelining.

That sound you hear is me patting my own back. Damn right.

Life on the Couch: Acting class as therapy.

I started taking improv classes a few months ago. As you can imagine, it's been quite an interesting adventure. I frequently refer to them as my learn-to-be-funny classes, although it's turned out to to be a lot more about discovering my fears and boundaries.

Performing isn't really a big fear for me... I have enough of the only child LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME mentality not to be afraid of standing in front of people. However, I developed an instinctive fear of being viewed negatively when I was one of those bullied kids in school. I will usually avoid doing anything that makes me look stupid, both consciously and unconsciously. Little insiders tip about performing comedy: it doesn't really work if you're not willing to look stupid.

I'm next in line to create a scene. I must start as an animal and then become a human with the characteristics of the creature. I'm given “panther” as the cue, and must begin. I find myself crawling along the floor, doing my best stalk, slowly rising to my feet with as much grace as my 220 lb, 5'7” body can muster. I feel embarrassed by the difficulty I have. I'm glad when the exercise is over, sure that I've disgusted my fellow students. The one who suggested my animal persona (who is himself a reasonably attractive straight male), tells me that my performance was his favorite of the night. I don't know what to think.

On a similar vein, these classes bring up a lot of my body issues. I'm not comfortable with my body, and when I'm asked to crawl, or roll around, or bounce, I get really weirded out and have a hard time doing it. I am also discovering just how genuinely bothered I am by people touching me or being asked to touch other people. Just having people invade my bubble without touch makes me incredibly freaked out, and I find myself backing away from them. I'm curious to find out if this is the result of sexual abuse, or simply because my family was never very huggy. It's also something I'd really like to change about myself... I don't want to be scared to touch and be touched.

I try to do the “straight man” to my acting partner's silliness. The teacher stops me and asks me to imitate my partner's goofy behavior instead. I do, trying really hard to just be in this character instead of worrying about how I look. My acting partner lays on the ground and invites me to join him. I insist I don't lay on the ground. “Yes you do!” cries my teacher, and I force myself to at least sit on the ground next to him. He's scared me with the invitation to lay with him, is the thing. On the surface I know I'm safe... I'm in a room full of people, my scene partner is not some crazed sexual predator... but the defenses have come up, covering me in a layer of razor-sharp spines. The scene continues as he keeps pushing my boundaries, playing with my hair, touching my arms... I'm grateful to him, for understanding that I need to be pushed, but not pushing so hard that I can't take it.

Another issue that's coming up is how little I trust myself. I've been having a really hard time pushing myself to spit out those ideas that float into my head during improvisational exercises. Needless to say, if you can't trust yourself, you're not going to do well in improv. It also ties into that desperate need not to look like an idiot, because the nature of improv is that you sometimes fail. Sometimes what you say doesn't work and you just have to find your way back to the funny. A lot of that comes from practice, but there's also an element of knowing that you're good and will eventually make it right. It's something I don't have, but I want. I want to learn how to trust myself.

We stand in a circle, doing two-line scenes, jumping out with no forethought and shouting a line that someone else must jump out and respond to. We are nine weeks in, and I still haven't been able to be the first to jump out. Whatever I say will be too lame, too pointless. It doesn't matter that half the other lines the other students are coming up with are lame and that is the whole point of the exercise.

These classes are not all terror and sweaty palms. I laugh through most of the night, I enjoy watching my fellow students take risks and I learn so much every night. I don't know if improv is an art I'll ever excel at, but I can sense how incredibly good it is for me.

Life on the Couch: I am a basement dweller.

Somehow, I always end up living in the basement.

It all started when I finally left my mother's house at the age of twenty.

Yes, I know. Let's just move on, shall we?

I ended up in the basement of a friend's parents' house for nearly a year. There were things stored in my bedroom that weren't mine, and large horrible unnamed creatures which would occasionally perch on the wall above my bed and stare at me with all their legs until I was forced to sleep in my papasan. Needless to say, it was a relief to get out of there and into my own apartment.

Some years later there was my aunt's basement. Once again I was forced to live with some of my host's things, as well as the constant threat of the unthinkably-legged creatures lurking over my head as I slept.

More time has passed, and now I'm back in the basement. This one is in a townhouse that I'm sharing with two roommates (a married couple) and our combined four cats. The walls are industrial white brick, the floors are concrete, and there are tangles of cords and pipes between the beams of the ceiling. A thin false wall with an open doorway is the only thing separating me from the furnace, air conditioner, water softener, and washer/dryer. The ceiling squeaks and thuds noisily as my roommates move about the upper level, and I can hear the kids playing and listening to music in the adjoining townhouse like they're in the room with me. It's always ten degrees colder than the rest of the house and my space heater is my best friend.

I spend most of my time here on a futon that it quite literally falling apart. It's sagged down to nearly to the floor and is missing several of the support rods, creating holes into which the cushion is slowly disappearing. It's the saddest excuse for a couch I've ever seen. I daydream about vegging out on a real couch with cushions and springs and arms. One that I don't have to flail and heave my way off of. Someday...

So, are you feeling sorry for me yet? You shouldn't. Every time I face the possibility of living in a basement, I make the choice for some reason or another to do so. (Ok, yes, the reason has pretty consistently been a money thing.) I always end up staying longer than I intended, and by the time I finally do get out of the basement, I can't wait to go. It's always my choice to be here and I accept that.

It won't stop me from whining about it though.

It's really not a terrible place to be, but I do long for the day when I can watch rain or snow fall outside the windows, and when I don't have to cast uneasy glances at the spiderwebs on the ceiling to check for eight-legged interlopers. I can't wait to live above-ground again. With any luck, in six months or so, that's exactly where I'll be.

Until then, I am a basement dweller.

An introduction.

So. Tell me a little about yourself.

You've had a job interview, right? So you've probably heard that before. Every time I hear it (because yes, I've had more than a few interviews in my life), my brain just sort of shuts down. If I can bumble my way through the response, I consider the interview a success. It doesn't matter if I get the job or not.

Now here I am, putting myself out there on the intarwebz, and I'm facing that damn question again. But if you really feel compelled to get the answer, click the “About Melanie” link to your left. No really, I think the description I wrote is kind of cute. Go ahead, I'll wait.

There's a rerun of The Real Housewives of Atlanta on, I can keep myself busy.

Done? It was brief, I know. But it kind of sums me up. I like nerdy things like the Star Wars movies, the Harry Potter books, and various cult British shows. I get a lot of joy out of what I like to call Gay Entertainment, which can range from all things Bravo TV to German soap operas with a gay storyline to anything starring John Barrowman. My favorite movie experience is one that scares me so silly I can't even really watch it the first time because I'm too busy hiding behind my scarf. I make fanvids and write fanfiction and have experienced the good and the bad of fandom. I am a geek.

I also deal with anxiety, depression, and a number of other Issues. I like to say that I have so many Issues that my Issues have issues. Which is nothing unusual in today's world, or so I like to think. Those will come up here too, but I hope to handle them with humor instead of making this a wailing wall.

And! I'm working on starting a new direction in my life. I'm working on my application for the University of Minnesota, and if I get accepted and can pull off the financial aid, I'm going to quit my full-time secretarial job and go back to school in pursuit of a degree in English and/or Film Studies/Acting. Which means I'm essentially giving up on the real world to jump back into following my dreams. Oh, did I also mention I turned 33 years old a month ago?

So now you know a few things about me. There's a lot more, don't worry. It will all come up in one way or another as I continue writing here.

I think my life is about to get pretty scary and exciting. I plan to post to this blog twice a week... Sundays will be about me, my life, my issues and my observations. Thursdays will be all things geek. And if I feel like throwing something out there in between, it's whatever I feel like. If you want to see what happens when a thirty-something single girl decides to start over, come back and see me. I'll be here.

Whew, I muddled through. Success!