casual makeup, casual update

first, update. my meds are making me super sleepy all the time and all I do is nap. yesterday I fell asleep during my hair appointment. then I drove home, nearly napping, to go finish napping. I also never eat. I’m back in my size 1 jeans. gotta be careful. but I’m pretty happy. I feel worthless due to the napping and I feel that weird vanity that comes with weight loss but even when I don’t leave the house I am happy on my sofa with my pets and my books and my boyfriend.

I’m supposed to get my blood tested for all sorts of defects and deficiencies and imbalances that might be causing this med/treatment resistant depression and fatigue. Hopefully my insurance covers it.

today I managed to leave the house because my mom was in town. I did really simple makeup — just cc cream, a highlight, brows, natural mascara, and a coral lipstick.


And that’s my new shorter hair. The same cut as last time. I keep it pretty andro-chic when I can.

Now back to napping and catching up on my Game of Thrones reading. Hope all of you are well.


still, (+bipolar rambles, this is all over the place and whiney)

still struggling with depression. sleeping all of the time, losing myself in a book when I’m awake and not at a rehearsal. doctor asks if it is possible that I am hiding or attempting to escape from something with sleep and books. being awake, watching the time slip by. that’s what I’m scared of, but I wake or look up and it slaps me in the face that I’m real, and that life is real, and that I am 22 and I am only a semester away from my music degree but I don’t have it yet and I won’t for a long time. That I am not independent, that I am a long way from it. That my demons still somewhat control me. I feel weak under pressures that seem to make other people strong.

Watching my friends graduate and get married is thrilling, and I’m happy for them, but I also feel like something of a runt. When will I have my shit together? When will I be able to make it through a day filled with work without naps? Without indulgence in my disease?

But heavy questions sit on my mind. Do I want to have biological children? Due to my alcoholism and bipolar disorder, probably not. I’ve thought about getting my tubes tied, but it’s too early for me to do something with threatening permanence. Would I be a fit parent anyway? I have never even held a baby. Do I have anything to offer a child? Adoption seems the only path, and a beautiful one, but is there discrimination in the process against people like us? Fucking probably. Queer people who are perfect on paper have a very difficult time of it. I feel the piece of paper that has to be taped together at odd angles, filled out in all colors of ink. Scribbles on the back.

I live in what used to be the capital of the Confederacy. Things move slowly here, although we are technically a blue state. Things like protesting mandatory trans-vaginal ultrasounds of rape survivors seeking life-saving abortions get you thrown in jail. Not kidding.

Can you tell how liberal I am because oops I might have sneezed my liberal all over my blog, sorry not sorry

Again, I state my age: 22. Child worries are preludes to glimmers in my eye. But I have to think these questions at some point. No one can answer motherhood for you. Unless you get oops pregnant, which I am too broke, young, and crazy to do. Use protection.

“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.”

Philip Larkin

My Shakespeare professor shared that with my class, back when I was double-majoring in classical music (performance) and English. I was manic, then. And then I was depressed. And then I finally sought treatment for what I thought was depression. When the antidepressants made my mood swing the other way, I signed up for another 20 credits. And then I got depressed again. Such is my artsy fartsy academic career, on pause for now.

I used to get As in my 400-levels and the two graduate-level courses I took when I was 18/19. Then I got older, and I stayed in 400s and 500s, but my brain seemed to quit on me with more frequency and intensity. Maybe it was all the drinking mixing with life as a bipolar medicine guinea pig topped with full time school.

I used to have an academic scholarship. At one point in my (first) senior year, I tried to leave and not come back. I had my first hospital stay. And then I didn’t have my scholarship anymore.

That was a swell thing you did, Commonwealth of Virginia. Super swell.

At least the next time I had a mixed episode, it was over the 4th of July. Just a lot of missed rehearsals. Probably the best time of year to be stuck in an air-conditioned ward.

There was a 60 year old man who hit on me openly in that ward. I reported it to the nurses and did what they said: hang out in a different room from him, sit apart from him, move if he sits with you. I did all that. One day I was waiting to take a shower, and he started talking to me. It was just us in the hallway. I didn’t want to lose my place in line, so I dealt with it. Later, my doctor accused me of being promiscuous.

Frumpy bitch.

She wasn’t even a doctor. She was an NP who didn’t correct me when I called her “dr” every day. Even though I had the tremor of an alcoholic (because I was a fucking alcoholic, I drank port in the mornings — wtf, me?), she continued to lecture me about smoking.

Chain smoking led me to call someone to drive me to the hospital so I wouldn’t jump off of my balcony.

I have since quit, but obviously alcohol and undiagnosed bipolar disorder were the larger demons. Everyone in that psych ward smoked.

Again, frumpy bitch.

If you are actually reading this, I applaud you. Allow me to be your cheerleader for a moment. But I’ve grown bitter and mean throughout these rambles. So just picture your meanest uncle or grandpa in a cheering outfit and have a laugh.

I’ve been wearing less makeup lately. A post on that soon. Light-hearted.

I have an Instagram now. @parthamurvis

neeeeed to go release some tension now, time for yoga and a long walk. sorry for my word vomit. thanks for the place to do so.



someone’s depressed and can’t get in the tub

so I did my first ever order with LUSH cosmetics to hopefully solve this problem.


there’s no LUSH near me, although I live in a pretty large city. There are two Sephora stores within 10 minutes of my apartment, for Christ’s sake.

Anyway, I have running water. Not like I’m using it. But I should stop complaining.

But I also have purple lipstick. Which I am using. To go to the bookstore. Because I need to leave the house (it’s been three or four days) (I know, I just wrote that “I’m so level” post, I jinxed myself, shut up). Chop, chop go my sentences.


Gloomy me in pleather and purple and a faux fur hat. And literally no other makeup because effort is hiding these days.

Ciao. Take your meds, put on your faces, get in your tubs.


Makeup, Self-Expression, and the Selfie

I remember my introduction to makeup. I was in junior high, and my mother had a Mary Kay party, to which she politely included my sister and I. I remember one thing of this party, and I always will: how to apply eye shadow. Just the basics — a lid shadow, a highlight, a crease color. Apply liner (my middle school preference was raccoon liner) and mascara and voila! From girl to lady — albeit a dark one — I went.


This was the era of MySpace. I thought of it as explaining oneself on one complex sheet of digital paper. I was confused enough to believe, at 12 or 13 years old, that the self and spirit of a person could be understood via the information provided on that platform. My misguided self took all of my artistic energy and applied it toward the crowning jewel of social media — the selfie. I did not think myself beautiful, and in fact, from 2002-2011 I downright hated myself. But in my own portraits, I could create a little melodramatic me-centric universe where I could be understood. Maybe even appreciated! (I much later understand that I was loved and appreciated through even my darkest times.)



I’ll leave it to my psychiatrist to determine why I often only shot half of my face in these early portraits.

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Some of these images are quite happy. My last high school band concert. Being accepted into art school for music. Playing guitar, faceless, on my parents’ front porch. A few photos of me fooling around on my new Macbook for college, hoping to capture my thin face and my eye for new experiences.

But as I look through my collection of photos on my laptop and on my cell phone, there is a complete gap of pictures of myself from my freshman through my fourth year of college. This gap says a lot — for one, I rid myself of social media entirely. At times, I thought taking selfies was completely vain. (It is. But there’s more to it than that.) But I also didn’t ever think I could take a picture that I’d like. For most of this time, I was battling bipolar disorder and PTSD undiagnosed and all alone. Add in the stress of music school, an abusive relationship, alcoholism, a few breakups, and adult acne, and you have the mess that was Martha for several long years.

Enter my brilliant psychiatrist and therapist. Enter endless medications and self-help books. Enter my service animal. Enter the acceptance of the love I couldn’t previously handle from my mother, my father, my sister, my boyfriend, and all of my wonderful friends in this world. (Honorable mention goes to my cats!) Enter my confidence machine — makeup.

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image (my first Sephora makeover, which changed my life; my first day with Buddy, my service animal; the day I chopped off all of my hair for the first time)

So I’m taking this back to the beginning, back to Mary Kay, back to makeup.

After I made enough progress in treatment of my mental illness, I started to care for myself again. I started wearing foundation, seeing a dermatologist, and expressing myself with eyeshadows and lipsticks.

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(channeling my inner Winona; look at me I knit a hat, playing trombone in a pit orchestra, being a red-lipped ice queen, a pre-Halloween party selfie)

And there was the one night of bipolar mania in which I decided to do a self-portrait titled “Androslut,” which one of my friends noted was “very Bowie.”


A picture says a thousand words. A selfie, I believe, says more.

Cheers to the confidence to take one, and thanks to my mother and Mary Kay for my first makeup lesson.