I remain in a blue funk, but am surely getting over it. I play a lot of WoW and I got all brush happy, as the new banner should tell you. I am a photoshoppin’ fool at this point. I’m taking requests. You, too, can have mangled slogans and retrolicious fonts. And crazy, crazy brushes.

But the blue funk isn’t going away like it usually does. The sink is still dripping and the floor is still warping and somebody said something really mean to me and I had to work very hard at not crying, right there, in front of a bunch of other people.

The best I felt was Saturday night. Christopher and I had some wine and watched Muriel’s Wedding– a very important film for me and one that I hadn’t seen in years. Funk or no, bad decision making or no, crippling self-doubt, abysmal self-esteem, none of that seemed too terribly important when Mariel told Rhonda, “But since I met you and moved to Sydney, I haven’t listened to one Abba song. That’s because my life’s as good as an Abba song. It’s as good as Dancing Queen.”

The first time I heard that, I was 18 years old and I nearly burst into tears. Instead I went into a bit of shock-induced fugue state that I only came out of later, after the movie was over and I was staring at myself in mirror in the bathroom at the theater.

It was July 4th, 1995 and pouring down rain. My friend Tristen and I had been pestering our respective guy about what we were doing that night– though she was firmly going out with hers (they’re married now, or were last I checked) and I was just wishing mine would elevate me to full-on girlfriend status; I’d been throwing myself at him for about 2 years at that point. And he was a jerk for a really long time and about half of it he was really mean. Cruel, actually. If I’d had brain one, I’d've told him to fuck right on off, but blah blah blah love cakes and I never really did.

Anyway, that particular 4th of July in suburban Nashville was pouring down rain. So we called up the boys and they were mean so Tristen hung up on her boyfriend and we decided to go see a movie at the dollar theater. We had never heard of Muriel’s Wedding, but it was only a dollar and we needed something to do.

The movie was a revelation. My life was in many way’s like Muriel’s– I wasn’t abused at home, physically, but growing up with my particular family was a challenge. Words mean things and can be just as damaging as hands– y’all have seen glimpses of my inner narrative at this point. I learned that. I internalized it. So I looked at myself in the mirror while Tristen peed and realized that I am not useless and never was. And that I didn’t need some stupid boy to make me worthwhile or reify my sense of self. It did prove that dogged determination (and a willingness to live in a fantasy world entirely of your own making) will get you far in life. Even to the point you can look at your father and say, “We’re not useless. We never were.”

I’ve still never said that. And mid-blue-funk is not the time to go dreaming about it. But I’m trying. I had a hard time watching certain bits because even Rhonda sees what’s happening and demands to know why Mariel is trying on dresses if she’s not getting married. And she says, “Because I’ve always wanted to get married. If I can get married, it means I’ve changed. I’m not her anymore.” And they look at her, “Who?” “Muriel! Stupid, fat, and useless! I HATE HER! I’m not going back to being her!” Sarah– stupid, fat and useless. I hate her.

Except I am not she. I may be fat, but I am not stupid and I am sure as shit not useless. So I’m telling myself, over and over until I believe that, that not only is my life, but I am as good as an Abba song. I am as good as Dancing Queen.

One of the constant conceits of my life is that I am not that girl. I may be a lot of things but I am not she. And the that varies according to my mood or the point I’m trying to make. And in this way, it’s both a blessing and a curse, because my version of that is sort of a reverse accusation. You have nothing to fear from, for I am not *that* girl. Except when I am. And if I am, I’ll be lying about it.

I have been feeling entirely too exposed lately. Obviously, I should tell the internet about that, so eight to ten semi-interested people can go, “Shut up, ho bag. Don’t you have any Orcs to kill?” That’s the sort of mood. I am *that* girl. I want to snarl and holler, but I can just imagine somebody I really like saying, “Sarah, that is so not punk rock.” Then I’d burst into tears and whimper, “Please don’t judge me.”

Except what I really want to say is that there lately has been a big juxtaposition of how I see myself and how others see me. I’ve received several compliments lately, all of which I believe are undeserved. Some actually made me want to get up and leave the room quickly. Usually I can just say, “thank you” and change the subject, but at one point I wanted to say, “No. No, I am not.” Some of this must have been conveyed through facial expression, because immediately came the rejoinder, “And I’m not just saying that because I’m your friend.” Then I just plain changed the subject.

Never in my life have I more felt less than the sum of my parts. And even using that phrase makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time– a mean sort of laughter directed at myself– because I automatically insert, “and damn, that is a lot of parts.” And then I am extra ashamed because I’d rather just distract myself than actually take stock of why I need to say that. Surely there are enough people out there insulting me, to my face or otherwise, that I don’t need to add to it. Except it seems I have only two modes of internal narrative: blissfully, deliberately ignorant of own flaws, hair fucking gorgeous; or christ, how fat and worthless can one person be, I mean really?

It’s a big, stupid slope I keep struggling toward the top of, like Sissyphus, except the top looks just like the bottom and it makes me confused and want to cry. I don’t to give up because that’s against my nature, but I don’t want to try anything either, because things just keep going wrong. For six weeks now, everything has kept breaking and being broken and breaking some more and again and no matter what I try, I cannot seem to fix things or get on top of the problems. Even the things I surround myself with for comfort and entertainment seem like part of the problem. It is completely illogical to think that the sink would stay fixed and not keep fucking up the floor if I just stopped playing computer games, but when I’m trying to fall asleep at night, all I can do is catalogue the day’s failures and they usually involve time management and superhuman strength.

I really want to stop. I have no concept of how to stop, so I just keep striving, and sliding and sinking and wishing I were somebody other than Sarah and that Sarah never were.