GUEST POST: how to say the hard stuff OR not even in the face of armageddon

This is Chris

My dear and very wise friend Chris, who has been reading my blog since its beginning (it is the very source of our friendship) and helping me work through the muck of life, love, and spiritual growth, wrote this beautiful guest post for us today. It was inspired by my post A Heart's Gamble, and I am so happy to share his insights here.

Enjoy...

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I once spent two and half years working up the clarity / confidence in my choice to tell a woman that as much as I loved her, deeply, profoundly loved her, I was not truly happy in the relationship with her because she and I wanted different things out of life, or at least to live in ways that did not bring me closer to her.  It was *excruciatingly* difficult to commit my future to that path, of ultimately living without her in my life.  The (many!) times I thought about it and what it would mean... and what could I possibly be thinking that I would give up all the extraordinary times we had together in hopes that I would somehow find something "better"?  What kind of fool did I think I was?!...  I waffled.  I tried all kinds of things to make it work, to contort myself for us to fit better -- and I know she did a lot of that too on her end, for sure.

I had numerous conversations with friends and family along the way to sanity check myself.  My best friend gave me lots of wisdom and a broader perspective.  My brother gave me a lot of practicality, but empathy all the same.  Nevertheless, in terms of the positive benefits my suffering could bring to the world, my mom was the most interesting one to talk to about what I went through.  My dad had divorced her only after 20+ years of marriage counseling and trying and trying... and trying.  They just weren't right for each other.  She gave me, in her own way, a woman's perspective of being on the receiving end of a serious breakup, and I gave her, much to my tangential happiness, a perspective on what a man's side of instigating such a breakup could be like.  That it was hard.

The reality is, I have been unskillful with women.  I have done and said the worst possible things at the worst possible moments.  Usually things I thought were innocuous and sometimes took me years to realize what a horrible thing I done to that poor woman's psyche.  I certainly hope they have recovered well, and at least learned something useful from my horrendous mistakes.  I myself have learned a great deal from my "failing big" and am very, very enjoyably much more skillful now, but even now I still have no strong knowledge of how to handle situations where really deep feelings are involved.  Hell, even when incredibly superficial feelings are involved on both sides: how do you, compassionately, tell a chick you know just came over because she was horny, "btw, I don't want you to sleep here tonight, can I get you a cab?"  Sometimes there's just no easy way to say some things.

So, how, in what was unquestionably the most serious relationship of my life to date, how could I possibly know the right thing to say, to express my real feelings, to be heard and understood that I had my own needs, but that they did not correspond with what she wanted (to remain with me)?  It hurts me deeply to hurt women.  I *love* women, I love taking care of them, treating them well and making them feel safe and comforted.  But as I am a monogamist, I can not do this for all women for all time...  The women I take some time with to explore and see how we fit, learn about her -- and learn about me! -- well...  Statistically, there are going to be more breakups than lifelong relationships that result.  But I remain nevertheless anxious that even after the hurt, somehow, *somehow*, I can find a way to impart to each one the knowledge and certainty that I cared so deeply for her, want her to be profoundly happy and wish with all my heart that a better guy for her than me shows up just around the corner.  And all the while I feel as though she is going to hate my guts no matter what I say, no matter how hard I try -- especially if I am actually _honest_ with her about my feelings, god forbid!

I do not begrudge the women of the world their bar hopping in the aftermath, telling their friends -- or random strangers, or the very next guy they hook up with for a night to forget... -- any stories they can think of that paint their ex-men in the worst possible lights so they can all commiserate on how men are scum, or at least that particular one.  But by the gods I wish it was not so.  Holy fuck I wish there was a way to demonstrate/share/empath the struggle and pain and frustration that goes into the desire to find an, honestly, _better_ happiness -- but still acknowledging that it was indeed a happiness before with that woman.  To know that a woman I cared so deeply for, and gave so much of myself to, that she would remember me fondly and know that I do still, until the end of all days, care for her, in a different way, yes, but deeply care all the same.

When my mom, over time, came to acknowledge that I was clearly greatly concerned about the happiness and well being of the woman I was contemplating leaving behind, she developed at least a hint of appreciation for what my dad went through.  That was so hopeful for me, that at least one woman saw that the guys who do/say these things to them are not cold heartless sociopaths who were lying about their feelings the whole time they were having these intimate moments prior to the uncomfortable conclusion, but rather human beings going through a struggle of their own, to find their own way in this confusing world and trying their damnedest to do the best they could with the skills they had at the time.

And it's not just the super intense moments.  The whole dating game is ripe with opportunity to hurt each other as we gradually shed layers with each other.  (And sometimes not so gradually -- thankfully!  I have cried my own eyes out over such times and am so, so, so immensely grateful to have had those experiences.)  We are all unskillful at times and we are all trying to find happiness in our own particularly selfish (but not in a bad way!) /individual ways.  I want to live in a world where we all recognize this of each other, and can respect our "opponents" in the battle of the sexes, especially from skirmish to skirmish as wounds are inflicted.  Forgiveness, compassion, understanding.

I would rather spend my life looking for a relationship that is truly satisfying for me, even if I never find such a creature, than settle for "almost but not quite" and then spend the rest of my life wondering what it would have been like to experience the satisfaction I knew I truly desired.  I will never stay with someone who wants something that is not what I want to offer, or offering less/other than what I know it would take to truly satisfy me.  Along the way, I will break hearts, including my own, and I hope that, at least for me, all the women I encounter are able to see and value my own attempts to do the right thing, even when it conflicts with their desires and thereby causes them pain.  

Eternally pursue that which brings you joy (and learn better every day what that really is!), perpetually operate from the assumption that hope is worthwhile even when it seems pointless or impossible, and, please, constantly look for the best in everyone on your path to real satisfaction.

May you, ultimately, find peace.

****

*Note from the author regarding the title: I have always planned for my own blog, agonizingbliss.com to title articles twice, once somewhat obviously, and the second a seemingly nonsensical reference at first that ultimately relates to what the article turns into.  This particular second title is somewhat unfortunately a bit obscure, it requires quick googling for those who are not already very familiar with the source material, but it is _extremely_ profound when taken in context and is very apt for the material.  A suggestion to google it after reading might be worthwhile. You should read the graphic novel it comes from, although it is a substantial commitment to do so -- it would take a day start to finish, basically.  A very very profoundly moving day.

Tell Me I'm Beautiful

It takes a lot of strength to be the one to tell myself I am beautiful. It is one of the hardest parts of being single. When there's someone else telling me I'm gorgeous, then I don't have to, and it doesn't take any effort to boost my self-esteem. But when there's no one there saying out loud, You're beautiful, I don't get to hear it, and when I don't hear something for long enough, it becomes more difficult to maintain it as a truth. If I'm the only one telling myself I'm pretty, then is it still true? 

I do my hearts meditation, I go to my sexy feminine fitness class, I give myself goddess-like treats, I dress up and make it a point to fall in love with the reflection in the mirror. I do all that. I am skilled at observing my mind's patterns and cultivating positivity. But I can't be another person, I can't fabricate eyes that look at me and see my beauty, I can't bring to life a being that tells me what they see. Loving myself, while being of utmost importance, is not like being loved by another.

Will it ever be enough to just hear it from myself? I don't know. I sometimes wonder if I am strong enough to go on for much longer without meeting a fella who can tell me, You're the prettiest girl in the room. It sounds so silly and small, but it's so not. Not for me. I come to life when I am loved and wanted. I am strengthened by love. My inner glow multiplies when someone else sees me as truly beautiful. And I suspect I am not alone in this.

I am talking about love and inner beauty, yes, but I am also talking about plain superficial beauty too. The first look and the glimmer in the eyes that goes with it. Ah, how I miss that. The right guy will see it, my friends say. He'll know how lucky he is. I have good friends, and it's not that I doubt my looks or that I am attractive to men, but you know- I'd like to have someone around to tell me so.

I don't want people to know this about me. I rather be seen as confident and self-assured, a woman who doesn't need to be told by a man that she is good-looking. But I cannot be that strong all the time. I am human, after all, and I am seeking to be loved. For now, I am the one cheering my ego on. But when I haven't got anything left to say to myself and I am sitting in silence, I can hear it, deep inside me: the need. Tell me I'm beautiful.

I Wonder About You

Are you better at sadness now? 

I am. Or at least I am used to it. I have not been as sad as you, for as long, but sadness is sadness, and it's deathly in all its sizes.


Do they, the new "she's"-- (I rather think there are many than one; one is too threatening still.) Do they understand? Are they better at it than I was? 

I didn't set the bar too high. But still, I hope they are not.


Are things like smiling and tomorrow still chores? 

I wanted so much to make you smile; I failed to understand you needed me to be the one person you did not have to smile for. Or talk about tomorrow with, for that matter.


Do you still ache for the mundane? 

Sameness, which was so excruciating to me, is precisely what I miss the most.


Do you fit in yet? 

I can't imagine you do. You are an outsider and you are arrogant-- rightfully so, you are too smart and too beautiful for normality. I was much better at seeming comfortable. But it's a pose, nonetheless. I think I have become more transparent and tired. A facade requires cement-like armor and energy.


Are you forgetting? 

I am. 

I would rather who I was be dead to both of us. 


And... Do you, too, wonder?

I hope not. And I hope not never.


*

Spring

People are everywhere.

Showing off their arms and legs, wearing the smiles they've harbored all winter long.

Sitting on the grass, drinking lemonade, letting their laughter hit the city's old buildings and bounce back onto the streets.

The mango vendors are setting up their stands while scarves are being folded and placed on the top shelf.

Beers are pushing aside the red wine bottles, getting ready to hit center stage at every rooftop party.

Daylight stretches out, bringing possibility with it. 

Love watches from between the clouds, waiting to gush into all the open hearts walking around.

Spring is just around the corner. I can't wait.

A Leap

It takes me a year to get over a loss. Be it heartbreak, a death, the end of school, or a friend who moves away; the first year is always full of anniversaries. I keep a one-sentence-a-day-for-five-years journal, so every day I read what I was doing exactly one year prior. I do this deliberately, because I like to remember, relive, and re-feel. It's how I cherish what once was and let it go fully, without storing unnecessary sadness or pain.

Yesterday was the anniversary of the incredibly painful end to my last relationship. Yesterday meant I survived that first year after losing him and the following 365 days of remembering him.

But today was the 29th of February. Today did not exist last year. Today was new.

Take a leap, my phone reminded me at 9:00am today. Have I grown? Am I changed? Have I healed? Am I okay yet? 

I don't know. But I am here. My little heart is still beating fiercely, anxious to be filled with love again.

And on this day, after all those days of what was, there is nothing to remember.

It is almost midnight. Today provided a crack between this "year" and the next one. The one that is not full of anniversaries anymore. The one that might be full of possibilities. I am about to step into tomorrow.

No, not step. Leap.



Leap with me?

Letter From My Future Husband

Dear Larissa,

Yes, you do find me one day. Don’t worry about whether I’m taller than you or what color my eyes are. You’ll be surprised how little that matters. (But, for the record, no, I am not John Hamm).

I’m here, though, and I’m crazy about you.

I think you are breathtaking. And I tell you that, all the time. I find every inch of you incredibly sexy, and I can’t get enough of touching you, grabbing you, kissing you, holding you, and looking at you.

Our bodies and our hearts have a language of their own. We are madly in love, and we are dedicated to each other fully.

                                                                                                                       

We are honest; there are no lies or secrets. There are no eggshells; there is no caution. You can read me, and I can see you.

I think your cheesy romanticism is so sweet. I always hold your hand, run my fingers through your hair, stand close to you at parties, look at you when we make love, talk to all your friends, and let you have the last bite of everything.

I watch all your plays, films, and gigs. I am your number one fan, and you are my greatest supporter.

It matters to me that your family like me.

I love to hear you talk about feminism. I love to hear you talk.  

I am not perfect. We will fight. I am not here to fulfill or complete you. But I love you, I want you, and I care about you. I am here for you. I see you.

I know you are anxious to know when we are going to meet, or if you already know me. I know you want to know if we have kids and a home and our dream jobs. I can’t tell you that, though, it’s against the rules. But you’ll know when the time is right.

Until then, take good care of yourself and of your beautiful, open heart. Be gentle, be kind, be sweet, and indulge in your willingness to love. Have no regrets, know that every single one of your stories will lead you to me.

I am here, I am crazy about you, and I cannot wait to marry you.

Love,

Me.

Forced Intimacy

He unloads the dishes.

She folds their clothes.

He brings her flowers.

She leaves chocolates on his pillow.

He brings her coffee.

She sends him texts throughout the day.

They sleep together.

They look good together.

They want the same things.

But...

He doesn't hold her hand underneath the table.

She is distracted when they watch TV together.

He plays with his phone while she talks.

She doesn't tell him that she's mad.

He doesn't tell her that he's sad.

She forgets to kiss him.

He doesn't mind sitting apart from her.

She is afraid of leaving him.

They can hear the sound of their forks hitting their plates.

They sleep together.

They look good together.

They want the same things...

Raised by Lesbians, a Fine Young Man Speaks

I love this video. I want the world to see it, share it, like it, comment on it, pass it on, show it in schools, and be moved, as I was, to tears.

Chef Lala's First Thanksgiving

Making a traditional Thanksgiving meal from scratch had been on my mind for a few years, ever since I really fell in love with cooking. Born and raised in Brazil, I didn't really celebrate Thanksgiving, so I don't smell stuffing and cranberry sauce and go, "Oh that takes me back to the time my mother lost the carving knife in the turkey and Uncle Maurice dropped sweet potatoes on the baby's head..." But, I did grow up with a very tight, supportive, and loving family, and celebrating holidays has been a huge part of my upbringing. Having lived in the U.S. for eight and a half years, I have experienced Thanksgiving in many different ways, but never taken part in the planning, cooking, and hosting of it.

This year, I wanted to take it on. My parents would be in town, my brother and I live together, and I was ready. Even though my kitchen is tiny (tiny!) and my apartment was upside down because of recent problems we've had in the building, I was determined to make a delicious meal.

I planned it for a month. I read hundreds of recipes, watched videos on turkey mastering, drafted a budget and a grocery list, practiced certain dishes (like the stuffing, sweet potatoes- which were a disaster the first time- and cranberry sauce), figured out a way to do the recipes with the materials I had in my kitchen, and created a daily plan for the week-of. Here's how it went down:

Saturday, November 19th: Cleaned out my refrigerator and all the pots and pans I'd need. (approx. 1 hour.) Made my grocery list, complete with researched prices. (timeless.)

Trader Joe's 9:00am

Sunday, November 20th through Tuesday, November 22nd: Got my groceries! I went to Trader Joe's, Whole Foods, and the Union Square Farmer's Market. Spent a total of $85.00 for the whole shabang, not including wine. I even went to TJ's at 9:00am, to avoid the madness. I had a plan, kids. (many hours.)

Bobby Flay's recipe

Monday, November 21st: Made my cranberry-blackberry sauce. (approx. 1 hour.)

Tuesday, November 22nd: Made my butternut squash and apple stuffing. (approx. 1 hour and 45 minutes.) Made a brine for my Turkey parts, dunked it in there, stuck it in the fridge. (I actually didn't do a whole turkey, but separated the parts, breast from legs and wings. I didn't have the space or equipment for a whole turkey, but maybe next year.... approx. 20 minutes.)

stuffing is actually my favorite part

Wednesday, November 23rd: Made my maple bourbon sweet potato souffle with candied pecans. (approx. 1 hour and 45 minutes.) Took my turkey out of brine, buttered it up, placed it on a bed of vegetables. (approx. 1 hour.) Assembled my pear and apple crisp. (approx. 1 hour.) Macerated berries to top the crisp with. (approx. 10 minutes.)

Thursday, November 24th: Got my turkey roasting! (3 hours.) Made my green bean casserole with homemade mushroom soup and fried onions. (approx. 3 hours.) Made my mashed potatoes with sour cream, chives, garlic, and cream. (approx. 1 hour.) Set the table. (I kept it simple. approx. 10 minutes.) Made hot apple cider and rum cocktails (approx. 15 minutes). Got a little crazy in the last two hours, having to warm everything up and make the gravy after the turkey had roasted (approx. 15 minutes), placed my crisp in the oven (approx. 1 hour) and the ice-cream in the fridge, so it would get ready while we ate, and VOILA! Thanksgiving was on the table.

carving my turkey breast. also in the picture: my brother, and my parents' wine glasses

Luckily, it was just for my parents and my brother, so I didn't have to get my hair done or dress up, because I don't think I would've been able to- but my food was delicious. Everything turned out perfectly, everyone was super happy, and we had leftovers for the next three days, including a delicious left-over harvest soup I made on day 3 and a blueberry-blackberry-cranberry jam. 

What I would do differently in the future:
- Make the gravy separately, just serve the turkey over its bed of veggies, and avoid all the straining and reducing that make a mess in the kitchen in the last 15 minutes.
- Make the green bean casserole and mashed potatoes ahead of time too. I thought that because they both have cream in them, I couldn't do them the day before, but as leftovers, they tasted even better the next day, and actually lasted for three days in the fridge, so I'd just go ahead and do those ahead of time too. Get as much out of the way before the day! That way, I could've showered and gotten dressed up for the actual meal.
- I think I could attempt a whole turkey next time. I could use a bucket to brine it and keep it outside on my balcony. But, I must say, everyone was a fan of the separate parts, no carving, and no unused meat.
- Have someone else in charge of taking pictures! Very important in the era of social media. =) 

What worked really well: 

pear and apple crisp with vanilla ice cream

- Making a grocery list, drafting a budget, and researching prices. Made a huge difference. People have told me they spend up to $400 on their thanksgiving meals, and I was determined to do it for under $100. Trader Joe's and the Farmer's Market were key in this part. Two tips: don't buy anything pre-chopped, it costs twice as much, and if you want organic, get it from the Farmer's Market, otherwise, go for conventional at the grocery store.
- A crisp is the perfect dessert, it's easy, can be assembled ahead of time, and heats up while you're eating your meal.
- Easy appetizers. I just served some of the candied pecans that were going to be in my sweet potato souffle, and some of the extra green beans sauteed in olive oil.
- Hot apple cider and rum cocktails were a hit. And super easy. Just dice some apples and pears, put it in a pot with store-bought apple cider (or make your own ahead of time) and a cinnamon stick, warm it up, and serve it in mugs with a shot of rum, some of the fruit, cinnamon and nutmeg sprinkled on top.
- Using my sink and dishwasher and fruit basket to store food while I waited for other things to warm up. Having aluminum foil pre-cut in large rectangles.
- Let someone else think of the wine.
- Simple table. The food is beautiful, there's no need to decorate.

And that's it, my friends. I made my first Thanksgiving, all on my own, all from from scratch, in my tiny kitchen, and it was a success. It took five days, but it was a lot of fun, and I was very proud of it. I think I can say that all my husbands will be very lucky men.

When An Ex Reads Your Blog

People have asked me if, when I write, I take into consideration that my ex (ex's...) may be reading.

The answer is yes and no; how could I and how could I not?

Sometimes, as I am writing, I definitely hope that he might read it. I hope that he will know how I feel now, know that I still think about him, know that I am still sorry, know that even if we never see each other again, he meant a lot to me. Back when I was really hurting, I used this blog to purge my pain and I did hope to reach him. I hoped to somehow show him that I was human, since I knew I had turned into someone he couldn't love anymore. I ached for his forgiveness, and I was asking for it through every avenue I could think of. I had no interest in seeming strong, put together, over it, and better off without him. I was broken and I missed him desperately; it leaked right through my writing weather I wanted it to or not. I didn't have any guarantees that he'd read my blog, but I figured that if I could put it out into the universe, it might help me to heal anyway. 

At the same time, I had to set the thoughts of him reading it aside in order to hit publish. I have plenty of drafts of posts I wrote that I didn't have the courage to publish because the thought of him reading it mortified me. So, the ones I've published here I've done so by letting go of wondering weather he'd read it or not; I published them because I wanted them to exist regardless of his possible reactions. I needed to put them out here, where they could touch others, shift, and bounce back to me as a little bit of armor, a drop of medicine, a step closer to relief.

When I've written about older ex's, I have generally written under the assumption that they do not read my blog. I have been mostly wrong, as many have contacted me to tell me they do, in fact, read it. Still, I never took down any published posts because I believed they all had value. If I ever wrote a blog that downright offended someone or exposed them in a way they did not want to be exposed, and they let me know, I would take it down. It hasn't happened yet, because I believe they all know that our stories can serve others, and that I write here what has helped me to heal and become a stronger, more loving person.

I don't think he, or any of my ex's, wish to see me in pain, or get off on how much losing them has hurt me. I don't think any of them come here hunting for evidence that they scarred me in some way, or wanting to read about my inevitably biased perception of what we lived through so that they can then write me an angry email about how wrong I have it all.

So, why do they come here?

If I were to guess, I'd say it's for the same reason I still write about them, too; because no matter how much pain and disappointment we may have caused one another, we meant something to each other, and that's hard to find.

Irene Stirred Things Up, Alright

I'm not gonna lie; I really wanted to have a boyfriend for Hurricane-Turned-Tropical-Storm Irene. I wanted a man-- in the most primal sense of the word. One of those who changes light bulbs with one hand, opens beer bottles with his forearm, and could carry me over his shoulder effortlessly (!) if we had to run for our lives. A big, strong, handy, resourceful, protective man.

I actually had a great time during Irene, hiding out in Brooklyn with a bunch of friends, drinking, laughing, cooking, playing games, and waiting for a tree to fly across the sky or a big Hudson River wave to crash over a building. It was good old fashioned bonding, and I didn't feel lonely or scared. I didn't need this fantasy man, I simply wanted him around. I was happy, surrounded by friends, and having a good time, but still-- this natural disaster brought forth my desire to be loved and cared for.

Currently, my brother and I live together (though he was out of town for Irene), but I lived alone for four years. I learned to change light bulbs, fix leaks, open jars, kill bugs, and mend broken things. I braved many a windy night (and it gets scary up here on the 14th floor during the winter), and I often nursed myself when I was sick. I learned to soothe a burned hand with honey and to put salt under my tongue when my blood pressure gets low. I once took the subway to the hospital when I thought I'd seriously injured my neck and sat in the emergency room for 7 hours by myself. I've carried heavy suitcases through the snow and walked home with eggplants in my pockets after a grocery bag broke on me.

I know I can live on my own; I know I can take care of myself. And that's very important information to have about oneself.

But I don't really want to be alone anymore. I want someone around to share these natural disasters with. Build a puzzle while watching the weather channel, make spaghetti from scratch, use the unused bathtub water to wash yoga mats and curtains, paint the bathroom wall, take pictures of the wind messing up our hair, and snuggle up at the end of it all knowing we survived this crazy non-hurricane... together.

I think this might be what independence is; knowing I can be on my own, but not wanting to be.

Thanks, Irene.

Sky on Sunday evening, after Irene had passed...

A Crush

Image from here

On the days I know we're going to see each other I am all happy and smiley, unable to concentrate and fluffing up my hair as if he were watching. I think about what I'll wear, wondering what he'll notice while trying not to look like I dressed up for him. I repeat to myself: Be cool. Do not give away that you like him! That is the death of cool. Must keep cool alive.

I leave for class so excitedly that I forget my books. I realize it when I'm almost there. Of course, I'm me, so I'm half an hour early, because I always plan for the unexpected and I am never, ever late. So I have time to go home and get my books and then get to class on time. No, not on time. Early. I am always early.

He is always late.

He rushes into class, finds his seat quickly, and our eyes don't meet. My heart sinks. He is only two chairs away, though, and so I know I will not hear a word the teacher says. I am busy memorizing the side of his arm and shoulder. I need to memorize him so that I can think about him when we're not in class.

Of course it's in the two seconds that I am distracted by something else that he looks at me. When I look back he's waiting for my gaze. In my state of unpreparedness, I break out a huge smile with a half-giggle, complete with a pulling my hair behind my ear move. So not cool.

But he returns the smile. With a wink. A light wink. Just one of those, "Hey there," winks that really attractive men give away for free. I blush. Death of cool. 

Of course we have a group activity in class today, and of course we are in the same group. This is good, because I know more than he does about what we're asked to do and can impress him. He is impressed. He touches the side of my arm to look at my notes and my legs almost splash everywhere; they turn to liquid so fast.

We find excuses to talk to each other and I am all smiles and eye-glows. I have lots of time to memorize his scent and the warmth I feel when I stand close to him. Time goes by too fast; it always does when you're alive.

Class is over. We are free to go. He has to stay behind for a few minutes. I desperately look for a reason to be hanging out in the hallway waiting for him, so we can walk a bit together, but I cannot find one. Without a reason, I would go from being charming to obvious. And obvious is so not cool.

I leave.

But I have so many new things about him that I've memorized, so many new moments to replay in my head all the time; I have fresh material to be giddy-smiley about for days.

The effect of a crush, I've learned, stands the test of time, cynicism, and experience.

I am 26 years old. I am 16 years old. I am 6 years old. I am 46 years old. And my smile is exactly the same.

****

I'll have a guest post going up today on the blog JUST LIVE LOVE LAUGH; be sure to check for it!

The Artist's Way

Child Artist- image from here

I am working through Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way, a workbook for recovering and discovering our Artistic Self. It's a 12-week do-it-yourself program, with daily and weekly tasks. I recommend it to anyone and everyone. It's the second time I am working through it.

I was given a used copy of it by a friend a couple of years ago, and it sat on my shelf for two years, untouched. Then, in May of 2010, I found myself deeply sad and stuck. I had spent my first year out of school auditioning and getting rejected, and I had gone through two major heartbreaks in the span of just a few months. I was lonely, uninspired, and in a lot of pain. Then someone sent me an article written by Jenna Fisher, where she talked about going through these periods throughout her career as well, and mentioned how helpful The Artist's Way had been. I picked up my copy, dusted it off, and started reading it. I committed to it because I didn't know what else to do; I needed to shift something within.

Early in the book, Cameron explains that when we are in pain, we are present. The future becomes too challenging to imagine and the past is too painful to remember, so we focus on the present. And that is when we notice the details of life, which is a propeller for creativity. I found that to be true. I was diligent about doing the exercises, and it didn't take long for things to start shifting. Before I knew it, I had created my own show, Leading Ladies, and I had four other plays lined up to perform in. And I fell in love.

The Ladies of Leading Ladies

Things got better quickly, projects were coming my way, and I was happy. I was glowing, in fact, and many people noticed it. So I made the mistake that many people in recovery make: by week 8, I abandoned The Artist's Way. I thought I didn't need it anymore. I was healed. I knew how to nurture my artist and the universe was responding; why spend 30 minutes of my morning writing morning pages, why take an hour out of my week to go on an artist date, why spend 45 minutes on a task, why repeat affirmations to myself? I thought my time would be better spent living, loving, and creating.

I can see now that what happened after that was no coincidence. Slowly, things fell apart. Auditions led to nothing but rejections. I got a job I didn't enjoy. I met people who sucked my creative energy out of me, and I didn't know how to protect myself. I turned into a version of myself I can't stand; bitter, angry, self-loathing, and victimized. My relationship, too, went down a destructive path and I didn't know how to save it. I saw myself losing everything, and I felt powerless.

I have been crying for just about 6 months now, and I haven't acted in a play in 9 months. It was time for a shift. Two weeks ago, as I was organizing one of my closets, I came across my copy of The Artist's Way. I felt such a huge relief in holding it in my hands that I burst into tears. I knew I needed to attend to my artist. I needed to do the work again.

It's only the second week, and already things have changed. Projects have come my way, I have felt my creative juices flowing, and I can feel a huge space opening in my heart again. This time, I hope I'll know better than to abandon the process, and I won't take my progress for granted. It's actually quite simple: Do the work. Results will follow.

I highly recommend this workbook, even if you don't think of yourself as an artist. We are all creative beings, and we all need to attend to that part of ourselves. Creativity, like a muscle, needs to be nourished and given the opportunity to practice and build upon itself. As a teacher of mine in grad school used to say, energy flows where attention goes.

And... I don't know if other people can see it yet, but I looked in the mirror today, and guess what?

I'm glowing.

I think this is a good example of what I look like when I glow. photo by Shirin Tinati.

What Could Have Been

I see you there, standing on the front porch of our house- a house we painted ourselves-  with our baby in your arms and our toddler hanging on your legs. The smell of the breakfast we cooked together still hangs in the air around the house. I put my hand on the small of your back, our bellies touch, I kiss you on the lips, and you wish me luck on my audition. Our hands touch for a few moments; the insides of our palms say I love you to each other. I walk past our peonies and get into our car, and I look at you again, standing there with our kids, in front of our home. You look perfect; you are and always have been perfect. 

This is exactly what we always wanted. The comfortable relief of having it is palpable.

This is the world I escape to when I’m in line at the post office, when the dairy products in the grocery store all look the same to me, when I’m in the subway and the world surrounding me has too many details for me to take in, and when I’m alone in my bed at night, staring out into the darkness trying desperately not to ever forget what his chest felt like next to my cheek.

It is the world of What Could Have Been. It is make-believe and fantasy; it does not exist.

I know I must let it go. I do not want to—I want to hold on to this world forever, I want to return to it many more times, but I know I cannot.

So, I am walking away today. I do not know how long it will take before it is out of sight, or if it ever will be, but I am starting my journey now. I am leaving it behind. I am leaving him behind, along with all my dreams of what could have been. It is a difficult and slow walk. I often look back and see him there, standing tall and handsome, and I want to run back, fling my arms around him, kiss his perfect face, and bury my head into his chest. I want to say, Let me stay! Let me live here a little longer! Don’t let me go just yet!

I know I have to go now, though. 

Saying good-bye to him and to the life I had created for us in my head is really difficult and painful. I am leaving because I have to, not because I want to. We cannot be, and what I dreamed up for us will not come true; I must accept that and I must move on. 

It’s not going to be us this time around; it’s not going to be you and me. It’ll be you and someone else; me and someone else. We will live separate lives, love other people, and become the people we are meant to be, without each other.

For a while, it was a path that corresponded with reality. I saw our lives running their course, together, for the rest of our time here. I am walking away today, but a part of me walked down that path with him and will always live there, in that pretty house with a front yard, where our kids grew up in a home made of love. It is beautiful, because dreams are beautiful. 

I let it be beautiful for now. I know that one day we’ll look back and this dream will have faded; we'll be lost in the past, upstaged by other stories, and our paths will seem to have just barely touched. 

It is sad, because reality is sad. 

Love's Scars

I distinctly remember the realization I had after the first time I got my heart badly broken. Everyone said, It'll pass, You will heal, This won't kill you, It gets better with time. And my realization, which came upon me one day mid-recovery while crying so hard I couldn't keep my eyes open long enough to see the tissue box, was that this was precisely the problem: Surviving something hurts like a bitch! If it had killed me, if I hadn't been able to heal, if time didn't do it's thing, then I wouldn't have had to go through the survival thing- the torturous learning experience, the painful growth stuff, and the what doesn't kill you makes you stronger routine. Survival is linked to the biting pain of loss, and it means carrying that pain with us and living with it, because no, it does not always kill us.

We were all happier before we lost that person we loved. Music, poetry, and films have reinforced this fact over and over again:

Raul Seixas, genius of Brazilian music, says in one of his songs, "Today I know/ that no one in this world is happy/ having loved once."

Pablo Neruda wrote, "Love is so short, forgetting is so long."

In the 1961 movie, Two Rode Together, Marshal Guthrie McCabe says, "You know, sometimes it takes a lot more courage to live than it does to die." (Perhaps an extreme example, but still- heartbreak can be extreme at times.)

And then, after it hurts enough to heal, we are left with a scar. The "break" in our hearts becomes a crease, the pain concealed neatly behind a stitch, and we move through life and, hopefully, let ourselves love again.

When I was going through that first "survival" process, I didn't know that it would be okay one day. I didn't know that today I would look back on it, think of him, see the scar, and feel grateful for the experience in its entirety. That deep, uncensored first love, followed by a loss that knocked the wind out of me, became the patchwork from which I constructed my survival mechanism. Because of it, I developed the mantra, "I have survived my past, and I give myself permission to let it go;" words I repeat to myself on almost a daily basis when I feel something from the past weighing me down.

My most recent scar has been throbbing a little lately, and I've had to attend to the residual grief. It's still painful. It still paralyzes me. I am still surviving it, and I am still letting it go. It doesn't get easier with time; surviving a loss. It mostly just becomes something I know I can do, and that gives me strength, but the work is still there: I still have to survive this.

The other realization I had after that first big loss was that the wounded knew something the unwounded did not. They knew the essence of the human experience: everything changes. "Nothing gold can stay," wrote Robert Frost. A sweet, tender love can turn bitter. The person who teaches us to live to our full potential can leave us one day. The one we want to protect with all of our might may be the one we end up hurting tremendously. There are no guarantees, or permanent states of loving- of living, for that matter- and what is true today may not be true forever.

In that sense, we best let people in. We do well to let them scar us. What we gain with love- the stories beneath the scars- that is life's fuel. Loss is not temporary, but suffering is. While what we have lost remains so, what we gain is also ours to keep. Part of us lives on in the hearts of others, and they live on in ours, even as our stories change.

I am grateful for all of love's scars. They are my treasured stories.

Let's go, I tell my heart today, let's go love again.

Birthdays Are Hard

It is almost my 26th birthday. I can count down the hours. I made plans, so that there would be plans as opposed to no plans. I have played up the yays and woo hoos, because I am good at doing what is expected of me. I am going to buy a dress tomorrow with my mom, since a birthday is a good reason to buy a new dress. I will pick up the phone, I will answer the text messages and emails and facebook wall posts. I will be grateful and polite and cheerful. Like I said, I'm good at doing what is expected of me.

But my birthday is really hard for me. It always has been. As you can see, it takes place in July, which means that throughout my entire childhood and adolescence, all my friends were away for the summer during my birthday. While everyone else got a cake at school and had their friends around on the weekend to celebrate, I spent my birthday with my family at whatever location we would spend our summers, which is only possible to appreciate when one no longer has a family- until that day I, like everyone I know, take their company and love completely for granted.

I tend to get really sensitive and emotional on the week of my birthday, and it sucks. I am already a sensitive and emotional person, often labeled as dramatic even, so it's like suddenly my sadness took a growth pill. Anything I've been storing, whether I'm aware of it or not, pours out of me and before I know it I'm crying on my yoga mat because my teacher said, "let's be grateful for what we have," and I don't feel like being grateful, I feel like being sad, dammit.

This birthday also has the disadvantage of being the closest to my last birthday, and suck by comparison. Last year, though I was hit with the same difficulties surrounding the time of my birthday, I was happy. I was producing Leading Ladies, a play I created from scratch and that I couldn't have been prouder of. I had two more plays coming up after it, so I didn't have to worry about what to do next. I was being creative and living the way I believed I was meant to live. I had just started dating a man I couldn't stop thinking about, and I was super ready to fall in love. I was going to yoga almost every day and feeling great about my body, mind, and spirit. It was a wonderful time in my life, and the birthday blues felt like a manageable learning experience, maybe even one I could have fun with.

But this year is not like last year. I haven't acted in a play in nine months. I haven't even auditioned. The man I was so ready to fall in love with last year; well, I did fall in love, but I ruined it, and he left me five months ago. Because I have been recovering from a surgery, I have not been able to work out, and I can only go to yoga once or twice a week, so I don't feel great about my body right now. I feel quite lost about what to do with my life, and not in that "I am bravely venturing into the unknown," kind of way, but much more like, "I don't know what the hell to do anymore."

There are good things too, and I am certainly able to see them. I am directing a play a friend of mine wrote and it is an amazing experience. I have found a theatre group that deeply nourishes my artist's soul and I look forward to seeing them the way a child looks forward to jumping in the ocean. My surgery was successful, and my body has been relearning how to function, which has been an important lesson for me in patience and compassion with myself.  I have worked in jobs that have taught me a lot about who I am, what I can do, and what I want, and I have met some incredible people along the way. There have been messages everywhere, and the post-break-up growth has been crucial to my understanding of myself.

There is a ton of sadness, though, and it is challenging to keep it from blinding me. I try to loot at a birthday as an opportunity to reflect and set intentions. I do not know what mine could be yet, but if I think of some by Saturday I'll post them. I am a fan, after all, of letting things shift, of watching heaviness and negativity do their thing and then leave so that something else can come in. Birthdays are hard for me, there's no way around that. I'm sitting with the difficulties, I'm acting out on them at times, and I am looking ahead. It's only the 26th time I've had to do this. Maybe by the 52nd I'll get the hang of it...

Until then, come have a beer with me on Saturday and tell me I don't have to smile for you.

This is every metaphor for every feeling. It is also my footprint, staged for this picture, at a beach in LA.

*Thoughts Simply Arise also has a facebook page now! Go like it!* 

Guest Post: Gunshy

Today's guest post is written by Jeanne Joe, author of the blog Gypsy Joe, an amazing woman I've known and watched grow since grad school. She's a beautiful artist, a really talented actor, and a creative person in all areas of life, as you will see in her writing. With Jeanne Joe, you're in for a ride, and you will enjoy it. 

Gunshy

When reigning Artistic Director David Greenham invited me to spend my summer with Maine's Shakespeare Theater, I wasn't sure who was wooing who.  Clearly I was enamored immediately with the theater and desperate to be likable enough to warrant an invitation to join the company.  When I received an email for a phone interview my heart went pitterpat and I said okay, Joe, this is game time.  Put on the charm for this one.  Get a job out.  You can do it.

On the phone, I was so stinking charming I believe I even chatted with Dave (who is himself charming and hilarious, with bone-dry sarcasm and a lifetime of theater experience to pepper his conversation) about house additions and contracting companies - which I know next to nothing about.  And then he offered me a job, and our roles seemed to reverse.  He said humbly, courtingly, "Are you SURE you want to step out of your life for 10 weeks and come to Maine?"  I remember how smiley my voice was.  It drew my roommate out of the kitchen to make sure I was alright (normally my voice is not exactly smiley).  "David," I said, "I would love to step out of my life for 10 weeks."

Calamity isn't gunshy

It's one thing to talk big.  I can talk big about a lot of things.  I can talk big about dropping everything for 10 weeks and build myself up to be some kind of gun-slinging desperado.  I can talk big about being a gypsy, eating three plates of pasta in one sitting, heartbreaking, moving on, adulthood, professionalism, double entendres, flirting; but when the rubber meets the road I find myself shrinking a little from my bold words, worried by ghostly memories and flashbacks.  Last time I took a risk it didn't end so well...I know where this is going....I was kidding...no you're right I wasn't kidding..were you kidding?...damn.  Yup, this is happening.

Gunshy.  Listen to this song and you'll know what I mean:

I've stepped out of my life for 10 weeks and into...still my life.  As my father likes to say, "You always take yourself with you."  Usually I'm pretty good with the confidence and risk taking, but sometimes I feel less like a sexy beast and more like a hot mess.  Leaps of faith can be hard to make and wisdom is hard to come by.

How do you know what - and who - to let in?  As artists I know there's an eagerness to be open, to live dangerously and fully and impulsively and I am ALL ABOUT THAT - for about 3 weeks.  Then I start feeling feelings and I'm afraid to pull the trigger.  How does one do all that, and still have a home inside oneself to rest in - a home that goes with you wherever you lay your head?

say yes?

I remember in my second year of graduate school I had the "Say Yes to Everything and Everyone" phase, where I let so many people and things into my heart I could no longer hear my own voice in my head.  After about 6 months I was dizzy and heartsick, but not very sorry.  It took me about a year to be sorry.  Now, sometimes I miss the extreme peak experiences I had back then.  Life out of grad school is a little more about surviving, which sometimes isn't as fun...but I'm a little hesitant to toss myself to the winds.  There's an element of maturity that wants to control and monitor a person, a performance, a self.  My pendulum doesn't seem to know how to fall to center: I'm always a freakish uber-marionette or a wanton will o' the wisp.  Was my mother right?  Are all things really moderation?

Honestly, I kind of hope not.  Ultimately, what have I got to lose by taking a chance?  It's just one small human heart.  As Beatrice says in Much Ado About Nothing, "Poor fool (heart), it keeps to the windy side of care."

with the skeletons

Every day is starting again.  Some days that's exciting to me - when I know my lines, when I know how I feel, when I know what I want to do - or when I don't know what I want to do and can't wait to figure it out as I go.  Sometimes the idea of starting again makes me not want to wake up, preferring my dream people and dream lives.  Sometimes when I hear a foreign voice say, "Let me in," I am running to the door or the window or the skylight and throwing back the shutters, shivering in sun, damning the torpedoes and racing full speed ahead.  Other times when that voice comes along suddenly I'm hiding in the closet with the skeletons, afraid to meet those green eyes or blue eyes or brown eyes or whatever color pleases God eyes.  Afraid to be unprofessional.  Afraid to be professional.

it's just one small human heart

Gunshy. 

What if...what if this time...

Today, I'm a bit embarrassed to report, I'm hiding in the closet.  You can come in too though.  We can share my flashlight and listen to this beautiful song again and work up the nerve to open the door.

Being Gentle With Myself

Being gentle with myself is hard work. I am much more prone to thoughts like, "Ugh, I'm so fat," or "My neck is such a mess," or "Why doesn't my hair just do one thing at a time," or "I wish I hadn't done that, I'm so stupid," or "Did I really say that, how dumb," and so forth. Switching to, "I look great, I feel great, I am talented and beautiful and smart and bound for success," takes some effort. And some suspension of disbelief.

The thing is, though, that even in my moments of self-loathing and self-pitying, I am still present to a sense that I am better than my own negative thoughts and that I am worthy of love, happiness, and success. The thoughts happen, but they don't shake my core. The Ideal Me sits comfortably in my innermost being, no matter what hurricane of self-destruction my brain and actions put me through.

Since it's easy to get caught up in daily life rubble, I try and give myself some reminders. I have my phone send me alerts that say, "Be gentle with yourself," "Notice your heart," and "Get present to who you really are." I write in my journal a couple of times a day and let my negative thoughts shift to reality, and then to positive thoughts. For example, the thought, "I'm so fat," with turn into, "I have a body that is made of bones, muscle, blood, fat, water, skin, hair, etc.," and then into, "I am beautiful." It doesn't mean I always believe it, but I do it anyway and, very often, it does shift my perception.

On my worst days, when I can't even fathom having a positive thought, I picture Little Larissa, my inner child, and I imagine myself saying these things to her. Immediately, my negativity pulls back by 100%. I may not always be able to treat my adult-self with love and gentleness, but I would kill anyone who spoke to my inner child in a destructive way. I would not stand for it, and so I am reminded that I must not stand for the treatment I give myself as an adult either. If I can protect my inner child, I can protect myself.

So, if I may inspire anyone today: Be gentle with yourself. Treat yourself with love, care, and compassion. We often seek this treatment from others, but it is of uttermost importance that we offer it to ourselves.

My Friend Marina

A measuring system that can accurately describe how much Marina Nacamuli means to me does not exist.

She is my dearest and oldest friend. When we meet someone new in each others lives, she knows I love to tell them that she has been my friend since we were four years old. I love to say that because it's how I let everyone know that she is part of who I am.

Marina likes to play jealous. It is one of her defining traits. She is possessive of her friends, because she loves them very deeply. But, and I know that on some level she knows this, she does not have any real motive to be jealous with me. No one will ever mean as much to me as she does. No one can compete with her. She is one of the most important people in my life.

When I got my heart broken once, I collapsed onto the streets of Midtown, started to cry uncontrollably, and I called Marina. I don't know where she was or what she was doing, but she was by my side within fifteen minutes. That is the kind of person Marina is. She will drop everything and go anywhere to be by your side when you need her. Her love for her friends is palpable.

Marina often asks me to edit something, or write something, or be part of a project. She created a fan page for me on facebook, she comes to watch all of my plays, and if I ever need help with any creative project, she's right there for me. She roots for me, and she believes in me. This is something that touches me very much and I am infinitely grateful for.

We grew up together, we created worlds together, we tried to learn French together, we started liking boys together, we've traveled together, and we've made New York our homes together. Life has kept her near me, and she is constant in my story.

She knows everything there is to know about me. Our friendship is extremely special, but I often take it for granted. When I have moments like today, where I celebrate her, I am present to what a rare gift such a friendship as this is, and I am moved to tears.

Today is her birthday, and she is in Europe. I can not physically be with her, I can not even give her a gift, but I want her to know that she is everything to me. I love her so much that words, which always come so easily to me, evaporate as I try to do justice to how much she means to me. I state the facts of our friendship in hopes that they speak for themselves: it is her 26th birthday and it is the 22nd anniversary of our friendship. It is with absolute certainty that I say that though those are a significant amount of years, they are just a fraction of what we'll look back on at the end of our lives.

Ma, I do not know who I would be without you, and I do not ever want to find out. 

A teacher of mine once asked me, "Do you have a best friend?" And I answered, "Yes, I have always had one, and I always will. My friend Marina."

Minha querida abu, te amo muito.

Happy Birthday. 

Mommy, Why is that Man Kissing Another Man?

My cousin, who has a 4-year-old daughter, recently asked me for advice on how to answer the question, "Mommy, why is that man kissing another man?" 

In light of recent achievements in the gay rights movement, such as New York State finally legalizing gay marriage, I feel I must address this topic here. 

That my cousin's daughter lives in a world where two men are now comfortable kissing each other in public is not something I take for granted. I did not grow up in such a world. I did not see two people of the same gender kissing each other until I got to college. Where I grew up, it was okay to use the word "gay" to describe variations of weak or undesirable behavior. Making fun of boys or girls who did not fit their gender's stereotypes was a normal occurrence. At best, a teacher might interfere if she or he overheard something disrespectful, but the emphasis was usually on avoiding conflict rather than raising awareness about intolerance and bigotry. My psyche still registers "relationship" as something that happens between a man and a woman, and I have to actually make an effort to expand my own allegedly open-minded awareness. 

My own parents were not exemplary in their vision and (mis)understanding of homosexuality. When my mother explained it to me, she did it the way most Catholic Brazilian mothers do: Homosexuality was an abnormality that caused a great deal of suffering and it would be a terrible, terrible thing if my brother or I turned out to be gay. My father, too, did not think twice before making offensive remarks about gay people, unknowingly sending us the message that it was okay to see them as lesser than straight people. 

During my time at Graded, my high school, I did not know any openly gay students. In health class, I was taught about birth control and STD prevention, but the subject of sexuality and sexual options  that were not heterosexual were barely touched upon. If I had ever wondered about my sexuality, I would not have had a single person I felt comfortable talking to about it. When, after I had already graduated, a close friend of mine came out while still in high school, I was astounded by her bravery. I never felt Graded, or any high school for that matter, was a safe environment for gay people. 

When I got to Sarah Lawrence, the parameters of my reality changed completely. First, I learned that homosexuality was not abnormal, disgusting, or sinful. Second, I learned that there were very serious injustices against gay people, ranging from the kind of prejudice I had been raised in, to much bigger issues, where they were legally made to believe they were not entitled to the same rights as heterosexual people. As I befriended, lived with, and loved many gay people while I was there, I saw gay rights as human rights, and I felt their outrage and pain as my own. 

I used to think that when someone used the words, “fag,” “fruit,” “dike,” or other such atrocities, that it wasn’t my place to tell them not to. I certainly didn't think it was my place to get angry at them. I didn’t give much thought to “don’t ask, don’t tell,” or to the fact that two people who loved each other could not get married if they were of the same gender. Sarah Lawrence changed me. New York changed me. I know now that not only is it my place to correct offenders and to stand up to prejudice and injustice; it is my responsibility as a human being to do so. Inaction is a form of allowance and encouragement, and that is no longer acceptable to me. 

So when my cousin asked for my advice, I told her she had a big responsibility in her hands. What she tells her daughter is just as important as what a state’s law tells its citizens. The same place where prejudice is birthed is also where it is prevented. It may be a long time before a Disney movie tells a love story between two people of the same sex, and it may be a long time before a gay person is elected president of the United States, but raising children to see homosexuality as being just as normal as heterosexuality is a battle we can win today.  

What would I tell my child? 

Love is love. It manifests in all forms, between all people. Desire is desire. It does not belong only to people of opposite sexes. Be true to yourself, and always respect others. Intolerance is a weapon of ignorance that weakens the heart and limits the mind. In this life, we must stand for something, and I stand for a world where everyone is free to love whoever they love and safe to be exactly who they are. 

Click here for a list of gay rights organizations around the world.