I was frustrated and it was about then that I first began to feel like a failure of a mother.

You were so atypical – you still are. You lost too much weight, you came out so tiny, you took to the breast like a natural but lulled immediately to sleep upon the first few draws. You were born on your due date. You were our miracle baby – the child that I was never supposed to be able to have. You were our demon baby – conceived on Halloween, born with reddish hair and weighing in at six pounds, six point six ounces.

The first year of your life was such a challenge, as we negotiated early walking, early first words and late everything else. You went from pureed baby food to lasagna and butter chicken within weeks. You had no idea what television was, until you did and then your first word came out just after you turned six months and said hi to the narrator in The Secret of NIMH.

Since, it seems like so much has changed about you, but that’s not entirely true. More so, so much has changed about me, and our life, and my perspective. So it seems like you changed, too. But you’re still that little person, wearing two sizes smaller than her peers, precocious and making her presence known nearly always. You love the spotlight, and you’re a natural leader; your mind is made up easily, and then you will tell anyone and everyone your opinion on a matter, or a story, or a fantasy, without question of whether they’re interested.

Your confidence is staggering and oh my god, I hope I don’t do anything to fuck that up. You’re not always self-assured, especially when trying something new for the first time, but when you’ve been successful at something, you think nothing of attempting it, bigger and better.

For your birthday, you asked for a bike, motorcycle, skateboard, scooter and hang glider. When I said don’t you want any, like, normal kid presents? Some clothes or books, or toys? You adamantly refused, but added that you did want helmets to match your modes of transportation. I joked for weeks that you were just looking for a way to get out of here. I pretended I joked, anyway, but I was secretly nervous that you really did feel the call of travel, or the push of my constant nagging.

Last week, you announced for not-the-first-time that when you grow up, you’re going to marry a girl. The first time you said it, I smirked, thinking you had over-absorbed something I’d intoned too many times: We’re lucky. You can marry whoever you want to, or no one at all. It just matters that you’re happy and not hurting anyone intentionally. Since the first time you said it, you’ve thrown it out a half dozen others, so now I’ve started half-joking/half-seriously asking friends when I should take you seriously.

And if I do take you seriously, what does that even mean? It’s not as if your apparent early-lesbian daydreams change anything about you. I wouldn’t have to buy you more plaid, or something. Yet still, it feels awkward because I just want you to be capable of love in a romantic sense, no matter who with… one day. Now seems too young to be thinking of it.

Mind you, that’s you. An old soul. You seem to just know things.

For example, it’s happened a couple of times that I’ve been silently emailing with Mr. Lady while you’re in your bedroom, and you’ll ask when we can go on a plane to visit 3 of 3 and 2 of 3 (PS. Why do you always leave out 1 of 3?) from your bedroom without prior knowledge of what I was doing. Or sometimes, you know who’s on the phone when it rings, before you get near it but just after I’ve looked at the call display. Occasionally, I’ll be thinking about what to make for dinner as you’re eating your cereal, and you’ll ask for pasta or pancakes or hummus and veggies, knowing full-well that dinner isn’t until right before bed and you just woke up.

That spooks me sometimes, I admit. Because when I’m mellow, you often seem so very in tune with me. It makes it doubly important that I don’t tell you lies, because I have no doubt that if this keeps up, one day you’d be able to call me on them.

I feel like I’m hard on you a lot. Like I don’t really give you room to be a kid, because I’m so focused on you staying a good kid. Because I’m so confident that if I’m not vigilant, I’ll probably totally fuck you up. Plus there’s the awesome mental health genes you’ve been dealt. Sorry about that, miracle girl.

But really, I feel like I expect a lot out of you – not because I’m a crazed army drill sargent kind of parent – because I know that you’re capable of some pretty astronomical shit. From telling two shirtless, sweaty, douchey guys not to use the F word (the one that ends with a T); to basically teaching yourself to read; to still not being able to handle safety scissors well, but being able to slice a cucumber with a paring knife, keeping the tip of the knife on the cutting board.

Point being, you astound me and if there’s a universal lesson in life it’s that when you do well, or amazing, people come to expect that. So sometimes, my best friend has to reign me in when I see her daughter drawing rainbows and writing notes with dictated spelling and wonder when you’ll catch up – she has to remind me: Zoë’s a year younger.

And then, it hits me.

You’re four now. You have another year of preschool, before regular or alternative school. You have a year to learn to write and match the pictures in your mind with the thing your hand creates. I will not always get the same drawings, and you will not always have a panic attack when asked to do something that you have no self-assuredness in.

And then, something else hits me.

Your panic attacks are just like mine used to be like, when it felt like the world was rushing it at me, and there was no way that I could meet the expectations. I would strangle in the pressure of the moment, even if it was just a large stack of filing that was driving it or too many choices of soup flavours. I would become paralyzed, and my phrase of the moment was just I can’t.

Sometimes you do that when it’s time to leave our best friends’ house. You freak out and say you can’t put on your slip-on shoes, and I lose my patience with you, knowing that of course you can, you’ve been putting on your slip on shoes for nearly two years.

But it’s not about the shoes. It’s about the pressure.

So I worry that I put too much pressure on you. Because yes, you do walk into the kitchen and ask how do you spell otter? And I will tersely (interestedly) say sound it out. What do you think? And you will get to the E and maybe the R too, all on your own. But then, you do throw your favourite workbooks across the living room while I’m doing dishes, simply because your lines aren’t straight enough for your liking.

But here’s what I know for sure: you have a lot of love and adoration, you’re pretty damn intelligent, you like to learn about almost anything with help (but to be left alone once you’ve got it), you got more from me than just eyes and hair, your interests are so varied and delightful, you love preparing food and baking and drinking chai tea with soy milk, you wish your dad lived with us, you don’t think there’s anything wrong with telling anyone where we’re going, you wave at any child under the age of nine (usually strangers) and never understand if they don’t reciprocate, you love animals, you’re fairly easy-going, a lot of people think you’re beautiful but you don’t want to be defined that way, you call me by my first name simply because it’s my name (not out of defiance or snark), and you’ve got wicked balance.

Too bad your dad and I couldn’t find a skateboard small enough for you. At least you love the bike.

I love you so much my heart hurts.

Mama.

The thing with Lithium is that in order to assure everyone that it’s really functioning at its prime capacity, the serum levels in your blood should be measured – at first, after a month, and then every six months after the appropriate serum levels are reached. Also, they have to check to make sure your kidneys aren’t failing. You know, cuz they can.

The thing with my new doctor is that he actually cares about this stuff. No one’s ever measured my serum levels before, no matter what dose of what I’ve been put on.

So when I got the call back after my blood tests were received, I hopped into the doctor’s office. That’s where he explained that ideally, someone not on Lithium would have a serum level between .6 and .8. And that ideally, someone on Lithium would have a serum level between .8 and 1.2. Mine was .3.

He doubled my dose.

Even before that, I’d started to get these horrible headaches. We’re talking black and white 16mm Pi headaches. We’re talking multiple doses of OTC painkillers, even though I’m really not okay with taking those for more than an emergency. We’re talking days off of work, social media, friendships. We’re talking an average of one every two days, if not more frequent; and 8 on the headache pain scale.

Basically, I was having fun.

Then the dose doubled and on the morning of my third day without a headache, I proclaimed myself healed. Which is probably why at the end of the third day, I got the worst headache I’ve ever had that wasn’t accompanied by an aura or vomiting. And it continued for two days straight. And it hurt so badly, I wanted to throw up.

Back to the doctor’s office I marched, and I couldn’t take my sunglasses off while I explained to him what was going on. But I had more than that to complain about. I’d also started to have tremors in my hands, and a tic below my left eye and on my right temple. They’re subtle, all of these vibrations, but they’re there.

He shrugged off the tics and the tremors, and he made me an appointment for a neurologist for the headaches. He told me to drink more water, too, so from that point on, I’ve been chugging it back and only allowing myself a cup of tea a day.

Do you know how unsatisfying one cup of tea a day is? Fun.

Then, on this last Sunday, the nausea kicked in and hasn’t let up, but for short periods of time. I haven’t been able to stomach more than half a meal of solid food a day – and eating makes me nauseas. I’ve lost five pounds this week, alone, in addition to the weight I’d lost in the past few weeks.

This medication was supposed to make me fat, and instead, I’m below my last-summer weight. Now, 115 pounds is a far-away again goal, and there’s seemingly no damn way I’m ever going to make it there. I’ve even had to temporarily stop running, due to the nausea, weakness and weight loss.

And then today, I found a hard lump in my neck. My lymph node is complaining about this shit, loud and clear. On the side of my fucking neck.

I was resolute by about 6pm tonight that I’d go off of this medication. That I couldn’t handle, stomach or mentally process the side effects. That if my hip bones were going to come back into stabbing mode, it wasn’t worth attempting to be saner. If I couldn’t make the decision myself about whether to eat or restrict, it wasn’t worth it. If paralyzing headaches would suppress my social life, appetite and parenting ability, then I would go with mental imbalance, instead.

Then it occurred to me. I’ve been sleeping by or before 1am for weeks. I’ve been waking at regular morning hours, before Zoë. I’ve been using, for the most part, my calm-mom voice. I’ve taken on another client and even worked for nearly 20 hours last week. I’ve cooked, baked, cleaned, laundered, bathed, read, conversed, spent, planned, thought and fantasized, for the most part, as a normal person would.

The fucking pills are working.

I guess this means I’m going to have wicked abs soon, whether I wanted them like this or not.

The good thing about my life is that I don’t own or have to rely on a car, and our proximity to downtown Vancouver and all of the amenities that we need is likethis. I don’t have to pay for transportation, hardly ever, because we don’t have much need to leave the 20-block radius we walk around day-to-day, so I don’t need to worry about something breaking down, or fuel costs or looming insurance payments.

The good thing about our life is that we live in a small apartment, which requires minimal energy to light and heat – and we’re the type to turn lights off when we’re not in one of our four rooms.

The good thing about our life is that free entertainment surrounds us – we have parks and friends on the street, the beach and libraries. We live in a mecca of free-ness, so that if belts are really tightened, we can go without spending on anything but food and not be unhappy.

I take that back. I’d really miss Starbucks and cigarettes and my time on the treadmill. But otherwise, we’d be good.

We’re lucky to be where we are, with a love of books and the links necessary on the Internet to bring the entertainment outside and printed words don’t provide.

But, the day may come when I won’t have a couple hundred bucks in the bank, nor rent, and our cupboards might be bare. The day may come that I have to visit the food bank, like a friend of mine just did, and make the tough decision between feeding my child nothing, or feeding her food with known allergens in it. The day may come when I concede that I can’t afford to pay $995 a month on rent, purely to live in this glorious neighbourhood, with all of its freedoms, tolerance and amenities.

The day may come when I need some help. Hopefully, I won’t be concerned about asking for it from the people and services meant to provide it, and hopefully, it won’t be such a shock to my pride that I will hide that I’ve done so – for worry that people might see it as a plea or because I, frankly, don’t want to be anyone’s charity.

I’m a stubborn fucker, after all.

Hopefully… no, not hopefully, I know this about me… I will not resist doing whatever it is that has to be done to ensure that my daughter and I have a roof and food and clothes – even if that means selling everything, even every book I own, individually and painstakingly on Craigslist. Nothing is more important to me – not even pride – than for Zoë to not go without anything she needs, including joy.

But hopefully, even if I was too shy to ask you for help, even if I emphatically said I wasn’t asking for it, even if I painted a picture much more impressive than the current one (wherein I’m wondering whether I will be able to buy Zoë a birthday present, nevermind hold a party for her in less than four weeks, and so I’ve hidden two books that I actually bought her months ago, just in case.), you would offer. You would ask for my Paypal information. You would send gift cards or something.

I’m not asking for that. Because right now, I don’t need that. Right now, it looks like every thing’s going to be okay, because I’m lucky enough to have an ex that considers his support non-negotiable, even if it wounds him to pay it. I know that as soon as he does get paid from this new job, he’ll be paying me. I’m thankful for that.

But someone else isn’t that lucky. And someone else has a car that might kick it. And someone else also cares about her daughter’s birthday and her daughter’s joy, and someone else has a job – works more than me, in fact – and she’s still fighting to come up for air. Someone else needs help. If you would give it to me, please consider giving it to her, instead.

Even me, happy to know the confines and the label, so I could know what the fuck was going on with my head, and how to work with it, and how to break the mold, I didn’t see this coming. I got rediagnosed less than two months ago and it screwed with my head.

Suddenly, I went from over-dramatic and a little quirky to lifelong disorder. The thought of not being on medication has been erased from my brain, because now, officially, I have a bad thing that doesn’t go away and it’s not curable. The daydream of finding the magical pill that would make me all better is now known to be just that – a daydream.

And I mourned a little, at first. I even cried a bit.

I went from being self-destructively marred – but still bandaidable – to being what I am now: someone who should, for her own health and safety, remain on medication for life, so as not to further complicate things.

See, before, I was all “yeah, I’ve got ADD, OCD and a really mild form of bipolar called Cyclothymia” and that was a little funny. Like, pin the diagnosis on the skinny chick. And on some level, because those all had the word mild attached to them, I didn’t take it seriously. When my sister got rediagnosed – her being so very very much like me – it terrified me. It scared the shit out of me because they slapped those labels on her once upon a time, too, and then there she was, in a place where they don’t allow cell phones and you have to attend group therapy, and she had attempted something horrible involving her throat and something sharp, and then they erased the mild and replaced it with fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t.

Because she is so very very much like me, just when she was spinning down the drain, I was too – psychological sister connection, if you will – and I nearly immediately sought a doctor’s help. Because I didn’t want to end up where she was, because it seemed written in my blood. Because I have a daughter who is so very very much like me, because the fucked up gene in this family is ridiculously strong.

Seriously. Everyone’s been diagnosed with something and we’ve all taken the same medications and we’re all still floundering.

I don’t want that for Zoë. So badly that it hurts. So, it’s even more important to me to find out what’s what, take care of it, and be the best mom I can be, so that just in case the genes have passed into her realm, I’m there to catch her when she starts to fall.

I went to someone qualified, competent, and completely lacking-dick-headishness. And he produced a three-page report, breaking down my illnesses and his recommendation for treatment. He said ADD and Obsessive and Bipolar. But he also said that Cyclothymia is an extreme under-diagnosis. He said that I may have been, but symptoms’ve likely been compounded by pregnancy, stress, PPD and under-medicating. He said that if I’m not treated chemically, it could get worse. And now officially, I’m Bipolar Type 1.

Now, I take two pills a day and in a few weeks, more will be added. Now, I walk around with a dry mouth and a water bottle. Now, I’ll have to be careful how I eat and the amount of exercise I get, for this medication is known to cause weight gain, and being dehydrated or consuming too much salt will negatively affect the levels of medication in my blood stream. Now, I’ll have to go for regular blood tests to check those levels, as well as make sure that neither my liver or kidneys are thinking of kicking it. Now, I have to be aware of and report any hand tremors. Now, my moods are more even, but they still keep cycling.

Why? Because even though I have these medications coursing through my veins, they’re not a cure. They’re merely a buffer. Something to take the edge off.

And it is, sort of. Instead of being awake for two days straight, I’ve only managed one; instead of drinking my face off, I drank, seeking the at-my-limit indicator, and never reached it; instead of becoming a compulsive whore, I’m still annoyingly chaste.

But I’m still having temper tantrums, and I’m still mentally sweating a lot, and I forget shit all the fucking time, and oh my god, I can’t handle this back and forth between how much I will accomplish and how I can’t do much more than blink. Several times a day.

It’s exhausting. It feels like a weird combination of failure, acceptance, and self-congratulations.

Like today, I felt really good about taking my kid out to a movie. That was participating. And I got my dishes done. And a load of laundry. And Zoë splashed around in the bath while I cleaned the bathroom. And I even boiled some pasta for her and mixed it up with some sauce for dinner. An hour ago, that seemed like I’d done so very much; right now, it looks like I did nothing and I’m a terrible excuse for a mom; later, I’ll probably feel like I did as well as I could, and that because Zoë was entertained and happy and fed healthy food, it was good enough.

And I’m supposed to start working more to make up for the support funds that I won’t be getting from her dad? I just… maybe it’s panic, but I’m in mental lock-down mode, here. I’m quivering inside. This is my brain: where am I supposed to get this ability to work twice as much (at least) as I do now? What if I can’t do it? What will I feed her, if I only have a couple hundred dollars to last all month? Oh my god, this is going to ruin her birthday!

It hits me, when I get into this rapid cycling mode: the consistently overwhelmed feeling. The last two days have been spend worrying about everything there is to worry about, daydreaming about everything to daydream about, and planning any possible potential plan. My brain is fucking fried.

And I have a tough decision to make. Maybe I have to accept that I’m just not going to be able to work more – it says in that damned three-page report not advised to seek employment. Maybe I have to swallow my pride and accept that I have more than one major psychological illness that is incurable, requires medication to control it, and can disable me from certain life events, like becoming a practising Scientologist or working full-time without blowing my stack, spontaneously, one day. Maybe I just have to admit it to myself, and quit trying to be better than this diagnosis, out of spite. Maybe it’s okay to accept the help that is out there, that other people with less issues receive.

Maybe that won’t mean I’m a failure.

I’m still kind of stuck in stage four.

Again.

But this time it’s different.

This time, I’m not feeling sorry for myself and assessing which bills I can put off paying, just in case. This time, I’m not mentally clocking myself one, because of my lack of proactivity. This time, I’m not saying, I will get more work, until I have enough that it won’t matter whether he’s got a job or not.

Except, I kind of am, I guess.

But this time it’s different.

This time, I’m on Lithium, and I actually intend to sleep so that I can get work done that’s due, and look for more. This time, I have a plan on the brain, for how to get that portfolio aesthetic demon off my back, so I’m no longer too ashamed to send it out to would-be clients. This time, I’m changed.

Before, I didn’t want to be reliant on his money, but I was grateful for it, and it led me to a life of sloth. I wrote and designed only as much as I needed to, for clients that came to me, when I felt like it. If there was tv to be had, or an evening with a book, I’d choose it over the pay, because I could. Because his money would be there. Because we had a few sheets of paper signed and sealed in court, saying he owed it to me.

That’s not his truth, and it shouldn’t be mine.

His is this: he hates me. He’s jobless. He’s recently sober. He’s portraying a life of greatness, without me, my support or the crutch he’s relied upon for 16 years. He might have become someone different over night, and that portrayal would certainly indicate it to anyone who doesn’t know him, but I don’t buy it. I’ve never met a person so resistant to change in my life. Even change that he wants and needs. In fact, it wasn’t until me that he found the courage to not work jobs he wasn’t happy in. Unfortunately, he might have learned that lesson too well.

Here’s mine: I have no ill will toward him, and I think that if he can be a parent – even if that means being a radically different kind from the one I am – then he should be. I think his daughter should be at his side as much as possible, if it’s healthy for the two of them. I have entered another place, entirely different from the high and low I’ve always danced with him. I just want everyone to be happy. I want everything to be fair. I want him to remain sober, even if the cost of that is his constant hatred for me and that we can never be friends again.

Some prices are worth it, for the reward.

I joked today with my best friend: he’s confused by my lack of anger. He doesn’t get why I’m not yelling or cursing, or calling him on his dick moments. I would have, months ago. She laughed, proclaiming it a great strategy, and I laughed as well. But really, why aren’t I?

Why am I not raging against the rudeness, controlling her time with him, telling him every idiom of wrong-doing he is doing? Why am I so lax?

Temperamental peace. I have it, now.

That, and he got sober, despite it being the one thing he said he never wanted, or intended to do. He chose Zoë, for the first time in her life. I think that was all I ever wanted or needed from him – for him to choose her, instead of himself.

Even if it meant he’d never choose me, again.

So here I am, and this time, it’s different.

This time, I will not rely upon him, because I’m going to rely on myself. This time, I will not be waiting and hoping for the time to come when things seem amicable. This time, I will not play emotional pong, taking my moods from his, cuing up fights in my head the moment he walks in the door and refuses to look at me.

This time, I will move on and write my way into economic peace, too.

***

To drop five pounds, it takes a week of skipping the gym; of days with a single meal, the rest forgotten; of less than five hours of eyes-shut a night. It takes months to gain it back. It takes $30 to buy a pair of size 25 jeans that confirm 0 is anything but nothingness.

***

Two nights of freedom and 203 days down the toilet. But not with a heave, not with regret. Guilt, yes, because, well, isn’t this nothing but another commitment I’ve bailed on? But more so, confusion, because, shouldn’t I have been out of control? Shouldn’t the thirst have overwhelmed me? Why am I sober now, when I gave myself permission not to be. It seems indicative of my extremism, not alcoholism; my need to give things up and label me broken, instead of rock from one end of the spectrum to the other. Maybe my thirst was common and my habits in my younger years were indicative of youth. Possibly, I don’t have a problem, except with admitting that for once, I don’t have a problem.

***

Have you ever sat in the presence of someone with whom you felt such tension, you couldn’t not stare at their lips when they spoke? It’s luxurious, seeing and not having. Picturing, but not realizing. Empowering, really, knowing that if you just… maybe you would… but you don’t, because it’s delicious to not and mentally breathe as if you had. It takes you back to the days before sweaty kisses always led to more.

***

Another experiment, another success. Heels, dress, bed-head. A movie watched alone in the theatre, laughing out loud, despite being surrounded by those with their friends and lovers. I didn’t feel lonely at all. I sauntered home with purpose and light feet, even when I passed by a skunk that could be the omen to brand it all heinous.

***

Before this weekend, I’d only been awake with a boy once when the sun was rising. It was on the top of a mountain and we lay in the back of his hatchback, talking about his travels and my lack thereof. After the sun was up, he kissed me, hours after  him wanting to shone in his eyes. He asked my permission and I aloofly affirmed. Sweet, his lips tasted of cherry chap stick.

***

The walk of shame is usually prefaced by drunken nakedness, coexists with a stumble, and is followed by a crash into bed. Instead, after the movie had been over for a while and I’d critiqued everything about it, I walked, sober, determined, in two inch heels, as clean as I went out, ate a banana and considered not sleeping. I slept, and when I woke, I saw Casablanca for the first time.

***

Sometimes, I’m questioned about where this is all going. Wouldn’t I want some fame from writing? Or to have a regular column in a highly-read publication? How popular do I aim to be? The answer always shocks – I just want to be good enough. To have enough, to seek and find, to not go without, but not live with a hunger for more. I don’t want notoriety, I just want my bills paid and to get to do what I’m apparently made to: to slide words on to a screen, from my brain, through my fingertips. The thought of a book contract without a manuscript frightens me; a weekly requirement for a high-flying magazine is torture. I honestly want to keep being unknown. There’s safety in the shadows and no one expects much more than what you give them.

***

Zoë keeps asking me to sing Pokerface to her, in the oddest of places. Not the usual version, but from Glee. We sing it at home, cuddled up together on my office chair, gazing at YouTube, and we belt it out, avoiding the highest notes and workin’ the Marvelous. But in public, my lack of spontaneity and need to not stand out… it doesn’t go so well with Zoë’s whims.  On the bus, I once acquiesced and she reprimanded me for my quiet rendition. In Sears today, amongst the puzzles and family bonding time games, she demanded that I sing the chorus, coaching me into it with her own canreemah canreemah no he canreemah pokahfae. She’s gonna be a star some day, and I will die of embarrassment along the way.

***

Today, we both wore summer dresses, sandals and clips in our bangs, and we sashayed down streets, occasionally spinning and skipping. The sun beat down on us, until it didn’t and the rain came, but that didn’t change the fact that Vitamin D in this city is like Ecstasy – it makes you fall in love with everything and everyone.

My face, especially, has always been a point of contention, because it’s always seemed that there’s no one out there who resembles me, and so, it’s easy to feel ugly, or odd, or wrong. I don’t know that I ever really wanted to look like everyone else per se, but god damn if I didn’t ache to remove the chubby cheeks I grew up with, or the jaw line that, even when strong, more-than-vaguely resembled the smooth curve of a bowling ball.

At 10, I sought out a new visage. DJ Tanner’s. I was convinced for all of the season when she wore her bangs pouffed forward, before she hit her Full House teens and while day-glo was still okay in San Francisco even if you weren’t gay, that she and I were face twins.

At 14, I saw resemblance in Cher from Clueless. It was her roundness where curved hollows should be, placed directly under blue eyes that screamed other-half.

Around 20, Charlize Theron’s curvy image was coupled with an unfortunate pixie cut (both hers and mine) and bleached a vapid blonde. We were practical siblings, I gathered.

At 21, I found my ass twin in Gwenthyn Paltrow’s depiction of a neurotic 20-something sister with bad self-esteem in Moonlight and Valentino. A role that, it hits me now, was more than a little ironic.

About a year back, someone randomly suggested that my face shape resembled Zoe Deschanel’s and I was sold. But it took me until about two months ago to decide to take the plunge.

What plunge? Well fuck, if I couldn’t like looking like me, I could certainly like looking like someone else. Someone pretty. Someone people called beautiful and quirky and sexy and hot and every other adjective around. Because I couldn’t believe anyone if they said those things about me, but I agreed when they said them about her.

So, I would become her. Sort of. Put my own little spin on it, what with the facial piercings and different hair colour and lack of any French lineage or willingness to weigh 120 pounds. Also, my boobs are bigger. I’ve thought this through, you can see.

So, I brought a picture to my queen of a hair guy and he swooned and he gave me the bangs she has, but a little shorter and completely lacking anything resembling a taper. And he mellowed out my near-goth colour with some mahogany. And he taught me the joys of a diffuser. He also called me an idiot when a moment of doubt crept in and I questioned whether my face was too round.

“You, stupid, have a heart-shaped face. And it’s super cute. So don’t be neurotic. Men don’t fuck neurotic women.”

I beg to differ. About the men part.

I skipped out of that salon with joy and confidence. Some random guy bought my tea five minutes later at Starbucks and attempted to chat me up. The bangs and huge black sunglasses combined so well, I felt like I looked like a star.

Until I didn’t anymore. And then I was back to seeing luggage and feeling like it just wasn’t worth trying. Fuck, why put on makeup, if the concealer only covers the colour of the bags, not removes them; why spend the time to apply and perfectly blend eyeshadow, when it’ll just cake in the creases within a few hours. Why fucking bother?

One day a couple of weeks ago, I was so focused on not bothering that I pinned my bangs back. They’re too thick to melt into the rest of my hair and pretend not to exist, but even so, I pinned them back and I headed to the gym. I killed it on the treadmill and then I killed my abs afterwards. And then I headed back out into the real world, where, unlike at the gym where people avoid talking to each other, people would look at me.

And I got fucking appraised, to my extreme surprise.

When I got home, confused, I looked in the mirror, trying to figure out what other people see that I don’t. I couldn’t find beauty, I couldn’t find perfection. I found a lot of faults, evidence of sun and smoke damage, proof that I stay up way too late and sleep in to make up for it inconsistently. But I found something else. A spark. A little glow.

I re-realized – because it’s not news to me, but I have to remind myself of knowing it every so often – that I feel my best, that I have the most confidence during two, and only two, situations: when my abs are flat and some guy(s) notice me. It’s not healthy, I know, to seek confidence in one area that’s entirely dependant upon whether I have or have not indulged in cheesecake, and on the other, which is entirely external and would make even the most passive feminist shudder. But it’s me.

But here’s the thing about it that occurred to me as a new fact: when I feel confident because of one of those things, I exude confidence and that produces further confirmation of my confidence. It’s like, when you’re single, it seems like no one’s date-able, but when you’re seeing someone, suddenly men come out of the woodwork. So it is with my self-esteem. Have none and it’s self-fulfilling, have a little and I see reasons to have more.

Within a week, sparks were flying with a few men, I had a date and I kept killing it at the gym (which, by my definition, means going and not loathing the entire experience). A few more days, and it seems like – at some points, but not all – I’m damn cute.

And today was the final test. Today, I pinned my bangs away from my forehead, and I wore a t-shirt that didn’t hide the stretch marks that decorate my flat stomach and jeans that sag in the ass. I walked down the street with my semi-curly (but not really) hair in pigtails, knowing that they weren’t perfectly styled in that relaxed casual look that I’ve been seeing all over my computer screen as I re-review every single episode of Sex and the City.

I thought fuck it, I’m not going to look like anyone else, ever, I’m going to look like me.

And I felt sexy, noticing myself in store windows walking carelessly, not even noticing anyone else.

This seems both a large number, a defeating one, and pointless all at the same time.

200. I’ve never counted anything that high before. Not pennies, not meals, not days without sexual encounters. Truth be told, I stop counting the pennies at 50. And eating, for the most part, like a sane person doesn’t seem world-defining, like quitting alcohol, so I haven’t counted. I’m positive that The Ex and I, and the ex and I before The Ex and I, were back at shagging before a few months had passed since the last time a tab fit into the slot.

Delaying gratification isn’t my strong suit.

When I quit drinking, it wasn’t a hitting bottom moment. It wasn’t to save my health, or really even my sanity.

It was an experiment.

The larger the number got, and the more I salivated over the thought of first vodka, then beer, then cider I would never have daydreamed of before, the more convinced I became that I had a problem.

Yes, I drank my feelings. I think everyone does at some point. Yes, I craved a drink at the end of every. damn. day. But I didn’t always drink it, and I nearly always limited it to one or two. Yes, I think drink specials are a rare form of torture that only 20-something servers with better asses than me like to implement. But they’re a clam-infused, extra spicy, with two pickled green beans tasty type of torture.

My best friend had me nearly convinced that I don’t really have a problem, because even when I was compelled, it wasn’t priority. I lapped up her idea that I was denying myself because of The Ex’s issues, because I was identifying too much with him and making his rules my own. She was standing at the pulpit and I was prepared to be saved. Her husband poked in his point, that he has a drink most days after work, and I quickly swallowed my knee-jerk, that’s pretty often judgment.

But then, I stood in the kitchen – where the alcohol stood on the counter – and time stood still. My heart started trying to jump out of my chest. I think it was to get closer to the vodka. I started to sweat and shiver. My mouth got dry. Only three seconds had passed before I had to leave because I was nearing the precipice of panic attack.

Even knowing that physical reaction took place, I still had some doubt, and it was further engorged by coffee with a friend on the weekend. He said I should go out some night with him and some friends. Just have a good time, no big deal. Something I never do. We’d been discussing my sobriety a bit, and I made the rookie mistake of saying that I rarely drank more than one or two drinks, and how I was doubting if I really even had a problem since I managed self-control so much. And he said so come out, have one or two.

And then I knew.

Yeah, I’ve got a problem for sure, because as I said maybe and tried to think of it – going out and being social like a normal person of my peer group without kids – I got high.

Elated, thinking of the relaxation, and how I might get a little louder and I might dance at the pub when there is, in fact, no dance floor at the pub, and how I would invariably end up flirting with some undefined number of people and hey, maybe even find someone to temporarily span time with. And boom, my pupils dilated and I started looking through the filing cabinets in my head for ways to make it happen.

And then, that night, I thought about grabbing a drink with dinner.

As an experiment.

I put it all, every damn thing, out there. Loudly.

By this time last year, I’d developed a voice that punched readers in the face sometimes. From the minute details of my nearly-fatal miscarriage, through the graphic descriptions of child abuse and rape, people who read were – I assume – consistently worried about me, and I have to question how many would see a new post’s title and wonder if they really wanted to read it. Would it make their heart hurt? Would bile rise in their throats? Would they shake their heads and wonder why I was alive, if I seemed to have all of this blackness and nothing of light?

Worse, when I got hooked on stats, I noticed that the gloomier, more disturbing fare was far more popular than anything optimistic, or even just not fucking depressing.

I’m a naturally morbid person.

Yes, I have some optimism about me, and the more happiness I find, the less I dwell on past hurts and wrong-doings, and the less cynical I become. But chemically, I’m a dark and twisty person. I’m Meredith, pre-post it.

I have dreams and aspirations and a good grip on reality and maybe-one-days, but for the most part, my mind is an abyss. I read morbid, I watch morbid, I’m more drawn to tragedy than anything else.

And so, it’s on the forefront of my mind that in order to continue this new-fangled self-acceptance, I have to be okay with being morbid. But it’s also right up there at the front that being okay with it doesn’t call for the bulk of my writing to be dark and twisty. That yes, I can put on different hats with each passing mood, and that’s okay too.

I am consistently inconsistent, after all.

What you won’t find here are multiple posts detailing my ex’s emotional conquests over me. What you won’t see me writing are more snapshots of fists against my skin. What you won’t read are posts detailing my life as a victim of X, Y or Z, and my rage because of it.

It’s just too much energy, pouring my blood into these posts. There’s too much potential that this blog, like the last, would end up more salt than aloe. There’s so much more to me than that sad girl, trying to move on and blogging like she hasn’t.

People have told me that I should write. That I should package up all of my metaphors, broken-boned imagery and defiance into a tight little package of a memoir, sell it to the highest bidder and live a life of success via angst. Assuming that I even had that talent in me (which I do not assume), and that any publisher would pick it up (are they still publishing books that don’t have anything to do with cooking?) and that anyone would want to buy it (besides, that is, you supportive readers, because I guilt tripped you into it.), would I want my story put between two covers?

No.

And that’s why we’re here, at this blog, instead of there, where we used to be. Suddenly, I don’t want to be a poster-child for eating disorder/alcoholism/toxic relationships/emotional and physical abuse/sexual assault recovery. Without identifiable reason, I consider myself more, and worth more, than that.

This post was inspired by the book I Am Nujood, Age 10 and Divorced by Nujood Ali (with Delphine Minoui), and was written as part of the Silicon Valley Moms Group book club. I received a free copy of the book as part of the Book Club. You can join in here.