The 11th Anniversary of My Plastic Surgeries

Please God make me pretty.

But God is for the poor. The rich can go to sleep and wake up pretty.

Rip
Cut
Suck
Tuck
Nip
Perk
Sew
Scar

And into little jars went the woman I was meant to be. 

Twenty-six thousand dollars worth of self-esteem plastered onto me forever, and no more t-shirts at the beach. No more hiding in the bathroom during pictures. No more getting asked out as a joke.

Drip
Drop
Splash
Shh


Eleven years later, I still taste like plastic.

The Day I Ate A Lot

First I have buttered toast and coffee with milk & sugar (tons) for breakfast.

Then as I go to a work meeting I have another coffee with milk & sugar (tons), this time iced and huge. Tastes like sugary coffee water, but I drink it all anyway.

On my way to a class I meet a friend and stop for a treat- a hazelnut caramel chocolate cream puff the size of my hand that tastes like John Hamm, and another cup of coffee with milk & sugar (tons).

My class, by the way, involved a great deal of physical activity. So at least there's that. 

After class I stop for avocado sushi and water- I gulp down about 1.5 bottles. 

Off to another meeting, this time a creative one. I get another treat- cheesecake, and coffee with... well, at this point you get it. The cheesecake is also awesome, but not as awesome as John Hamm, so I only eat 3/4's of it. That makes me feel better.

I walk 6 blocks instead of taking the subway. So at least there's that.

Then I go home and my parents have arrived and my mom has made Brazilian cheese breads. (By made I mean she opened a bag of frozen ones, placed them on a baking sheet, and stuck them in the oven.) I eat 5. Plus four crackers with hummus. I think about having another cup of coffee, but when I try to think of how many I've already had today, I can't remember, and that's a good time to stop drinking coffee. I drink water instead. And pee. I always pee a lot.

We go to dinner and my body is screaming for something healthy. So I order steamed vegetables. I might as well have eaten a warmed up iphone, such was the lack of deliciousness in this meal after a day of bursting-with-flavor carbs and sweets. But my body thanked me. I drank a ginger ale, which I always think is okay because it's made with ginger. But it's really not.

I got home. And there were Brazilian chocolate truffles filled with marshmallow fluff. I only ate one. Then I drank two cups of water.

I brushed my teeth. No way am I eating anything else today! 

Then I blogged about it, and I got hungry again. So now I'm eating another cheese bread...

And I may very well eat two... I mean, wouldn't you?

The Body Stories: Trailer and Website!

I am so excited to share this! It is my heart's work, my baby, my medicine, and my gift to humanity.

My project, created from scratch alongside Jeanne Joe Perrone, with Victoria Bennet, Melinda Graham, and Breanna Noel, has a beautiful trailer and website now!

Watch, learn, share, like, comment, and be inspired!

website: http://thebodystories.weebly.com

trailer: 

Thank you to Yvonne Yu, our videographer, and John Wyffles, our designer.

Thank you to all who have supported us! Come on out on January 22nd to see our first rendition of The Body Stories!

Extreme Deprivation: The Vegan Challenge

I set up for myself a one-month challenge called "Extreme Deprivation," where I would tackle the vegan lifestyle and not eat any animal by-products for the entire month of November. I had three reasons to do it: First, I had been feeling unhealthy and indulgent; it was time for a change in my diet. Second, I knew I would be asking for a lot in the upcoming month, due to The Body Stories, and I wanted to sacrifice something, in order to complete the karmic cycle. Third, I have always judged vegans and vegetarians very harshly, believing that they are not "really" living their lives. I judged the soft-spoken, always in control, unemotional stereotype I associated with people who don't eat meat. And I figured it was time to know first-hand just what I was so critical of. 

I had to call it "Extreme Deprivation" because I eat meat and dairy every day. I grew up in Brazil, where the word "vegan" brings forth expressions of confusion and disdain. I went to Sarah Lawrence, where there were a lot of vegans, and they always annoyed the hell out of me; I thought them extremist and often hypocritical. And, I'm a foodie. It is one of the great pleasures I find in life, and the thought of restricting what could inspire me in the kitchen made me very sad. For me, being vegan was extreme.

But it was just for one month. I can do anything for just one month. On September 30th, I stocked up on vegan cereal, nuts, almond milk, vegan bread, fruits, and vegetables. And on October 1st, I was pretty excited to get started. I liked the idea of changing my diet to what I supposed was a lighter, kinder lifestyle.

The excitement lasted about four hours. By the afternoon, I was hungry. I was paranoid that anything I bought to eat would have butter or milk in it and not tell me. I had long stretches of time throughout the day when I wouldn't be able to sit down for a meal, so I was depending on snacks, and all I had were nuts and dried fruit. I don't really love nuts and dried fruit, so I was kind of miserable. Also, I wanted coffee with tons of milk and sugar in it. I already knew I didn't like the taste of soy or almond milk in coffee, so I was left with the milkless coffee option, and what was the point of drinking coffee that tasted like coffee? This was starting to suck.

I was ready to give up by day 2. Not only was I not enjoying the things I was eating, it seemed to be inconvenient for the people around me. My family was in town, and they love it when I cook for them. Suddenly I was this boring vegetable and fruit person who couldn't even eat dessert. I was also about to go to LA to visit my aunt and uncle for a few days, and I was really anxious about making it hard for them to host me.

But I didn't give up. I knew that there would always be an excuse. No month would be easier than another. And that's when I learned the first lesson of this challenge: I was going to have to come to terms with being inconvenient company and stop caring about being fun for other people. I'm a big people-pleasing entertainer and can't stand the thought of giving anyone any trouble on my account, so this lesson came in due time. 

After the first week, I lost 4 pounds, and I felt amazing. My skin looked better, I had more energy, I was very alert, I felt a lot of lightness and space, and I was starting to enjoy the flavors of a fruit-vegetable-nut-and-grain based diet. I learned to pack things for the day and not let myself get too hungry. It's pretty easy to be vegan in New York City, there are tons of options and waitstaff is generally used to the question, "Is there any dairy in this vegetable dish?" This was starting to seem like a good idea.

By the end of week 2, I wasn't as excited. I was really missing the flavors of meat and dairy in my meals. I wasn't having cravings yet, but I was tired of fruits and vegetables. And my energy level wasn't that great. I didn't feel amazing all the time anymore, I felt pretty normal. I started eating more tofu and what I call, "fake food," meaning- vegan chocolate cake, made from ingredients I neither recognized nor understood.

By week 3, my stomach wasn't doing so good. I probably had too much soy and wasn't making sure my meals were balanced. I got to the point where I was tired of paying attention, and my meals consisted of a lot of guacamole and vegan chips. I didn't feel the physical benefits anymore; I was just as tired and worn out as usual. I had cravings and I was absolutely sure I couldn't be vegan forever. I kept telling myself that as soon as this month was over I was going to sink my teeth into a turkey and cheese sandwich, one of the things I was craving the most. This is incredibly dumb, I thought, and I can't wait for it to be over.

When week 4 started, I was ready to be done with this. I wanted a cheeseburger, a milkshake, an omelet, chicken rice soup, and real chocolate cake. And then, I got my period. Under normal circumstances, I know I'm getting my period a week before it comes. I have very clear physical symptoms, and I usually get cramps and headaches when it finally does come. This month, I was completely surprised by it. I even thought maybe it wasn't my period, because I didn't have a single symptom, and that maybe something was wrong with me. But it was my period indeed, and it was the healthiest, most pain-free period I have ever had. Enough to have me swearing off meat and dairy for the rest of my life. I started collecting vegan recipes and made delicious vegan pumpkin-coconut-walnut bread. I even looked up a vegan thanksgiving meal recipe and planned to make my family enjoy my new lifestyle with me. I can do this! I can be vegan forever!

And then, on October 30th, I started feeling like I was getting a cold. I took a bunch of vitamins and drank a lot of liquids, but my body shut down. I was pretty sick yesterday, still drinking lots of liquids and taking vitamins, and didn't even get to enjoy my last day of the vegan challenge. I woke up today feeling like crap, and my body screamed at me, Give me chicken soup! I could feel it; I needed protein. And so, I write this with a bowl of chicken soup next to me. I didn't eat the chicken in it, just the vegetables and broth, because I'm not ready yet, but I am pretty sure I will eat it all soon.

It has been an interesting and challenging month, and I am really glad I went for it. I learned to adjust my palate to milder flavors and appreciate vegetables in many forms. I got really creative making soups and salads, and I did feel kinder, less angry, and less impulsive. I found that I had more compassion for animals and genuinely cared about how they're being treated in farms, which was not something I used to consider all that much.

I am certain that I will cut down on my meat and dairy (especially dairy) intake a lot, but I don't think the vegan diet is for me. I feel proud that I didn't give up on this challenge, and I don't feel a huge need to run out and get that turkey sandwich I've been dreaming of. I do think that at least once a year, for one month, I may adopt the vegan diet again. It is a good way to appreciate food and pay attention to my body's needs and wants. And I'm not quite so critical of vegans and vegetarians now. But I learned what I needed to know: I am a meat-and-dairy eating girl, after all, and the best diet for me is to give my body what it wants.

My vegan pumpkin-coconut-walnut bread. Delicious, actually.

Please do share with me your experiences with veganism! I am curious and would love to learn more!

The Body Stories

Alongside Jeanne Joe Perrone, a fellow Actors Studio Drama School MFA graduate and boundlessly inventive artist, I have created my upcoming theater production, The Body Stories. A year in the making, and a lifetime in my heart, we are now producing this physical theater meets live art show that lets our bodies tell their stories. After all, we believe our bodies know more than we do. We are scheduled to perform on January 22nd, 2012, in Manhattan, and we are thrilled to share this rendition of our work with you! 

I struggled from an early age with body image issues. As a teenager in Brazil, the pressure from the media, the society I lived in, and the people around me skewed my perception of myself, to the point where I had three plastic surgeries by the age of 15, battled eating disorders, and underwent countless dangerous, expensive, and painful procedures in order to attain what I perceived as real beauty. Having survived my turbulent adolescent angst and violent insecurities, I arrived at adulthood with a new task: understanding my past and finding compassion for how I treated myself over those years. The arduous road ended at the expected destination: self-love and self-acceptance.

That I lived to tell this story is not something I take for granted. I know that body image issues are present in the lives of most teenagers and adults, especially women, and I feel in my heart that I have a responsibility to tell my story. I have found an artistic expression to my innermost scars with The Body Stories, and it is the most important piece of theater I have worked on to date. It is a message I am carrying because I have to; this story lives inside me, and it always will.

Jeanne Joe and I are driven by our love of theater and our need to tell these stories; that is our compensation. But, as you surely know, our production cannot go up on love alone. We are committed to creating this show with the lowest possible budget, with a goal of raising $1500 by November 1st, 2011. We are now requesting the contribution of our friends and families in making this project possible. Donations start at $10, and every penny helps us!

Your contribution is the lifeline of this production, and we are grateful for all donations of any monetary amount. Please visit our indigogo fundraiser website to make a donation and learn more about The Body Stories.

http://www.indiegogo.com/The-Body-Stories


Our gratitude for any and all donations is infinite. We cannot do what we do without your generous support. Please share our fundraiser campaign on your social media sites and help us promote this project.

To learn more about The Body Stories and find out ways to be involved, please feel free to contact us. If your body, too, has a story to tell, do not hesitate in reaching out to us. We are here to serve the material that already lives within us, and there are no limits to how much this project can grow.

The Body Image Project

I made this collage today for my Body Image Project. If you have any reactions, I'd love to hear them. It's a theater piece in development.

Letter to My Tummy

Dear Tummy,

I don't think we've formally met, though I've talked to you a lot over the years. I know I've never been very nice to you. In fact, I don't think I've ever said one nice thing about you or to you. You are that part of me that I am never, ever satisfied with. And, unlike cellulite, which lives in my ass where I can't see it, you are under constant scrutiny. I see you when I shower, I see you when I sit down, I see you when I look in the mirror, I see you in most pictures, and I see you reflected in other people's eyes.

I have often said to you things like, "Please go away," "I hate you," "Ugh," "Just get off me," and, in my worst moments, "Fuck off!"

I am not proud of how I've treated you, Tummy. I've called you flabs, jell-o, dinner baby, watermelon, rolling empire of flesh, and many other mean names. I've looked at you and burst into tears.

I've considered, many many times, cutting you open, sucking out all the fat you store, and stitching you back up again. The ol' nip and tuck. If I weren't afraid it might kill me, I would've done it by now- maybe even more than once.

I've crunched you up at the gym up to 5,000 times in a row, in an attempt to make you go away. I've held my breath for so many years, I half-burst into tears every time I inhale fully now. I've denied you food. I've willed you to give up the food you kept. I've put you behind slimming tights, fastening you away like a prisoner, hoping others wouldn't know you existed.

I did design a hearts meditation for myself a couple of years ago, but you were always the hardest part to get to. I just can't say it with complete conviction: "I love you, Tummy." I want to, but I can't.

That doesn't mean I'm not sorry though. And that doesn't mean I'm giving up on my relationship with you. I want to love you, I want to accept you, I want to stop trying to change you. I know that I need you. I know that my perception of you is often dangerously misconstrued. I know that my desire to change you is based on false images fed to me by bullshit sexist media and that I should know better than to think I'll be happier if I have a flat non-stomach.

I know all of this. But I still haven't figured it out. The best I seem able to do, as of yet, is not think about you at all. I can't force the positive thoughts, but I seem able to not have thoughts, to just not think about my tummy. Forget I even have one. It's how I deal with a lot of things I'm insecure about, actually. Don't think about it, because then it isn't real. I know it's not super healthy, but it's where I'm at for now.

I'm working on it, though.

One day, I will look at you with love. I know it. And it won't be because I've lost the 10 pounds I always think I need to lose, or because I've done 800 sit-ups every day, or because I've just had food poisoning three weeks in a row. It'll be because I can let go of wanting you to be different. I'll see you as perfect, and I'll trust that we are on the same side.

Until that day, Tummy, I hope you'll bear with me. I hope you'll forgive my meanness. I hope you'll stick around. I hope you'll believe in me, and have compassion.

I look forward to better times,

xoxoxo

Me.

The Big Bikini: A Lesson in Being Larissa

Last week, I updated my facebook status with the following post:

"For the first time in 15 years, I wore a bikini at a Brazilian beach and, not only did I not feel fat, I actually felt GOOD about my body. Thanks to Alexandra for introducing me to affordable yoga at Laughing Lotus, Sarah for introducing me to Shaklee, and my brother for teaching me his work-out as well as living with me and buying me yogurt and soy milk. =)"

The post got a bunch of comments, likes, and private messages. A lot of so happy for you's and tell me more's. It was a true statement. I did feel good about my body, and it registered as a completely new feeling. I attributed it to the things I mentioned, but there was also a smaller factor that played a part in how I felt. It seemed like a little thing, but it was actually tied to something so big I decided it had to be a blog post rather than a facebook status update.

This small thing that made a difference in how I felt about my body was a big bikini.

When I planned this trip, it involved going to the beach with my then-boyfriend. As I thought about going to a beach in Brazil with him, I felt my stomach sink. Going to a beach in Brazil has always been a really intimidating experience. I was faced with not only my own insecurities about my body, but also the comparison to hundreds of near-perfect beautiful female bodies in tiny bikinis all around me. I hadn't gone to the beach here with a boyfriend in many many years, and now my insecurities tripled at the thought of it. So, when I was here in December, I went shopping for a bikini that might hide some of my cellulite and help mask my love handles. I always wore pretty small bikinis here (never thongs! just small), because that's what girls my age wore, and because I knew that most men thought smaller tan lines were sexier. Those small bikinis, however, tended to leave my cellulite exposed and cut at my waist-line, accentuating my love-handles rather than minimizing them. I figured that if I starved myself until March and had a bikini that helped me hide my "flaws," I wouldn't spend my whole time at the beach wondering if I looked like a whale next to all those model-like bodies, and fearing that my boyfriend would be turned off by my body. I was furious at myself for having these thoughts and insecurities, but I couldn't help it. They were bigger than me. It was actually easier and took less energy to try and "fix" them than to tell myself how absurd and unreal they were. I started losing weight and I bought a new bikini.

I never thought I'd actually feel good about my body. Feeling good about my body seemed like a far-off fantasy. A land I'd never ever reach. While I strove to reach my "ideal body," I always believed it would never be possible. I would never be thin enough. I would never feel good in a bikini. I only ever thought I'd feel less bad.

But I did lose weight. After my break-up, I lost my appetite, so it was easier. I dove into yoga, started a nutrition program, and focused on my body. It did feel good. When I got to Brazil a week and a half ago, I felt better about my body than I had in a long, long time. But if I had worn one of my tiny bikinis, I would still have felt uncomfortable. The realization dawned on me as I took my dress off at the beach. For the first time in my life, I didn't immediately start adjusting my bikini as soon as I was exposed. I didn't fuss with the top to make sure it covered my breasts in a way that didn't leave any fat hanging from the sides- this bikini was big enough to hold everything in. I didn't keep pulling the back of my bottom piece out in a futile attempt to cover up more of my butt- this bikini was already in place. And I didn't pull at the strings on the side to make sure they were as loose as possible so as not to cut into my sides- this bikini didn't have strings, and it didn't divide my mid-section into top blubber and bottom blubber. I was actually comfortable in this bikini. And I realized, This bikini is so me! All those other tiny bikinis weren't me! They were me trying to be someone I'm not, someone who's comfortable in small bikinis and exposing a lot of skin. I'm not comfortable with that! It's so simple! I just have to wear a bigger bikini! How amazing!!!

It was an amazing feeling, and it lingered for days. It seems like a small feat but it's actually tied to a much larger triumph. It was the first time I actually understood the overstated phrase, "Be yourself." Instead of wearing what I thought I should wear, I wore what I wanted to wear. I gave up caring if people would think I was conservative or had chosen a bikini that was more appropriate for older women. I gave up trying to get tiny tan lines that other people thought were sexy. In wearing this bikini that I was so comfortable in, I was being Larissa. I discovered that being Larissa meant wearing a bigger bikini, one that allowed me to move freely and enjoy the beach without the usual body-paranoia. I felt a huge relief.

What propelled me to buy the bikini was a desire to look a certain way for someone else. He never got to see me in my new bikini or new-found comfort and ease, though. And I never got to imagine that he thought I was attractive and hot anyway, even in comparison to other beautiful women at the beach. Instead, I discovered something about myself that was really important. It has inspired me to look at all of my actions and identify whether I'm Being Larissa or Being Who I'd Like To Be.

I've always been a person of particular and consistent tastes. My favorite color has always been purple. My favorite animal has always been the koala. I've always preferred solid prints. I've always liked the same music (folk and country), try as I have to adapt to modern tastes. I've never liked sports. I've always liked sad movies. I always loved sleeping in nightgowns. Still, with all this knowledge about what I most definitely like and don't like, I still tried to be someone other than myself, a lot of the time. I thought that holding on to what I know I like meant I wasn't open to new things. I thought it would make me grow as a person to live outside my comfort zone. Now I realize I actually grow the most when I'm true to myself. As soon as I found this bikini that made me feel so much more like myself, I was able to be present. Much like when I'm in a theatre, a setting where I feel instantly at home, I didn't have to worry about looking like I was comfortable and belonged. I simply was. The experience was exhilarating.

It's ridiculous that I was trying to hide my "flaws" from the person I was romantically involved with, and that I was trying to influence how he thought about me. People will think whatever they want to think, and there's very little I can do about it. I see that now, more than ever.

It isn't easy not to care about what other people think. It takes a lot of conscious effort to "be myself," and a lot of confidence to trust that that's what someone will fall in love with. The bikini was a big step for me and, even so, I discovered it because I was trying to project an image of myself that I thought would be appealing to someone else. I didn't really do it for myself, but it served me nonetheless. I learned something about myself, and now I can honor it.

Wear a bigger bikini. Be comfortable. Be Larissa.

Lesson learned.

A Message From My Body

I wanted to disappear today. I woke up and that was my thought: I want the world to not know that I exist today. Because if it doesn't know, then I don't have to take responsibility for existing. And then I can do nothing and no one will ever know.

But I had made plans to go to yoga. I could have canceled. I could have just not shown up. My friend would've forgiven me. Yoga would not have missed me. But, as if on auto-pilot, my body knew what I needed, and it dressed itself and made its way out the door anyway.

And the outside world was still there with its slushy New York streets and pretty snow-covered trees that make you wonder how the same substance can make something so disgusting and something so magical at the same time. The cold air slapped my face around a little bit, as if to say, You can't put life on pause, silly, you're alive and that's that. And the loneliness of an unexceptional Sunday settled in, matching my insides, making itself comfortable for the day.

Yoga was crowded and hot and I got a spot in the back of the room, which was exactly where I wanted to be. I noticed soon enough that my body was tired. I've been over-exercising and under-eating. My body was mad at me. It wanted to know why I was ignoring its needs. As I moved through the poses, I apologized to my body, letting it know I was ready to listen to it now. It told me, Overworking me and not feeding me is not going to get you an acting job or make anyone fall in love with you. Ignoring what you want is not making you stronger. All this tension is fear. This is your body, your feelings happen inside it, and they do not go away if you ignore them.

I realized I have been trying to build an armor so that I'll be less affected by the painful things in life, and it's costing me my relationship with myself. I tell myself I am searching for clarity, but I remain in a comfortable fog. I left yoga feeling more like myself than I've felt in days, possibly weeks. I feel different than I did this morning, I feel a desire to exist and to know that I am alive. I ate a full meal and enjoyed it. I rested. And now I'm sitting, waiting to find out what I need next.

My body took me to yoga today because it wanted my attention. It had to remind me that I have to listen to what I want and need, every day. I can't assume I know what will make me happy and bring me to life each day. I have to find the courage to face not only my fears, but the needs that they mask.

I am lucky I have a body that knows how to talk to me, and I am grateful I was open enough to get the message. May I be so lucky every day.

My Big Bully: Beauty Standards

Ten years ago, I watched the video of my 15th birthday party with my parents and started to scream because of how ugly I looked on the screen. My huge nose, my ear that stuck out, my heavy sagging breasts, my blemished skin, my tiny teeth; all blown up and immortalized on the TV screen. I had never felt pretty, as I've blogged about before, but now it wasn't just a self-esteem issue existing only in my head; there was evidence in the form of digital media, and it was beyond devastating.

Not a day went by after that when I didn't complain about being ugly. Self-hating behavior soon followed: cigarettes, drinking, not eating, overdoing it at the gym, and so on. Coupled with an untimely rejection from the boy I had a crush on at the time, it set me into a depressive spiral, and my parents started worrying about me. Shortly after, I made the decision to undergo plastic surgery. Thanks to Brazilian culture, my parents were unshaken by plastic surgeries, as well as desperate for a solution to my unhealthy self-image, so they allowed it.

On June 12, 2001, an ungentle doctor injected me with a general anesthetic, I passed out cold, and the woman nature intended me to be got cut, tucked, nipped, sculpted, stitched and sewn up, never to be seen again. Six hours later, I awoke throwing up blood and peeing myself, but I had a narrower nose, tucked ears, and smaller, perkier breasts. Not that I could see any of it- I was so bandaged and drugged I could barely remember my own name, but the team of doctors in their aqua-green uniforms were very cheerful and optimistic. All had gone very, very well. June 12th is Valentine's Day in Brazil and, as she wheeled me back to my room, the nurse said, "Happy Valentine's Day! Do you have a boyfriend?" I groggily shook my head no. "Oh, that's okay," she said and stroked my bandaged head, "You'll be so pretty now, next year you'll surely have a boyfriend." Although I was completely doped, I prayed that she please be right.

I forced my ugly-duckling self to blossom into a swan, because I did not know what else to do. Now that I'm an adult and deal with women's self-image issues on a daily basis, I am appalled that no one sat me down and said, "There's nothing wrong with you. Your insecurities are normal. You will survive adolescence, and changing your exterior self will have very little to do with it." Sure, I probably wouldn't have heard them and it may not have stopped me, but it's rather unsettling to think that no one even tried. A 15-year-old girl said, I'm insecure, I feel ugly, I'm going to have three plastic surgeries, and no one tried to stop it. No one tried to find a different (perhaps less permanent/painful/dangerous/expensive/risky) way to help me get through my teenage angst. Not one single person sat me down and tried to tell me I was good enough just as I was. It makes me want to start an "It Gets Better" campaign for plain and unpopular teenage girls. I think the pop-culture and media that standardizes the chase of socialized beauty ideals and profits from the insecurities of teenagers is a big fat bully, and someone should be protecting impressionable young women from it.

Although I have always said I don't regret any of the procedures I went through, the truth is it all happened when I was so young I really have no idea if I've turned out to be the best (or healthiest, or happiest) version of myself. I never got to see myself as an adult pre-surgeries. The irreversible nature of it all meant that what I ended up with was now what I'd live with- I would never again be 100% natural. Unlike medical surgeries and scars people end up with throughout life, these changes in me were self-imposed and forced. Plastic surgeries, much like lying, have the stubborn aftertaste of inauthenticity, and something about me would always feel slightly fake.

I recently heard an older woman talk about wanting to get plastic surgery and remarking, "My boyfriend loves me just the way I am, no one's ever complained, this is just for me," and I felt a pang of jealousy. She got to see who she really was, she found a way to accept it, and she got to be loved for who she was, flaws and all, before making the decision to change it. That is something I have never known.

I never tried to watch that video of my 15th birthday party again, but I still have it. I am pretty sure that if I watched it now I would not be mortified by my ugliness, though. If anything, I'd probably be disturbed by how misconstrued my own self-image was and left wondering, yet again, why there was no attempt to make me aware of that.

The truth is that it was easier, for me and everyone around me, to give in to beauty standards than try to change them. It was also easier to fix the exterior "problems" than deal with the interior battle, and I got what I wanted in the end. When I saw my prom pictures a few years later, I had the thought, Well, look at that. I'm pretty.

And the nurse's prediction was accurate. On June 12th, 2002, I didn't spend Valentine's Day alone.

Image from here.

Hearts

I have a meditation practice where I send hearts to the parts of my body that I spend a lot of time wishing were different. I sit in stillness, welcoming wisdom and enlightenment, and literally visualize little cartoon-like one-dimensional crayon-red hearts floating around my waist, hips, ass, thighs, and stomach. I picture little tiny ones nuzzling each other inside my cellulite holes and long ones sliding down my stretch-marks as if they were in a water park. I picture a line of them holding hands around my love-handles (oh-so-appropriately-named) and one big warm one right where I wish I had a six-pack. They are always happy, these hearts, all smiles and sending loving "you're perfect" vibes.

If you haven't detected it, I'll tell you- there's a hint of embarrassment in my tone.

See.

I'd rather be telling you all a story that exposes how confident I am and how I love my body and worship the divinity that resides within me and all that.

But that's just not the case.

I grew up in Brazil, I didn't have the kind of mother who told me I was the most beautiful creature in the world, I was bombarded with magazines and pop culture telling me that there was always something about myself I could improve, and I was not given a model's genetic coding. Embedded in my socialized brain is the concept that there is an "ideal body" and that I should strive for it.

I am ashamed that I occupy something as deep as meditation with something as frivolous as body-image issues. But what can I do. If I don't do this, I don't stand a chance against the voice in my head that tells me I'm not good enough.

Here's how it goes: I wake up in the morning, pee, brush my teeth, and then sit in front of my closet with my coffee and try to figure out which outfit will make me feel good that day. The voice starts in, That's a pretty dress but you had pasta last night and you'll look pregnant. Don't even look at those shorts, are you crazy? You can't wear shorts. You'll look like jell-o with feet. If you wear those jeans you have to wear a shirt that's loose around the waist, unless you want someone with a flat tire to mistake your waist for a spare.

The voice is evil. If someone else told me that they had a voice like that in their head, I'd tell them it should be murdered in a public square and that they should pay it no mind. I would kill anyone who talked to someone I care about the way this voice talks to me. And if I were an objective listener hearing how this voice talks to me, I would tell me it's full of shit. At the same time that I'm overpowered by this negative, self-hating voice, I am aware of its absurdity. I am aware that it is not the truth and that it is in my head, and therefore within my control.

But it's always there. And it always sounds so very real. And I can't get rid of it, not completely.

So I balance out its damage and diminish its power with my hearts meditation. I sit with my cute little hearts and I let them love me and tell me I am beautiful and perfect just as I am. I find comfort in knowing that yeah, even though I can create a voice that is so exquisitely cruel to me, I can also create an image that is boundlessly loving towards me.

It doesn't always work. Sometimes I sit around with my hearts and even they look skeptical, as if challenging my ability to love any part of myself that I've attached a negative feeling to. Or I'll just get stuck in how completely ridiculous I feel; being 25 and too intelligent to be so immobilized with a 15-year-old's insecurities, picturing a 5-year-old's drawings of hearts on my body so that I can get through the day without counting every calorie I ingest. Shouldn't I be over this shit by now, I think, when am I going to grow up? (As if "adulthood" is supposed to be free of self-esteem issues and "intelligence" should outwit the desire to be anything other than what we are.)

That's part of the quest for inner peace and balance, I suppose. Self-love is a tall order. I come up with ways to counter negative or limiting habits and, for the most part, they work and I enjoy doing them, but sometimes I just get tired of all the effort it takes to feel good about myself. I used to think, whenever I got sick of working so hard, that I was losing it, until someone offered that I tell myself instead that I am finding it. Even when I can't stand any of it and want to give up and eat a tub of ice-cream and hate myself afterwards because, frankly, it's just easier than picturing cartoon hearts on my ass, I am still on the road, paving my way towards a healthy self-image. The tumbles backwards are still part of moving forward, even though they feel like the exact opposite. Sometimes I have to ungrow to grow. I have to get a little stuck so I can recognize when movement occurs.

I can't force growth, I can only allow it. I can't force my little hearts into being, but they're there for me, when I make space for them.

How lovely.

image from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Drawn_love_hearts.svg

A Lesson in Self-Worth

There was a girl in my high-school, like there always is, who was the popular girl that all the boys I had a crush on wanted to date. For our purposes here today, let's call her Courtney. Blonde, hot, not tall enough to be threatening, thin, leggy, breasty, and enviably confident, Courtney was completely likable and completely hatable.

Courtney and I were friends. Kind of. We had some classes together, we hung out sometimes outside of school, and we seemed to get along. We could have been closer friends, if I didn't secretly hate her. I couldn't help but be incredibly jealous of her. She had a perfect smile, while I wore blue retainers. She had perfect straight blonde hair, while I had frizzy wavy untamable black hair that would never be blonde. She had clear smooth skin, while I took life-threatening anti-acne medication for years. She was athletic and always looked fit, while I was terrible at almost every sport and struggled to find jeans that could contain my love-handles. She dated all the cute boys, while I wrote poems about them in my journal and hoped they knew my name. Essentially, she was everything I wasn't, and she had everything I wanted. I was constantly haunted by my own comparisons to her and the consequent feelings of unworthiness they planted. She had what it took to be loved and happy, and I didn't.

But beauty can be bought and confidence can be faked, one learns, and ugly ducklings can become swans, with enough money, products, and therapy.

At 16, someone fell in love with me. He was in college and he was crazy about me. Suddenly, I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world. And I was happy. Sort of. I didn't love him like he loved me, but I loved how he made me feel. Courtney stopped being such a threat to me. I realized that we could both be happy, and we could both be beautiful- she just had it easier, perhaps, but I could have it too. She could have every guy in school at her feet; I had my guy, and he had picked me.

And then it all went to shit.

One day, he was picking me up from school and we were in the parking lot waiting for my brother. For some reason, we started talking about sports and how I didn't like doing anything athletic at all. He was a basketball player and he loved sports. I said something like, "Why do I need to do sports? I don't like them," and he said, "Well that's fine. But look at that girl. You'll never have her legs." I turned around to look at who he was referencing. And there she was. Of course. Courtney, walking out of volleyball practice. The meanness of his comment would have been enough to destroy me. Coupling it with a comparison to Courtney was like being told, flat out, "Don't entertain illusions about yourself. You're not good enough. You're not her. You'll never be that beautiful, you'll never be that happy."

I broke up with him that day. He realized what he had done and apologized a thousand times. Sent presents. Wrote letters. Declared his undying love over and over again. But it was done. I was scarred.

In retrospect, what hurt the most was that I had really thought that to this one man, I was more beautiful than Courtney, and falling from the only pedestal I'd ever been on ended up hurting more than if I'd never been on one to begin with. I thought if I could be perfect, to just one person, then I could start to see myself as worthy of love and happiness. I didn't see then that he loved me even though I wasn't perfect, and I certainly didn't understand the value of that. I saw only the fact that he had seen in Courtney something that was lacking in me, and I had trusted him to be the one to tell me nothing was lacking in me. I needed him to tell me I was just as good as she was and that I was worthy of love, because I couldn't do that for myself. I had placed on him the responsibility of making me feel lovable and beautiful, not knowing that no one could mend my self-esteem and worthiness issues but me.

What I've learned is that it's really hard to take responsibility for our own sense of worth rather than placing it on another person. It's even harder to accept being loved for our flaws and imperfections, and to love another for their humanness as well. It's hardest, perhaps, to love ourselves for our flaws and imperfections; for our humanness.

It's a lesson I battle with daily. But now there are no Courtney's. Just my own ghosts.

My sense of self still gets challenged. But every time, I see I am able to hold on to how I see myself and who I am with more strength and love.

My flaws are mine, as are my virtues, and if I don't accept them, who will?

A Strong Body

I used to be completely resigned about my non-existent inner athlete. It just never appealed to me, the whole run till you throw up blood thing then do 674 push-ups. What was the point? It all just seemed like a whole lot of suffering to me.

First of all, I'm not all that competitive. I don't know if I was at some point, and then just gave up on it, but for as long as I could remember, I was much more of a peace-maker than a warrior when it came to sports.

Second of all, I just wasn't naturally good at anything athletic. Put a basketball in my hand and I was most likely to put it underneath my butt and sit on it. The only sport that I was kind of good at was swimming, and that's only because I had literally done it my whole life, and it's the perfect sport to make a hobby of if you're not good at sports because it really just requires the same movement over and over again in a straight line. Even then, I was mostly just a "graceful swimmer" rather than a fast one- translation: my limbs are long, moving them around underwater tends to look esthetically appealing, but does not guarantee that I'll move any faster than a starfish.

Lastly, I just don't like sports. I don't like the aggressive energy, I don't like the sweat and dirt of it all, I don't like the pressure, and I don't like doing things I'm not good at.

Put all these things together and you can start to understand why no one ever wanted me to be on their team in gym class. I was always close to last when teams were picked, and I certainly was never given the privilege of being team captain or anything like that. I didn't even like dodgeball.

I just kind of shrugged it off eventually. I wasn't good at sports. Whatever. I was good at grammar.

What happened, though, was that I labeled my body as weak. I figured one of the main reasons I wasn't good at anything was because I was not strong. How could I play soccer if I couldn't even run around the field ONCE? It just wasn't possible. I was given this body, and it was better equipped to sit on the bleachers.

All was well with me and my weak body, since I didn't need it to be strong for anything I liked doing. But then I went to Sarah Lawrence, and they had this stupid requirement that we take a class that gave us a gym credit in our first year. I know what you're thinking, Of all the schools in the world, Sarah Lawrence had a gym credit requirement? We asked the same question, trust me. The top two reasons we came up with as to why Sarah Lawrence had this ridiculous requirement were a) they built this fancy athletic center and wanted us to use it- and they knew a bunch of tree-huggers weren't going to willingly go to the gym, or b) we had a tendency to get fat there and they didn't want to get a reputation for being a school for fat liberals.

Miserably, I looked over the list of options for classes that would give me that gym credit, hoping to find something like "making margaritas". No such luck. Instead, the list held the predictable: tennis, basketball, rowing, kickboxing... but then, last on the list, the funniest thing: Yoga. (OF COURSE, at Sarah Lawrence, Yoga was considered a sport...) Well, at that point in my life, I had no idea what yoga really was, but from what I had heard it sounded easy. It was like taking a meditation class! Ok. The decision was made. I signed up to take yoga for a semester.

I certainly didn't expect what I was about to experience during those yoga classes. I arrived to the first class in warm sweats, imagining it might get cold if I had to be still and breathe for a while. I had no idea- NO IDEA- that yoga was hard work. The class started with the teacher (a very nice older man who spoke so softly I wondered if he thought he was teaching pre-schoolers) telling us to sit cross-legged and breathe equal breaths. Ok- so far so good. Next he had us kind of chant an "OM". Ok, a little weird, but whatever. Then we had to stand up. Err.... okay... Then we had to put our hands in prayer position- ok, so we're gonna meditate standing up, that's not too bad. Then we had to raise our hands up to the "Sun". But we're staring at the ceiling... Then he told us to dive forward and touch our toes. WELL. 18-year-old Larissa did not touch her toes. Knees maybe. And still, that was pretty hardcore for me then. Then, assuming we all had our hands flat on the floor by our feet, he told us to jump or hop backwards into "plank" pose! Ha! I looked around me to, first of all, see what the hell that means, and second, to see if anyone else was planning to quit like I was. But everyone did the movement and didn't complain, so I kind of waddled my feet backwards and ended up in that so-called-plank position, which was starting to look way too much like a push-up position, and I was already starting to tremble. On we went to "upward dog", which felt like something that should only be expected of olympic professionals, and then to "downward dog," which felt naughty and made me want to fart.

The class went on and on, crazy shape after crazy shape, and I was sweating and working so hard to bend and mold my body into those shapes and keep on breathing "equal breaths" (impossible! I thought, as I panted) that I might as well have been giving birth to a mini-lion.

But then came the end of class, and he had us lay in "corpse" pose, which I would've found to be an incredibly morbid way to reach inner peace had I not been so exhausted. And there I lay, still and silent. And slowly, as my breath and heartbeat slowed down again, and my body- hot and sweaty- cooled and melted, I started to feel drastically different. I started thinking, Wow. Look what my body just did. My arms feel so strong. My abs feel so connected. I feel so "in my body". I feel so relaxed. My organs even feel relaxed. This is fantastic. I think I'm addicted. I wonder where I can buy my own yoga mat.

And, just like that, I found my athletic self. I wouldn't call myself a devoted yogi- yet- but I kept on doing yoga sporadically in the years to come, and recently have been making it a point to take it more seriously, doing it on a regular basis, and paying attention to my growth in the practice.

As it turns out, my body was never weak. There was always a strong body inside my lazy outer frame, I just didn't know it. And even though I'm not going to be the one to pick up the ball and suggest a volleyball game at the beach, I know there is a place where my body does like to work hard, push boundaries, and grow stronger. It just so happens that my "field" is a soft yoga mat, and my sport had to be one free of competition and aggression, where the payoff is what's felt in my being rather than displayed as points on a screen. I have learned to let my body tell me its limits, instead of imposing them upon myself before trying them out. I have learned my body is ever-changing, if I let it be.

Oh, and not only can I touch my toes now, I can do a back-bridge...

Trapped Tears

I was 7 and I fell and hurt my knee. I wailed in pain as tears streamed down my face and I sobbed wildly. It was simple then: I got hurt, I was in pain, I cried. Not just "cried" with my eyes, but with my whole body. I sobbed hard, gasping for air, letting out whatever screams my body developed in response to the pain. It was a complete release of what I was feeling at that moment. There was no self-consciousness, there was no censorship, there was no control.

Then the woman who was taking care of me got down on her knees, took my face into her hands, and said, "Don't cry darling. A lady never cries."

Those words quickly and imperceptibly traveled from her lips and into my face, freezing themselves onto my cheeks, where they would cozily create an army base called Fort Larissa Shall Not Cry.

Our bodies are smart. They figure out what they have to do to survive and they remember it forever. On that day, when my 7-year-old self's ladyhood was threatened, my body was quick to help me: it froze my face so that no tears would cross it, no matter what.

Here's the thing, though, about our bodies deciding something for us when we're 7 years old: we're bound to forget the decision was ever made. It's possible I would not have been bothered by that, if I weren't an actress. But I am, and I found out that sometimes characters have to cry. So I soon realized that it was practically impossible for me to shed a single tear in front of other people, even if I was completely emotionally connected to a character's reality. And I really thought I would never be able to change that. I didn't know why that was the case- I figured maybe it was because I should only play "strong" women who never cry.

That could have worked for the rest of my life, if I were the kind of actor who only wants to play one kind of character. As you may have guessed, that was not the case. I went through high school and college trying out all sorts of tricks, reading all kinds of books, studying with many teachers. But to no avail. I couldn't cry. One day, shortly after graduating from college, in a moment of despair, thinking I would never be a great actress, I wrote a prayer, "Please, to the Powers That Be, I ask that you help me open up as an actor and be able to express every emotion necessary with truth and honesty."

A month later I was accepted to The Actor's Studio M.F.A program, and I went. I didn't know it at the time, but that would be the answer to my prayer. It was actually a simple phrase that did it. After one of the basic exercises in sense memory, I was frustrated with my inability to let go and be fully affected by the exercise, and my genius teacher said, "Your problems in life are your problems in acting. Your habits in life are your habits on stage. Your blocks as a person are your blocks as an actor."

Immediately I was transported back to that day, 14 years earlier, when my body made a decision that would become so permanent I would assume I had no choice over it whatsoever. As though the Fort Larissa Shall Not Cry residing in my cheeks had been made of solid ice, my teacher's words became the hot air that melted it, and I was free.

It was not an immediate process. I was able to let out a few tears, but there were simply too many years of repressed sobs for me to be able to suddenly let it all go. I would find myself, weeks later, lying in bed at night and suddenly sobbing, loudly, like a child, for no particular reason. I knew something had really shifted when I watched the movie, "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants" and cried hysterically in front of friends who had never seen me cry before. At the same time that I was crying, and they were asking me over and over again what was wrong, I was laughing. I was so incredibly happy, I felt so relieved! I was crying, really really crying, with abundant tears and crazy child-like noises, in front of my friends!

As my teacher predicted, as soon as I started letting go of my armor in life, I was able to open up on stage, and my prayer was answered. Bringing that day when I, at 7, learned that a lady never cries, to consciousness, gave me a choice over it. I told another teacher of mine about it and she said, "well, ladies can't be actresses, so you better give that up anyway." And I did. I cried. I cried in front of people- and not gracefully. I was no lady.

I still have to soften my face and give myself permission to cry, every day, and certainly every time before I act. It's funny because people who have only known me within the past four years think I'm a cry-baby; they think I have absolutely no problem whatsoever accessing my vulnerability and releasing emotions. I'd go so far as to say I'm known for my ability to cry. I was even recommended recently for a part that demanded a lot of crying, under the premises that "Oh, Larissa can totally cry on cue." I have to say it's still hard for me to believe that something that was nearly impossible for me for 14 years is now only a breath away, but it is, and I am forever grateful.

As I have said in a previous post, I aim to be an open vessel for every character I play to live through me. It is a gift, not only to me but to every character I play, to have this block removed from my face, history, and heart. In life, too, I find the moments when it's appropriate to sob, scream, thrash, gasp for air, and cry ferociously, uncontrollably- like a 7-year-old who has never been told a lady never cries.

It's delicious, it's precious, it's choice, and it's freedom.

The Dictatorship of Thinness

Five days ago I was on a cruise with my mom, which means I was wearing a bikini most of the time, and therefore obsessing over my body. I was standing in front of the mirror in our room holding back my love handles, sucking my stomach in, standing up as straight as I could, and imagining the results of a possible liposuction. The TV was on in the background and, as fate would have it, about two minutes later, the news reported the death of Lanusse Martins Barbosa, victim of a liposuction gone wrong. She was 27 years old.
It was a "medical error" that really shouldn't have happened, and the plastic surgeon is being tried for homicide. People are calling him a criminal, and because the victim was a public figure- she was a TV journalist- she is representing the hundreds of women who have died or suffered irreparable damage during plastic surgeries.
I am left with a mixture of reactions. I am wondering who the real criminals are, the doctors who are careless, or the culture we live in that values thinness so much that women (myself included) are willing to cut themselves open and suck out their "excess fat" in order to look like something we have been told (or brainwashed into believing) is not only beautiful, but normal.

Doctors and sponsors who deal with vanity are some of the wealthiest people in the world. Products and programs that promise thinness are part of a multi-billion dollar industry. Go to the Women's Interest section in a magazine stand and you will see another multi-billion dollar industry that is benefiting from telling women that what they look like can always improve, that there's always a new way to be thinner, that self-worth grows as the numbers on the scale decrease.
It's hard- if not impossible- not to be affected by it. I haven't managed yet. Even though I regularly read feminist magazines like Ms. and Bust and Bitch, that fight, among many of the ways society oppresses women, this dictatorship of thinness, and even though I know that butchering myself in the name of beauty is not only unnecessary and ridiculous, but dangerous, I am still caught in an often overwhelming desire to be extremely thin. The kind of thin that can wear low-cut jeans with a glued-to-my-skin shirt, that can wear the smallest bikini without an ounce of fat hanging out around my waist, that can make me feel invincible.
At the same time that I have these thoughts I am completely disgusted with myself for having them. I spend an inexplicable amount of energy convincing myself, every single day, that this is all absurd, that I'm too smart to buy into this manipulative crap, that I do not need to be any thinner, that real women have curves, that the men I'm interested in don't want to date anorexic models, and that I shouldn't feed this negative voice that is not my own and tells me I am not good enough. But, when I'm really really honest with myself, when I look really deep inside, it's all still there- I still want to be really really thin. I want it so much that even after Lanusse Martins Barbosa's death, I can't say I'll never want (or have) a liposuction.
How sad this all makes me. Why can't we all have different bodies? Why do we all want the same one? Why don't I love and respect the body I have, why am I always dissatisfied? It's exhausting, it really is, and it makes me feel weak. I do not want to be defeated by the dictatorship of thinness, I want to believe I can rise above it.

Maybe my mind is split into two armies. One of them is called You Are Not Good Enough, and the other one is called You Are Perfect. I think they fight each other constantly and sometimes one wins over the other. Unfortunately the former tends to win because it has powerful ammunition- most of society backing it up. But sometimes You Are Perfect wins, even if just for instants, and that's a start. I don't think that in this lifetime I will be able to completely abolish You Are Not Good Enough, so what I'm going to hope for is that it can learn to be quiet most of the time and have less power over me. Maybe they can both come to a peace-treaty one day and I can find some sort of peace with myself and my body image issues.

A far-off fantasy, perhaps. But I'm not willing to give up yet.

Inside Boobs

I am 7 and I wonder where our toe-nails come from.

How do we have enough toe nail to last all of our lives?

Sally wonders what's inside boobs.

She and I are the only ones who have to

wear a bra in the fourth grade,

so we talk about boobs

while everyone else wonders about toe nails for a few more years.

One day, Ms. Miller hears us talking about boobs

and we have to go to the principal.

She doesn't understand why we have to talk about boobs

since we taped and wrapped them after the

sixth grade boys tried to steal them.

In seventh grade the other girls get our fourth grade boobs

while we move on to wired bras.

High-school boys want to kiss us and we think we may be popular.

In ninth grade we are changing in the locker room

and a girl gasps, pointing at our breasts.

Everyone stares.

Sally and I look around at all the girls' stone pink breasts,

pointing straight at us.

We look down at our own;

stretch marks sinking into nipples

talking to knees,

our tummies nowhere to be found.

Sally and I swear never to take our bras off again.

But I know Sally has broken her promise

when David tells the whole school about her grandmother tits.

We turn 15 and we want small boobs.

My parents say okay because of my back pains.

Sally's parents don't agree, however.

She is too young.

They prefer she walk around

with bra cuts on her shoulders

and weep like a widow.

Sally cries when she sees my scars,

telling me over and over again that they are

so

so

beautiful.

And she asks me, very quietly,

what, after all,

was inside boobs.

Real Beauty

I was caught quite off-guard when, a few years ago, a friend told me I had an advantage in life because I was attractive. In fact, I laughed, thinking she was joking. But she wasn't. To this friend of mine, I was beautiful and, as far as she was concerned, I was born that way, and my life was easier because of it. In my mind, however, she was as far from the truth as possible.

As a child I thought beauty was Barbie, which meant I was very, very ugly. No one ever said so- but no one really ever said I was beautiful either. I had big chubby cheeks and I was cute, maybe, but people did not refer to me as a "beautiful child." And cute didn't last very long either, because I grew very tall, and tall children are not considered cute. In the first grade my teacher had us line up according to height once and I was the tallest kid in my class, taller even than the boys, so I knew at that moment that I was never going to be a princess. A devastating fact to learn at the age of 6.

Adolescence was not kind to me either. My hair was suddenly frizzy, I got pimples, and my boobs were huge. In a bra and behind a shirt, my boobs actually worked in my favor, but they were heavy and sagged- meaning I could never wear a shirt without a bra, not even a built-in bra, and going to the beach was a horror show. My nose was too wide for my face, I had to wear braces on my teeth, I had facial hair, and one of my ears stuck out (just one- which is worse than both sticking out).

But all was not lost. I lived in Brazil, after all. There were magazines telling me that Real Beauty was attainable, even for ugly plain girls like me, and there were dermatologists and plastic surgeons at every corner ready to help me get there.

And so it started. From the age of 12-17 I had 72 very painful facials, at 15 I had 3 very painful plastic surgeries, at 16 I underwent 10 very painful (and expensive) laser procedures for hair-removal that felt like I was electrocuting my face, from 14-17 I had my hair straightened twice a week, and for the past 12 years I have spent thousands (perhaps millions) of dollars on face creams, hair creams, and body creams. Oh- let me not forget the three years of physical therapy to fix my posture (which had been ruined by the weight of my breasts and my extremely low self-esteem), and the endless pursuit of thinness that haunts me still.

And so since the age of about 18 I have been able to look in the mirror and see my perfect nose, my well-behaved skin and hair, my straight teeth, my small breasts, etc. and yes, I guess I see something closer to Real Beauty than I'd known before.

Except nothing about it feels real.

At 18, a truly beautiful man, the most beautiful man I've ever been involved with to date, took an interest in me. He thought I was beautiful, and said so, many times. I had dated other boys, but no one as purely good looking as this guy. I didn't believe him, though, and our romance quickly ended as a result. That would not be the first time my insecurities got in the way of my dating life. When I meet a man who thinks I'm beautiful, I cringe. Deep inside, although I rarely reveal this, I am waiting for him to "discover" that I'm not beautiful at all. I know he'll see it- not exactly that I'm not beautiful- because the job was well done, I admit, I can fool anyone now- but that I was not born beautiful, I don't possess Real Beauty, and, above all, I still have an ugly plain girl within.

When that friend saw me as someone who belonged in the category of the few who not only possess, but take for granted, Real Beauty, I was surprised, yes, but I was also scared. Scared of my own facade, of its power and its sudden realness in my life. I explained to my friend what my reality was, and as she listened I saw her thinking of her own history with beauty/ugliness. She was one of those women who considered herself plain and ugly, and she was caught quite off-guard herself when I explained that the real difference between us was that I had the money and the cultural incentive to change what I looked like.

Do I think it's right for a young girl to have gone through everything I went through in order to fit into the mold of conventional beauty? No, I don't. I don't think teenagers should have plastic surgery, I don't think children should be aware of beauty, I don't think women should ever ever think they're fat.

But would I take away the image I see in the mirror now? Would I put back the wide nose, would I go back to the heavy sagging breasts, would I be okay with post-adolescence blemished skin, would I stop dieting? No, I wouldn't. It pains me to say so, but I know it's true. I rather be attractive, cost what it may have cost me (emotionally and financially), even if it never feels real.

I do wonder what my life would be like if I (and the society I was raised in) just accepted me as I was. Not only accepted, but recognized it as beautiful in its own non-conventional way. I have wondered many times; what if magazines were covered with models who had normal bodies, frizzy hair, a pimple or two? What if there was no air-brushing, what if naturally "beautiful" people were not valued more than "normal-looking" people? What would I look like now? How would I feel about myself? How many boyfriends would I have had? How many leading roles would I have been cast in? How many clothes would I have never bought? How many places would I have been ignored in?

Asking all these questions is futile, really, no answer can really be known. I share my story and my thoughts on beauty in hopes that one day, if I ever have a daughter, she will find her beauty without battling her own Self and wounding her soul. In hopes that one day, when someone tells me I'm beautiful, the compliment won't come with the reminder of my enslavement to it, and, more than anything, that I may be able to believe that what that person is seeing is the Real Me.

Naked

I always felt comfortable dressing and undressing in front of other women- be it in the locker room in my high-school or at a fitting room in Bloomingdale's. Perhaps because my mother always changed in front of me, it was my understanding, for most of my life, that women can be naked around other women comfortably and shamelessly.
Then I went to college in the United States. Sarah Lawrence College, to be precise. One of the most liberal, actively feminist colleges in the world. I lived in a house-dorm with 27 people, 21 of which were women, I shared a room with two women, and a bathroom with five. I had been in the room with my new roommates for about an hour, and I needed to change my clothes since it was a hot day and I was sweating in what I was wearing. Of course I am not reckless and naive- I made sure to close the curtains and the door so that any passerby's (of the opposite sex) wouldn't look up and suddenly see a half-naked 18-year-old airing out her armpits. It would never have crossed my mind to go into the bathroom, lock both doors, take my clothes with me, and come out dressed in them so as to avoid being naked in front of my new female housemates. I took off my shirt and stood in front of my dresser topless- deciding what to wear (and enjoying not wearing clothes for a few minutes in that stuffy room). I picked a shirt that had a built-in-bra, so I took off my bra and turned around- only to find both my roommates frozen in place, staring at me. Or rather, at my bare chest. Of course staring is not something that shocks me. Even girls who change in front of each other their whole lives at school still stare at each other from time to time- usually comparing body parts. Nudity is always compelling, even when one is completely used to it. But this was not that kind of staring. One of my roommates- who I later learned was a virgin- was staring at me with pure, utter, unmistakable embarrassment. As if she were the one who was naked and had just realized she had a donkey tattooed on her left breast. The other one- who later became a dear friend- was staring with what I felt was a question mark, as if I wondering if I didn't know where the bathroom was.
Their stares were quickly masked and they each found something to busy themselves with, although their eyes couldn't help but occasionally glance over at me- the strange creature who had invaded their privacy and imposed upon them so much flesh. I did not apologize for my actions, nor did I stop doing it. I put on my shirt, and when I decided I wanted to wear a different one, I stripped yet again.
After a few weeks, my roommate who became my friend started shamelessly changing in front of us as well. But the virgin roommate never even showed us her bra. She would pile up her clothes, lock herself in the bathroom and come out completely dressed. Once, when she was in a hurry, I think she forgot her bra or put on the wrong one, she grabbed the one she needed to wear and was on her way back to the bathroom when, to her horror, someone was already in there, and so I eagerly awaited as I thought I'd finally see her break through her armor of timidity. She did no such thing. With the skills of an acrobatic athlete, she changed her bra in the room without taking off her shirt or even showing her belly button. She left without saying good-bye, and I sat on my bed for about an hour, wondering how the hell society managed to do that to women.
In fact- it did not take me long to learn that most American women do not undress in front of each other, and that it would almost always shock them when I did.
I was taken completely off-guard one day when one of my college friends referred to me as someone who is completely comfortable with her body. I asked her where she got such an insane idea, and she answered, "Well you have no problem being naked in front of people." I quickly answered, "Women. I have no problem being naked in front of women. Because we have the same body parts! Because you're not looking at me and judging how fuckable I am when you see me naked!" She was silent for a while- as though it had not occurred to her that I might not be comfortable at all with my body, or that when a man is present I am completely aware of exactly how much skin is uncovered. I'm not sure my point made sense to her, and she asked yet another question, "But aren't you afraid of how judgmental women are?" This time I didn't know what to say. I thought about it for a while. Whenever I saw a woman with stretchmarks or cellulite or in-grown hairs I usually felt relieved that other women also had those things, and felt a kind of unspoken companionship blossom. Yes, when I was a teenager I had rivals, and would try to find imperfections in them so as to make myself feel better, but it was not something I obsessed over or was even proud of. I told my friend this and she seemed surprised, if not skeptical. How could a woman not instantly and constantly judge another woman- especially when seeing her naked? My heart broke as I started to realize that women judging each other was, for most, considered second nature.
I thought about all of this extensively, and have not come up with solutions or answers, but I recently invented a game. I usually play it on the subway. It's a simple game- it's like people watching and energy shifting combined. I look around at women and find one thing about each one that is completely beautiful to me. It does not have to be physical, it can be about their energy or an action they take. Her hair, her hands, the way she's holding her son's hand, her attention to her purse, her shoulders, her elegance, her grace....
It usually puts me in a much better mood- and it tends to have a very strong karmic force. On days when I play this game, I am often given a lot of compliments, usually from other women. And when I share the game with other women, they are often delighted, and want to know what I find beautiful about them. It is different from fishing for compliments or kissing up to someone, I think, because it only works if it comes from an honest place, and it is not intended to serve the ego, but rather to guide women away from judging one another, and towards admiration and respect for each other. Try it- I think you'll be surprised.