Okay, cupid. Let's get real.

Being a single woman in Manhattan who doesn’t drink means I’m up against a difficult dating scene. No, being a single woman in Manhattan period means I’m up against a difficult dating scene. That’s why I, like many others out there, have taken to online dating services in order to expand my pool of prospects. But recently, because of two very specific instances, I’ve found myself wondering if online dating is worse than not trying at all.

Let me lay the first one out for you. On the 26th of January, I received a message from a man who called himself Marky that went exactly like this: “You look like a cuddly teddy bear sliding down a rainbow into a pot of gold.” Alright. So, first of all, the readers can correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure most women prefer not be referred to as “cuddly.”  Allow me to clarify for any confused gentlemen out there. Many women do love to cuddle, but this does not mean they themselves would like to be seen as cuddly. We clear? Also, since when do teddy bears slide down rainbows? No story from my childhood mentions such a happening. At least go with a leprechaun if you’re going to work with rainbows and pots of gold. I’m Irish, so I suppose that could kind of work.

Then, on the 30th of January, I received another adorable message from Daniel.  He messaged me at 10:28 that Thursday morning with a compelling “Hi.” Later that night, when I hadn’t responded because I was at work, and because he didn’t actually give me anything to respond to, he followed up with a simple message: “Rude ass.” Wow, this guy really knows how to turn a woman’s heart.

When I received these gems, part of me dismissed them as ridiculous and contrived. But another part of me began to question what I was doing wrong. I looked over the profile (okay profiles) I had created. Are they witty enough? Are the pictures cute enough? Is it weird that I said I can’t live without soup?!? It appalls me that no matter how much therapy I attend, no matter how much progress I make in recovery, and no matter how many times my family members or friends tell me that they love me, I still unconsciously always choose self-doubt as my go-to operating system.

It’s simply habit. For as long as I can remember, I haven’t been enough. In high school, just completing my homework or studying for a test for a few hours wasn’t okay. I had to check everything six or seven times over and study until I was actually crying. I was terrible at sports, and had no business being a member of the “Developmental” (aka worse than Junior Varsity) field hockey team, but forced myself to go to practice everyday, even though I was probably crying then, too. There was usually a lot of crying involved. With friends and boyfriends, I never wanted to say the wrong thing, and if I thought I did, I couldn’t focus on anything else until I was convinced that they weren’t angry with me.

When mood and eating disorders entered my life, this situation didn’t exactly get any better. I continued to be a perfectionist, judging myself on even more criteria than I had before. Never would I have run enough miles, lost enough weight, or eaten in the right way.  And in general, never would I be a good enough person for those around me.

Maybe part of me will think this way forever, but at least now it isn’t all of me that is convinced I’m, well, the worst. I’ve started to shift my thinking in two ways. First, I try as much as I can to surround myself with the things and people that I love.  That’s easier said than done when you’re depressed. Hiding under a sea of blankets is often much more appealing than getting up, showering, feeding myself appropriately, and going to see friends or catch a show. But I always feel better when I do. Because at my core, I thrive on connection, and in order to save myself, I need to find those things in my life that bring me closer to other people and my surroundings.  For me those things are comedy, coffee, and writing, to name a few.

I also try to remember that there is no way I am ever going to live up to everyone’s expectations.  That’s another point that seems obvious, but it wasn’t to me for a very long time. I constantly sought to impress not only friends, but also friends of friends of friends of friends. Because of that, I ended up spending my time with people who weren’t even healthy for me in the first place. I became a phony version of myself, a version of myself who I don’t very much like when I look back on her. I wasn’t genuinely connecting to myself or to other people.  Now, I pretty much know who my people are. That group can expand and change, but I’m not going to fill it with those who expect something of me that I can’t give them.

I still doubt myself all the time, but there are some things I know for sure.  And after a bit of reflection, I’m quite confident I am neither a “cuddly teddy bear” nor a “rude ass.” Thank you very much.

Peace and love,

Molly

So no one told me life was gonna be this way

According to weathermen and the mayor, the recent snowstorm was supposed to have apocalyptic effects on New York City. In reality, a small amount of precipitation collected while a bunch of us got to “work from home” and Netflix probably experienced what I’d imagine was an apocalyptic surge in views of “Friends” and “Gilmore Girls” (because I know I would want to finish both of those series before the end of the world). I made it through the first half of Ross and Rachel and even got to the beginnings of Monica and Chandler, so I was pretty impressed with myself. But what I do find annoying about this lack of a storm is the collections of slush that have accumulated before every crosswalk and don’t seem to be going away.

While walking down Lexington Avenue the other day, I found myself hesitating before one of these puddles, trying to decide what fancy footwork would soak my toes the least. Despite the dreariness outside, I was in a great mood. I really don’t have much to complain about lately. Football season is over and Missy Elliot has returned to popularity, so all is right with the world in my mind. But I wasn’t exactly pleased when some woman slammed into my back during this moment of pause. I immediately had two thoughts: “typical fucking New York” and “fuck you.” Just like that, I went from grinning to glaring, glaring at a woman who probably made an honest mistake (or she was the worst).

I’ve been trying to be keenly aware of any dramatic shifts in mood I’ve been experiencing over the past couple of weeks, and there’s been quite a few of them. The other day I was sitting in a meeting at work, and all of a sudden I felt so happy I wanted to cry. No one gave me a promotion and my knight in shining armor hadn’t entered the room (umm, still waiting, dude), but I felt as if both of those things had happened at the same time.

It would be kind of nice, albeit overwhelming, if this were the case all the time, but in the past it’s been sadness and shame so strong that I haven’t been able to get out of bed. I know people say that a lot, that they can’t get out of bed, and we all have those days when our pajamas and our daytime clothes are one in the same. But when those days happen again and again, it gets old pretty damn quickly. It happened so much for me that I almost got used to that routine.

It’s not that the sadness ever became easy to handle, but at least it was familiar. What I’ve never really become accustomed to are the rapid changes: going from glee to loneliness to heartache to appreciation, all in the course of a day, maybe in the course of a few hours. It scares me, because I don’t know what’s coming next. And it takes me out of the moment. I appreciate the happiness a little less while I’m waiting for the sadness.

Regardless of what the mood is, it can be charged with an energy that’s difficult to explain. I’m wound up when I’m happy to the point where it’s uncomfortable. I’m one of those annoying people whose voice gets louder and just a little bit faster when they’re in a good mood. I become far too similar to a valley girl than I’d like to admit. And when I’m low, my words and mannerisms are shorter and tense. I’m like a less cool version of April Ludgate, who, if real, would rule us all.

All I wanted to do for so long was escape that energy, which is why I found different ways to numb out, which is why I secluded myself, which is why I chose to step away from my life. I still do those things sometimes, but more often than not, I take my feelings at face value and work with them instead of against them. When it comes down to it, the grief is going to pass and the good spirits are going to return. And life is not a constant wave of extremes. I focus on the depression and the exhilaration, but there are more tolerable moods that lie in the middle. These moods are where life is really lived.

The other night I couldn’t sleep. I woke up and felt nervous, nervous for no apparent reason at all. I was returning to the extreme, and my drowsiness left me ill equipped to deal with it. The night felt intolerable, and in a way it was. But in another, more real sense, morning came. I went to work and had a productive day, and caught a show that night. Things were no longer terrible because I didn’t make a desperate dash from my feelings. I just let them happen. I recovered from an episode of depression that in the past could have kept me in bed for days.

And now, as the Friends theme song fills the walls of my room, I feel settled and calm. I don’t know how I’ll feel in a few hours, or maybe a few minutes, but perhaps I’ll be able to deal with it.

Peace and love,

Molly