Me

My battle with my skin has been a constant in my life since I was a wee lass of eight. Anyone who's had chronic acne can tell you that it sucks. There's nothing like waking up to a giant puss volcano erupting on your nose to make you feel like staying in bed all day.

Naturally, when I was old enough to venture into the world of foundations, powders, and eyeshadows, I rushed right for the concealer. I still remember my first day of high school, standing self-consciously in front of the mirror and slathering my face in whatever CoverGirl foundation was the latest at the time. I wanted desperately to make friends with the girl in the mirror, but she was so difficult to accept because she looked like this:

Actual photo from 9th grade. It's worth noting that I was wearing platform flip-flops, a kimono shirt, and jean capris. Bless my heart.

When I firmly believed she should look like this:

Yes, T-Swift's Love Story was at the height of its popularity when I was a freshman in high school.

I was even more desperately trying to make actual real friends and get attention from actual real boys (oh foolish girl) and it seemed to me that covering my pubescent skin with thick, ill-pigmented sludge (and getting a push-up bra) was the way to do it. Little did I know, the sludge may have actually been making my skin worse.

But I persisted. My first foray into the world of womanhood was characterized by globs of CoverGirl concealer, chunky maxi pads, and crippling insecurity.

As I grew older, I experimented with all kinds of drug store foundations, cycling through Revlon, Maybelline, Alamay, and even the late-blooming Neutragena line. I lined my brown eyes with thick layers of black pencil, sometimes only lining the bottom, and brushing on clumpy, crumbly mascara, all the while praying to the beauty gods that I would someday wake up to a face more like a model's and less like my own. I tried different fashion trends-- Uggs with jeans, sweats with tight t's, converse sneakers. I wore bad perfume, complained about being "fat", and developed a habit of saying "like" far too often.

Homecoming 2008

And my hair-- goodness gracious, my hair. I wore it long, long, long until the summer after 10th grade when I chopped it to my shoulders and layered it like crazy. My boyfriend at the time told me he didn't care about my hair or make-up. He told me he loved me for me, and I tried to believe him when I finally sheared my long hair for a short pixie cut the day before my junior prom. A few months later, when my parents announced their divorce, I shaved my head completely. I was in the midst of what I would later believe was a mild mental breakdown, a la 2007-Britney Spears.

Pics or it didn't happen? It happened. 

Gradually, through all my radical changes, I started to accept the girl in the mirror. She wasn't perfect. She had acne. She had too-small ears. Her eyebrows never cooperated. But she was all I was going to get.

By the time I started college, I was fed up with being fed up with myself. My makeup routine was set in stone by this point and I executed it religiously every single day with precision. I struggled to find friends because I struggled to feel good enough to be someone's friend. But a dear friend of mine finally convinced me to be her model for her photography project. I relented reluctantly because I almost never liked pictures of myself.

I waited to see the pictures anxiously. When they finally appeared on facebook, I considered not even looking at them, afraid that they would confirm that I should never ever be photographed. I finally got up the never to look."I look... pretty," I quietly admitted to myself, alone in my dorm room. Because, sure, the photos were a little edited, and yes, my friend was an expert at framing me in amazing light, but darnit if I didn't look good. It was the first time I'd ever considered that I wasn't some kind of terrible freak of nature who needed to be covered in make up constantly to maintain the image of averageness. It was a turning point. It gave me the push I needed to realize that the bigger problem with how I looked was my own perception, not my reflection.

One of the pictures. Yeah, girl. Work it.

It's been about a year since the fateful photo shoot and I think I've made enormous strides on the path to self-acceptance, and, ultimately, self love.

And yes, I still fight with my skin, but it's gotten better. And yes, I still wear makeup. And yes, I still have days when I feel insecure or unattractive or bloated, but I work through them. I can afford nicer makeup now, the kind that's smooth and looks more natural. I enjoy my makeup rituals, painting my face more like an artist embellishing their artwork and less like a 13-year-old trying to mask her entire existence in gray foundation. I still change my hair, but less frequently and radically, and it's gotten longer as I've gotten healthier.

But the girl in the mirror, I love her more these days. Her eyes are sharp and clear and her lips are pink and soft from 19 and a half years of laughing, kissing, yelling, and being gnawed on when she's stressed. I see much more in her than a lack or surplus of certain features. I see strength and courage and heart. I see a survivor and a friend and an artist. I see her for her.

And she's me. I'm me. And that's a good thing.

Cave Dwelling

They told me I needed something fun, something exciting to look forward to. Plan a party, read a book. Do something, for heaven's sake, because seeing you just sit there is... freaky. It's strange. It's abnormal.

And then they told me that people are happier when they're looking at a bright future or whatever. And yeah, that's probably true, I suppose. But it's easier to have a positive perspective when you're standing on top of a hill than when you're stumbling around in a cave with a faulty flashlight and a very dim memory regarding the way out.

I mean, really. It's Perspective 101.

But I guess people who feel qualified to give that kind of advice are usually the ones who haven't been in a cave recently. Us cave dwellers realize that we aren't usually the best at giving uplifting advice.

And so I offer mine humbly and without pretense.

Stop trying to look forward all the time. Let your hope be abstract and your goals be gentle. Give yourself permission to savor the smallest moments of joy and peace.

Read a book in the sun. Dance to your favorite song when no one’s around. Take yourself on field trips to places you’ve never been before.

Don’t feel bad because you didn’t enjoy that party or this dance. Don’t beat yourself up for not liking “normal” fun. Your fun is okay. Your fun is excellent.

We cave dwellers are not hopeless, nor are we cynical for believing that we needn’t always have a perfect dedication to our futures. We have learned to reside firmly in the moment.

We have learned that it is staying in the moment, breathing the fresh air, is more beautiful than rushing from second to second with a furious ache for something to look forward to.

Tomorrow may be the best day of my life. It may be the worst. It will likely be another average day. But it doesn’t matter. Because today will never happen again, and today I will find my glimmers of sunlight as I ride the roller coaster of my own emotions through the highs and lows of just... being.

Today, right now, you must be. Be in your cave, on your hill, in your valley or forest.

In this moment, you are alive, and that is enough.

Glum-Be-Gone List- Part One

In the spirit of posting a glum blog, I thought I'd take some time to put together a list of things that make me feel optimistic, giggly, and like putting on real pants. I'm going to do this in parts because, frankly, I am constantly coming across new things that are awesome.

Micaela's Glum-Be-Gone List- Part One
Ten things to do when you just need to smile.

1. Listen to Here I Am Alive by Yellowcard. I just discovered this band a few days ago and I am totally in love with this song. It's catchy, the lyrics rock, and makes me wanna jam out. Seriously, great message: Here I am, alive.

2. Try to be Ron Swanson. If you haven't seen the show Parks & Recreation, I implore you to get on Netflix, Hulu, or whatever and watch the crap out of this show. It is the best show on TV (tied with Community, of course) and it is 100% worth your while. Parks & Rec follows tireless government worker, Leslie Knope (played by Amy Polher), and her eccentric crew of colleagues as they take care of business in the Parks Department of Pawnee, Indiana. It borrows the "mockumentary" style of The Office and is comedic genius.

Ron Swanson, the manager of the Parks department, is, to put it lightly, thebomb.com (yes, I'm bringing that back.). Ron has a strict policy of hating the system, loving bacon, and being manly as heck. Check out this clip of him explaining the Ron Swanson Pyramid of Greatness to a bunch of ten-year-olds.

3. Eat / stab Jell-O. You guys, I love Jell-O. It's fun to say, fun to eat, and it comes in every fun color you can imagine. It's also fun to attack with a fork if you're super duper pissed off. Avoid the sugarless crap at all costs.

4. Jam out to The Key of Awesome's One Direction parody. I'm pretty sure I watch this at least once a week because it's flipping hilarious. I almost have it memorized-- True story.

Highlight: Let's all point and run! Pointing at stuff is such fun.

5. Walk around Target. My dad and I discovered the magical healing properties of Target in December and we've been going back ever since. I don't know what it is-- the lighting, the sedatives that they [allegedly do not] pump into the air, the sweet smell of consumerism-- but going to Target always makes me feel better about life. I usually don't even buy anything, I just wander around for an hour and think about my life, look at the Barbies, smell the popcorn, and read the first chapter of a few books. And then I feel 67% better than I did before.

Pro tip: Don't go durring the busy hours. My dad and I always go at 10 pm or later. There are almost no people, and the people that are there are not at all like WalMart 10 o'clock-ers (involuntary shudder). They're worn out college students, single older people, and people doing last minute birthday shopping. These are pleasant people to be around when you're feeling icky because they feel kind of icky, too. They aren't judging you. And even if they are, no one you know will be there, so you're safe. Also, Target has a large supply of...

6. Peanut M&M's (Specifically eat them). They are my favorite edible thing in the whole entire world. You guys, colorful chocolate candies with peanuts in the middle. And the peanuts almost make it okay to eat them a lot because it's protein or something.

7. Write strongly-worded and extremely eloquent letters to people that really piss you off, but not sending them. Pretty much explains itself. I always adhere to the following rules:

- No swearing. That defeats the point.
-Use big words just because you can. Suggestions: irrefutably, exemplary, shenanigans, disconcerting, negligence, unscrupulous, etc.
-Always hand-write. No anger letter is valid unless you get to really slam those words down on a real life piece of paper with an honest-to-goodness pen.
- Never ever send it. I'll be honest, I do have one letter I'm saving that I plan to send on my 50th birthday, but I would never send one in the heat of anger. And I'll probably lose that letter by next week.

8. Watch this: 

9. Talk to people who love you. Everyone knows at least one person that can always make them smile, no matter the scenario. Go to that person. Tell them why you feel like crap. Let them work their magic. When you're feeling cruddy, it's not always good to be alone because you'll start wallowing. 

My favorite person to talk to is my dad. Some people love talking to their mom, sibling(s), a close friend, extended family member, or dog. I'm serious about the dog. Dogs understand, don't ask questions, and don't care if your mascara is running.

Here's a picture of me and my dad because we are adorable:

10. Research pygmy elephants or munchkin cats. Because they exists and they are adorable. 

Hope y'all are having a great weekend. Thanks for all the support, you guys. It means a lot. <3

x,

   m

Micaela's Handy Guide to Grieving

I know I've been absent from the blog-o-sphere lately. I've tried to write about ten times, but I haven't been able to force my ideas into something coherent. When I have to force the words, I'm usually not comfortable publishing them on my blog. It's too embarrassing.

I realized that if I don't just write what's on my mind, I'll never get back to blogging, and I really, really like blogging. So forgive me if this isn't my usual sarcastic commentary on human existence.

Pretty much, I have been sad. So incredibly sad that I've had trouble talking, let alone writing.

"But, Micaela, why are you sad?"

You know how some days everything seems to go horribly wrong? You wake up late, can't find your other shoe, staple your finger to your report, stub your toe twice, and before you know it you're in a bathroom stall taking deep breaths and willing yourself not to dissolve into tears.

That, my friends, has pretty much been the last two years of my life. Except instead of stapling myself or stubbing my toe, my parents split up, I had random fainting spells, I moved across the country, and my grandmother is dying. And a lot of other stuff happened that I don't need to talk about. And right now I'm in the proverbial bathroom stall, holding back very literal tears.

I'm in the grieving process right now. About twenty times a day, I have to step back and say, "Be gentle with yourself, Micaela." So I am. I sleep more than usual. I don't worry about my pants size. I've stopped trying to force myself to smile. If someone makes me feel "less than," I just avoid spending time with them. I bought sweaters that are both extremely comfortable and mildly fashionable that I wear almost all the time. You guys, I've even started watching Gossip Girl again, marathon style, on Netflix. It's ridiculously therapeutic to watch TV that requires zero brain function. (And, let's be honest, in my head I'm totally dating Nate Archibald.)

But grief is dangerous. Sadness easily morphs into anger, and anger is impulsive, boundless, and self-destructive. When I get mad, I have to sit down and remind myself that I'm grieving, and that anger is just a crude mask for sadness.

I'm learning to ask for help. A hug does wonders, as does a Jell-O cup, going for walks, listening to hymns, talking to my dad on the phone, singing along to Le Mis, doing laundry, wearing sweatpants...

I guess my point here is that it's okay to be sad if you do it in the right way. And you realize when it's gone too far. And you ask for help. And you remember to put on pants and stuff.

Thanks for your understanding. I've gotten so much good feedback from my blog thus far, and seriously, it means so much when people tell me they read/like/acknowledge The Epitome of Snark. If you have any ideas of things I should blog about, hit me up.

x,
   m

p.s.- My readers are seriously the best. <3