The Aurora Shooting and the Interminable Questions

Another mass shooting in a small Colorado suburb. (I don't even know what part of that sentence is most sickening, "another" or "mass shooting.") The answerable gets asked, for facts soothe the shocked. What How Where When Who go first. After those have settled, the unanswerable haunting Why comes up. Articles vomit their theories; loose gun laws, social inadequacies, negligent parents, media influences, and the maddening mundaneness of the American suburb.

Can we really handle the answer though? How many times did we read Eric Harris' diaries and watch Seung-Hui Cho's homemade videos? How many books will we write, how many weird indie films will we make, how many more pieces to this puzzle do we need before we take responsibility?
Maybe they were insane or maybe they were just a magnified version of us: angry, in pain, and lonely. The disparity lies in their despair and not, I maintain, in their access to weapons, for we all have access to weapons but we do not all go on a shooting rampage.

We collectively ignore the misfits around us, and then we collectively believe that if we take away the means, we will erase the turbulent cause. Not that the argument is unfounded: if we banned cigarettes, we would likely have less cases of lung cancer; if we take guns away from our children, we will likely have less mass murders among our youth. I am absolutely in favor of gun control- if we can prevent the How, then why don't we?- But neither "solution" soothes the cause, and we simply cannot ignore that. Our angry young men will still be angry young men. Their desire to indiscriminately kill others still stirs within them, and what do we intend to do about that? Numb them with Prozac and do away with violent entertainment? Guarantee every child in an American suburb loving and attentive yet ambitious and successful parents who can pay for a college education that will give them a fulfilling career?

Theories and questions don't change the tragedy, the sadness, or the loss. But we must study it, we must ask questions, we must be moved to tears by this, we must scream at the top of our lungs, and we must not stop thinking about it for a moment, for the instant we move on with our lives, it will happen again.

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.

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...

-----------------------

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.

Vanity and I

Ours is a love story, like so many before it, rooted in an external search for acceptance, completion, and happiness. Abusive at times, melodramatic at others, and full of resentment and bitterness, Vanity and I have had a turbulent relationship.

At 16.

I did everything I was supposed to do. I was always manicured, pedicured, waxed, exfoliated, cleansed, starved, tucked, lifted, firmed, smoothed, and glossed. My hair was always long, my clothes were always form-fitting and feminine, and my perfume was whatever the magazine told me was a man's favorite scent on a woman. If my hands were dry or my lips chapped, I'd be embarrassed, and I'd never dare take my shoes off if I was overdue for a pedicure.

Vanity was with me every single day. And for as long as there was enough money, there were solutions to everything. Needles could smooth out stretchmarks, electric shocks could stop hair from growing where it shouldn't, surgeries could lift, tuck, and sew in anything that wasn't in place. Pills could make me stop eating. She had an answer for everything.

I did not think she would ever leave me, and I certainly did not think I would ever leave her. 

When a teacher quite forcefully told me that if I wanted to be an actor I had to get messy, dirty, ugly, and, above all, let go of my vanity and ego, I was baffled. Like a slave born into a life of unquestionable servitude, blind to the absurdity of her circumstances, I was suddenly made aware of my binding chains.

At 22.

I cut off my hair. I stopped getting my nails done. I bought a dozen yoga pants. I set my make up, stomach-gripping jeans, and heels to the back of my closet. And I started eating french fries.

In order to set myself truly free, I had to let go of Vanity completely. I had to break up with her, and I was very, very angry. I was ready to break mirrors and burn bras, such was the depth of my pain. You trapped me, chained me, butchered me, controlled me, and erased me. I want nothing to do with you, ever again.

She complied. She left me alone. And I was so happy to find the freedom within stretchy pants, flats, messy short hair, and unpainted uneven nails, that I did not miss her at all. It was a blissful time, and I did grow tremendously as an actor. Vanity murders creativity. For the next couple of years, I was unstoppable.

But I was not done growing. We never are. 

It was a group of actor friends that next freed me when they proposed, gently, that I indulge in my vanity, flaunt my femininity and sexiness, and invite a little ego back. Again, I felt a light turn on in a dark room within me. In my complete negation of Vanity, I did not realize she was still controlling me. I feared her so fiercely, I never considered that we could have a healthy, balanced relationship.

As I had done years earlier when I dispelled Vanity completely, I was ready to take on the challenge of welcoming her back for the sake of my growth as an actor. 

I have been taking slow, cautious steps every day towards discovering what feels good to me, what I like indulging in, and what daily doses of Vanity I can take. I felt my hair touch my shoulder the other day and was surprised by how much I liked the feeling of it. I dug up my eyeliner from its grave and played with different ways to bring attention to my eyes. I looked at each part of my body and asked myself, How do I celebrate this body part's beauty? 

It is no coincidence that The Body Stories emerged at the same time. I am telling stories that I hope inspire others to find a peaceful relationship with their bodies. It was time I worked on mine. 

I know Vanity is not a real person who forced me to do things I didn't want to. I know that when I talk of Vanity I am talking about a relationship I had with myself in pursuit of an ideal. But sometimes it's too hard to look at myself, to touch the parts of my body I have butchered, and not want to blame it on an external source.

Here we are, Vanity and I, with our loaded past, working on our relationship. And it does take work. I'd be lying if I said she were no longer a threat, and that our relationship is always healthy and balanced. I am still mostly afraid of her. When I spend 45 minutes on my hair, I have to make sure, every other minute, that I am doing this because I want to. And, when I wear yoga pants for five days in a row, I have to check that I am not avoiding her. But, step by step, we are figuring each other out, and I am a little bit closer to true freedom.

At 26.

Loneliness, Pain, and Art

I'm lonely. I have friends, I have a wonderful family, I have a therapist, and I have many, many people I can talk to. I have loved deeply, I have been loved, and I know, in my heart of hearts, that I will love again. I even have guys who are interested in me now. I'm not poor, I'm not hungry, I'm educated, I live in New York City, I have a passion, I'm not fat, I'm not ugly, and I have faith in a higher being. I'm grateful for many things, I'm blessed in many ways, I'm able to grow and learn most of the time. But I'm lonely. I'm lonely in a way that phone calls from dear ones doesn't fix, that sex and the city marathons don't mask, that yoga can't transform, that ice-cream doesn't make better.

I smile easily, I laugh easily, I'm social, and I attract people. But, deep down, at my core, I am lonely. When all the lights are out and silence settles, I am with myself, and I feel hollow. It's funny how such emptiness can feel so oppressively heavy. It's like a vast space in my chest that causes a feeling of claustrophobia and weighs me down. It grows inside me, pushing at my edges, but it feels like a big void.

This feeling is not caused, though it may be magnified, by certain circumstances. I've always known it. I was aware of it even as a child; what was labeled shyness, I believe, was actually a feeling of deep disconnect. As I became a teenager, the feeling deepened, and I constantly felt misunderstood, but it was seen as normal adolescent angst. It's never been anything that demanded serious attention, for I have always been perfectly functional, and I am happy. But happy, functioning people can also be lonely.

There's nothing to do about it, but I have learned I can do something with it. I can create my art. Because all human beings know loneliness, all characters know loneliness, and so that is my starting point in creating- either in acting, writing, or directing- characters that people can relate to. Investigating lonely behavior, therefore, makes me an active part of it and less a victim to it. Let it move, let it shift, let it birth art. Often, this provides me with great relief, as well as a sense of purpose.

Perhaps it is because of this that I sometimes say my life started when I was 10 years old. I was in the fifth grade, I was considered a shy child- practically invisible, actually- and we were given an assignment to impersonate a historical figure. I was given Nathanial Greene. Some other kids thought he was boring, but I figured him out really fast. He was a revolutionary war general, he was watching people die every day, his men were depending on his leadership with their lives and their hope, and so he was probably very lonely. From those conclusions, I created my Nathanial, and I stepped in front of the class and let him live through me. I shouted at my men, I lead an imaginary field of soldiers into battle, and I told the story of my life. My classmates and my teacher were stunned into silence; they did not recognize me. The shy girl who barely spoke had come to life, had stepped in front of other people- arguably one of the scariest things to do in the world- and had become, without an ounce of nervousness or hesitation, Nathanial Greene. No one was as surprised as I was. I got a standing ovation, was asked to do it again and again, and went home that day with a laser-sharp certainty that has not left me since: I was going to be an actress.

I understand the feelings I had then better now: I couldn't express my loneliness- it's too difficult to really convey our own loneliness- but I could do it behind the mask of that character. I could do it on stage, where people are willing to suspend their disbelief. I could tell the stories of the people who could not, or would not, tell it themselves and, in doing so, I would be telling my story too. My pain would not remain clogged inside me, it had found a way to move and- perhaps this is the greatest gift a human being can be given- it was a way for me to give something to others.

Characters need our pain in order to live, they need our loneliness, they need our dreams. Without it, they're just words on a page. And every time a character is brought to life with truth and honesty, there is a chance someone in the audience is given some relief. In this way, the cycle is beautiful. My loneliness is the gift I give my characters as well as the audience, and in providing me with an outlet for it, it is the gift they give me in return. They give me peace.

Hello New York!

Hello, New York! 

Hello, chilly wind, dirty streets, gray skies.

Hello, one-bedroom apartment shared with my brother, sans cleaning lady. Plus mom visiting. 

Hello, gazillions of people on the streets! New yorkers, with your headphones and jaded looks, dark clothes and sunglasses. Tourists, with your giant subway maps that you will never understand and weird footwear.

Hello, 20-year-old boys with beards, 40-year-old women with purple hair. 

Hello, flats, dark clothes, cotton fabrics, scarves, and practical bags. 

Hello, whole foods and trader joe's. Organic everything. Fresh always. Turkey sausage, egg whites, and organic cheese on a bun. Bad coffee, brown sugar, almond milk. 

Hello, sky-scrapers, cabs, subways, cnn, osama dead?, no one cares, liberalism, and skepticism. 

Hello, unopened mail, dust, laundry, cable, food network, purple shower curtain, red table cloth, pink apron, and window-less teeny tiny love-of-my-life kitchen. 

Hello, heart, memories, love, pain, loss, saudades, and grief. 

Hello, change, growth, healing, recovery, picking up the pieces, and possibilities.  

Hello, everything is the same and everything is different. 

Hello, me that was and me that changed.

Hello, my city, my apartment, my hopes, my wants, my dreams, my past, my future, my right now, my loves, my always, my here, my constant, my changes, my roots, my branches, my life, my life, my life.

Hello, my beautiful, ever-changing, always here, lively, passionate, crazy, lovely New York. 

Hello, hello, hello! 

It's a gift to be back in your arms. 

A Day of Elephants and Googling

I felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest today. All of my anxiety, sadness and guilt seemed to surface at full-force, and all at once. My current state of limited mobility and isolation didn't help much either. Even though I was telling myself to breathe, the breath seemed to get stuck somewhere between my nostril and my throat, never quite making it to my lungs. I kept telling myself, Just feel the pain, it'll pass. You have to feel it sometimes. But I wanted to disappear. I started to fantasize about re-birth, about life starting over, about the possibility of nothing I've lived through having actually happened.

It was kind of crazy. It's not like I was having an anxiety attack, where there was an end-point in sight. And it's not like I suddenly burst into tears and needed to have a good cry, which also has an end-point in sight. I was just in this general state of extreme unhappiness, and it didn't seem to manifest in any particular way, so it didn't look like it was going to pass. It all made me really uneasy, and I was more than just a little bit worried.

I started to do one of my go-to activities when I'm feeling something I have no idea what to do with: googling said feelings. For a number of reasons, it always seems to help me. The random facts floating around on the internet have a grounding power over me. I learned, for example, that anxiety is mostly related to future dangers and that feeling guilty means I'm probably not a psychopath. It even helped to read the words Sadness is an emotion, over and over again. Reading these more-or-less facts about what I was experiencing made it seem like they were something outside of me, and it calmed me down. I realized that they are human experiences; a "normal" person should live life in such a way that she experiences anxiety, sadness, and guilt. Otherwise, she is probably not living life fully, but rather in avoidance or over-cautious of anything negative. Not that we should go around being reckless; on the contrary, these experiences serve to teach us, and being mindful is part of maturing and growing. I'll always wish I hadn't done certain things, that I had handled many things differently, that I had acted with more awareness in various circumstances. But it's done now. I am human, I will have regrets. Most of us will. It sounds really over-simplified and obvious, but it made me feel a lot better.

I still feel residual anxiety, sadness, and guilt. I'm pretty sure they'll stick around for a while. It's a consequence of taking actions I regret and suffering a great loss. I know that, and I know that from time to time, I'm going to have a day like today, of extreme unhappiness. I'll still replay past scenarios in my head and end them differently, I'll still send out apologetic and compassionate vibes, I'll still hope for make-up encounters in my dreams, I'll still stare out into space and wonder "what if". Maybe these are all rather pointless tasks, and I know they don't have the power to change anything, but they're part of my coping and healing process, so I'm not in a rush to replace them with useful, productive activities.

I'm not "all better", but the elephant has lifted some of its weight from my chest, and my throat has stopped intercepting my breath, which is a great relief. I learned that, sometimes, basic truths, or even general uncertified opinions on the internet, can help me get through the days that overwhelm me. Not the most sophisticated place to find relief, perhaps, but it worked nonetheless.

I'll end with a quote my research today lead me to, from new-age-spirituality.com (yes, that's right- that should clue you in to my desperation level).

"What's done is done and never can be altered. If we have adapted and grown as a result then be satisfied the experience was worthwhile. Never give up. If we have failed to achieve a particular objective first time around it does not make it unattainable. Learn the lessons, grow stronger, and try, try again."

*

Here's to learning the lessons, growing stronger, and trying again.

Image from here.

Missing

I was so done with New York three weeks ago, when I left on my "vacation". I have been basking in my parents' home life. I had to extend my trip, for personal reasons, and thought it a gift from the universe. I was grateful to be away from everything for a while.

But today I missed sitting at a New York City diner and having a cup of bad coffee with sausage, egg, and cheese on a roll.

I missed waiting for the subway and listening to 27 different ipods blasting not-so-different songs.

I missed walking on the crowded streets around Union Square, debating whether to pee at Whole Foods or at Barnes & Nobles.

I missed my set of too-many-keys, my subway cards lost in my purse, the sounds of my cell phone, and my yoga mat.


I missed my life- the life I have constructed over the years, that I take for granted on most days.


And I missed him, too.

As a friend so aptly put it, there's a hole in me now. It occurs to me that after a while, a human being is full of holes. Gaping spaces where someone or something or someplace used to be. We learn, and relearn, and unlearn, to walk around with these voids, I guess. Filling them up or covering them up or maybe leaving them there, exposed, for a long time. The sense is that something is missing (verb of the day), that something is gone.

I can change my setting, leave the reminders, but I'm still walking around with a hole.

Something is missing, something is gone.

The Massacred Children of Rio

I have been searching and struggling for a way to pay tribute to the massacred children of Rio. I am speechless, but I am not without thoughts or feelings. I am angry, confused, mesmerized, shocked, and saddened by this tragedy. Every image played and replayed on the news cuts me, but I can not keep my eyes off the screen. The sitcoms go on, as do the reality shows, at their scheduled times, as if nothing were happening-- I could distract myself there, but I can't. I won't.

Last year, I blogged about Columbine on its 11th anniversary. School shootings are something that deeply perplex me, and I have always been inclined to finding as much information as I can about them. I admit I thought they were not something that happened in Brazil. I am guilty of having once said to a fellow American, "Brazilians kill because they're starving or fighting for their rights, Americans massacre each other out of boredom." I confess to believing it was an illness that manifested in neglected American suburban teenagers, victims of bullying and misunderstandings. This wasn't supposed to be a Brazilian problem. Like a friend posted on facebook, "WTF, this shit doesn't happen in Brazil." We have enough problems. Our children carry guns, yes, but because they are raised in utter poverty and know no other way to survive. This desire, this need, to kill fellow classmates for no apparent reason just did not happen here.

I now stand not only corrected, but ashamed.

A scene plays over and over again in my head; a mother being told her child has just been shot several times. She falls into despair at first, but then she looks up at the sky and is relieved. She is certain that God would not do that to her. She will have to identify the body, and she is still certain that God protected her little girl. She is even more certain when she sees the body. Those bloody clothes are not her. Those bones are not my child. Whenever reality settles in for this mother, if it ever does, I pray she finds the strength she needs to survive it.

For those children who lost their lives yesterday, I am saddened and I give them my prayers and the guarantee that they shall be remembered. For the children who were injured and scarred by the event, I honor them as survivors and hope that they are given the care they need at this time. And for the parents and families of the children who died yesterday, I send them all the love and strength I have.

To the children of the Rio school shooting of April 7th, 2011, you are remembered and honored.




Image from here.

There's No Place Like Home

The minute I step off the plane, there's a feeling of relief paired with unease. It is instantly familiar and it is also no longer a place that holds my daily life, my routine, my habits, and my adult life. It has been nearly eight years since I left my home in Brazil, and I have made New York into my new home. New York has the lifestyle I like to live by, it has my career, my friends, my yoga practice, my dreams, and my ambition.

Brazil has my roots. I can stay away for a year or just a few months, I can forget what it's like to be Brazilian, I can even stop thinking, writing, and overall communicating in Portuguese if I so wish. But as soon as I land, it sucks me in, grasping me by my feet and grounding me. This is where you began. I can change my life as many times as I want to and I can choose who I want to be, but I can not change where it all started. And it all started right here.

I had not intended to fly alone. It is not customary for me to come home more than once a year anymore. When I bought my ticket, this was a trip planned for two. It was a meet-my-whole-family-and-see-where-I-come-from ordeal. It was a get-away-from-New-York-winter-together thing. It was that much-awaited-first-extended-vacation-with-you event. It was a lot of things that involved someone else.

The relationship ended, though, as you may have gathered from previous posts. And so this trip so full of togetherness with someone I was no longer with loomed before me. Changing the ticket would have been a little expensive, but not impossible. Did I want to go on this trip alone now? It is home, after all. That means: mom, dad, all my family, my old room, my bed, a really good shower, mom, a pool, warm weather, amazing food, coffee, mom, nothing to think about, beach time, cheap and perfect manicures, a car, coconut water, and did I mention mom? But it also meant there was a possibility I would do nothing but think of him and what we'd be doing together if he were with me. That could be very depressing.

As the days went on though, New York started to become unbearable. The reminders were everywhere. I could feel his presence in the things we used to do together, and, perhaps more saddening, I could feel his absence. To top it off, the weather kind of sucked. One warm-spring-like day was followed by freezing temperatures, which set the whole city off into a spiral of disappointment. I was tired of wearing my gloves, hat, scarves, layers, and boots. I wanted to wear a dress and flip flops. I wanted- needed- to get away. I kept my ticket as it was.

Yesterday afternoon, I got in a cab to the airport. The cab driver asked me where I was going. "Home. To my mom." He smiled. The hours at the airports and in the airplanes were interminable. It was a long, draining trip. I sat next to a very nice old man for 9 hours, though, who was very chatty. Under normal circumstances, I would have hated that. But when I got off the plane, I realized I hadn't spent my whole plane ride sulking and moping, and I was grateful to have had that nice man distracting me with his stories.

I've been home for all of twelve hours now. I am jet-lagged, pmsing, tired, and full of thoughts. But I had an amazing cup of coffee today, and coconut water, and steak, and fruits. I took a long shower in my pink bathroom that, after living in new york spaces for years, feels like the largest, most luxurious bathroom ever. I can't believe I showered in this bathroom every day for most of my life and took it completely for granted. After my shower, when my bathroom was all foggy, I was reminded of how I used to write the names of the boys I had crushes on on my fogged mirror as a teenager. And how I curled up, so many times, on the pink tiled floor and cried. These memories warmed my heart. I have survived so many things. I can survive this.

Yes, I have thought of him. Of course I have. I've thought about how I'd show him my house, how I'd explain its rooms and their particular memories, how I'd let him see pictures of me in high-school when I was awkward and not-so-pretty, how I'd show him my neighborhood, how I'd introduce him to all the people who have been in my life since the beginning. I'm hit with pangs of regret and guilt and sadness which, though temporary, are very painful. I tell myself, It's okay. I can have these thoughts. I have to mourn what I've lost, and what I'll miss, in order to move past it.

It isn't easy, but I had to come here. I've lost touch with a lot of parts of myself- parts I like, parts I don't like, parts I repress, parts I celebrate- and I need to attend to myself, bit by bit. I don't want to ignore myself or my feelings anymore. I've learned that can have a very high cost, and I'm not willing to pay for it again.

A little while ago, I wandered into my mom's room and, mid-conversation about a totally unrelated topic, I burst into tears. My mom didn't ask any questions or give me any cheering talks. She hugged me, the way only a mother can, and I knew that this was why I had to come here. I needed to remember that there are people in my life who believe in the best of me and love me, for better or for worse, unconditionally. Whatever wrongs I have done, I am always worthy of forgiveness and love in their eyes, even if I think otherwise. This is a place where I am safe to be Larissa; good, bad, nice, mean, pretty, ugly, mature, childish, happy, sad, accomplished, failed, and everything-in-between Larissa.

This is a special place. This is my home.

The Very Rainy Day

The city was a toilet today. Rainy, windy, messy, miserable. Much like my insides. When my external environment matches my inner life, I consider it a blessing and a curse.

A curse because, if it's bad, it seems worse. A gloomy stormy day magnifies my own negative feelings. It's one thing to feel sad and then go for a walk on a nice day and feel the sunshine on my skin, and it's another to feel sad and then go for a walk and get pushed and shoved and drenched by a vicious storm.

But it's a blessing, too, because it prevents me from running away from my feelings and my reality, which is necessary at times. There was no way to pretend everything was okay today. Unable to numb my pain, I had to just sink into it, let it run its course, and learn from it.

I could have stayed inside all day, but I had a commitment, and I needed some air. So I went out in that rain and found solace in how it freed up my thoughts. Fuck it, I don't really want to be happy right now. I don't want to be okay, I don't want to be strong, I don't want to be entertaining, I don't want to be enlightened. I want to be a mess. I want to wallow in my sadness, like a big drama queen, and think it's the end of the world. My umbrella eventually broke- it was that windy. Defenseless, I was free to get rained on mercilessly. I looked up at the sky and let the rain wash over my face, disguise my tears, take with it my make-up, moisturizer, and, eventually- finally- my "I'm okay" mask. I let it take over me- punish me and heal me simultaneously. I'm not going to say it felt "great", but it did feel real. I felt alive for a little while, and I felt like my pain, for once, wasn't clogged inside me, but rather moving through me.

I learned that sometimes, you have to not be okay. You have to just be sad, feel weak, undo any "progress" you've made in your recovery process. You have to go back to square one, forget everything you know about how "everything happens for a reason" and "it wasn't meant to be" and "letting go". Be a teenager and feel certain that in all of time, for all of mankind, around the entire world, no one has ever known such pain. Be a child and feel enraged that something good was taken away from you- give up accountability and just feel how unfair life is. Stomp, scream, thrash, splash. Even if someone's looking, it's okay- they probably won't care.

I can't tell you how great the wave of relief is. Don't get me wrong- giving up control, especially of my feelings, isn't easy. It's actually easier to be in a "getting better" place. I love feeling free from suffering. I love smiling. I love keeping it together. I love handling things well. I love it when I feel like I'll survive this, I'll be okay, I'll get better, I'll forgive myself, I'll grow, etc. But it's just not always true. Sometimes, that's just not what's going on with me. Sometimes I'm defeated and suffering a lot, and there's just no way to ignore it. It doesn't feel good, and it's probably rather uninteresting to other people, but it's still real and must be honored.

I'd like to say something like, "after the storm, there's always a rainbow," but the truth is sometimes there isn't. And I may not be ready for a rainbow yet, or even sunshine. What I do know is that not every day is a rainy day, and even a storm as powerful as the one we had today must get tired. Even if a bright sunny day is far away, it will stop raining eventually. Sadness doesn't suddenly turn into happiness, but it doesn't last forever either.

For now, I'm here, and it's raining, and I'm not always okay. Respecting that this is where I'm at is painful, but, as I learned today, it's also a blessing in disguise.

So, let it rain.

Sucky Sunday

I'm not a fan of Sundays. I don't like their lazy, unproductive, end-of-the-weekend, general sadness. They always feel heavy to me, and like I'm supposed to be doing something- even if that something I'm supposed to be doing is relaxing from the week. So a rainy, gray Sunday is pretty sucky. And a rainy, gray Sunday when I'm super sad and missing someone and waiting is just fucking miserable.

Here's what I discovered makes sucky Sundays worse:

Waking up with a headache that's not even attached to a hang-over. Just one of those inexplicable headaches.

Realizing I didn't just dream it all up. This is actually my life.

Piled up dishes in the sink and a full dishwasher (can I have an UGH! please?).

Overflowing trash bin.

No more milk.

My least favorite food network shows on.

Nothing going on on facebook (shame on you).

Putting on gym clothes and taking them off- accepting that no, I am not going to the gym today.

Counting calories (just a bad idea any time, really. goes hand-in-hand with weighing myself).

Staying at home, staring at the rain.

Staring at my unshaven armpits (I know, that image is gonna stick with you for a while. heh).

Googling "I'm so fucking sad what do I do" (absolutely useless).

Looking at my pores in the magnifying mirror (a Nazi invented that thing, for sure).


And then there are some things that make a sucky Sunday a little (or a lot) better:

Putting clothes on (pj's invite moping).

Shaving my armpits (you're welcome).

Doing the dishes. Taking out the trash. Deciding that that's really enough house-keeping for one day.

Going for a walk, even if it's raining. Walking is so much better than not walking.

Calling a good friend (she knows who she is- thank you darling...).

Going into a bookstore. Books have healing powers. Especially really bad self-help ones.

Cooking. Eating is so much better than not eating.

A brownie (okay, I only ate half of it. baby steps, guys, baby steps).

Coffee (I know, I pay a lot of tribute to coffee, leave me alone).

Yoga (can't thank that one enough-- though it totally. kicked. my. ass. today.).

Reading all the "bad" magazines out there (I couldn't do the "this is how to land a man" ones, but I did all the "how to look your best" and "this celebrity is so interesting!" ones).

Dinner with my brother (my guardian angel).

A mango martini. Just one. To sooth the soul, you know.

Catching up on Glee (just so damn fun).

Blogging (heh).

Realizing I survived my sucky Sunday. There will be others, but I did okay today. And that's good enough for now.

Thanks for all the nice thoughts and kind words, everyone.

Ow

It's so hard to miss someone. There's just no way around it. It's this huge, suffocating, paralyzing pain.

The day tends to start with it. I wake up and for just a split moment, I forget why I am in so much pain. Why is my chest so tight? Why does my stomach hurt? Why is it so hard to open my eyes? Why are my feet so cold? Why do I feel so very, very small? And then I remember. The realization doesn't settle in, but rather crashes and crushes me. He's gone. Boom. Any desire to get out of bed evaporates. I want to stay there, sarcophagied in my mess of blankets, forever.

But then I have to pee. Wetting my bed, fortunately, is not yet an option. I do, however, wait until the last possible minute, until I'm about to burst. And then I get up. And it sucks. It's cold and I have to look at myself in the bathroom mirror on my way to the toilet and I look like garbage. My reflection hates me. I hate me. Even the tiles in the bathroom seem to hate me, making themselves extra cold for my feet.

Luckily, I also have a caffeine addiction, and so I know that now that I've gotten up I need to have coffee within the next thirty minutes unless I want to be greeted with a headache and extreme moodiness. At this point, I'd be crazy to add any more pain to my body. So I don't crawl back to my cocoon. I go to the kitchen.

I make my coffee, and as I start drinking it, I feel better, even if only because I managed to not go back to bed and stay there all day long. My phone, which is now a permanent extension of my hand, is dead silent. Call me. Please. Please please please. The chant is constant.

The day awaits me. Gym yoga rehearsal lunch with a friend book to read emails to send websites to check out call a friend write watch the food network go to the grocery store stop at barnes & nobles have a coffee laundry dishes wash hair dry hair comb hair paint nails call mom eat something go for a walk sit on the couch look at pores floss wander from the bedroom to the living room take out the trash go on facebook drink more coffee stare out into space organize socks look for any distraction anywhere all the time. I go through it- or some higher being inhabits my body and goes through it for me, I don't know. And yes, for some time, I am okay. There is some relief.

But then something will make me smile. And the muscles in my face will immediately register how strange that feels. You aren't happy. You're miserable. Don't you dare smile. The ache never left, there was no real relief. It's always there. I miss him.

It's hard and it hurts like hell. It is close to impossible to truly believe that it will get better, that it will pass, that it will shift, that I will grow from this experience. I hate every second of this.

The day ends and now I dread going back to bed. I know that sleeplessness and tears and guilt and a brain that can not stop thinking await me. Nighttime magnifies everything that's bad. I will lie down and a balloon will grow in my stomach, a big ball of hollowness.

I wait. I pace. I look for empty activities. My body will eventually tire. Or, I'll take an advil pm. And for a few hours, I will escape all of this. My mind will, anyway. My body seems to stay stuck and wake up in more pain, but my mind gets to go somewhere else.

And then it starts all over again.

It hurts. It hurts a lot.

When You're Hurting Beyond Measure...

Sleep during the day. Stay up all night.

Wear sunglasses in the subway. Blast your ipod until people move away from you.

Drink too much coffee. Don't eat. Eat something bad. Your body will forgive you.

Avoid mirrors.

Wear ugly sweatpants.

Forget to brush your hair.

Keep the curtains closed. Hate the sun. Hate everything that's beautiful.

Pray. Then curse at God. Then pray again. God will understand, She always does.

Spill milk and be too lazy to clean it up.

Stare into space and feel half dead.

Go to the gym and give up after four minutes on the treadmill. Let people wonder.

Check your phone every seven seconds. Check your email every eight seconds. Send test texts to your friends to make sure your phone is working.

Mute every other phone call. Nothing is really ever important.

Watch bad TV. Feel incapable of laughing.

Go outside not wearing enough clothes because feeling cold means you can still feel something.

Write letters and tear them up.

Bite your nails. Even if you never bite your nails.

Drink juice out of the carton. No one will know.

Go do what you have to do, even if you're numb.

Let the dishes pile up.

Don't fold the laundry. Wrinkled clothes work just as well.

Be dramatic. Your friends can put up with it.

Cry at the frozen peas in the grocery store. They can take it.

Hate yourself. Love yourself. Feel stupid. Feel awful. Feel like a piece of shit. Feel okay again.

Stay in the shower too long.

Go to bed. You can never go to bed too much.


Feel everything. This is part of survival. Shut off the brain and go on auto-pilot.


Remember, life goes on. Because it has to.

*

Adulthood's Ugly Face

One day I woke up and watched myself shower, put on responsible-looking clothes, paint my face into a grown-up woman's complexion, drink my coffee, eat my poached egg on toast, pack my laptop into my bag, head off to work, sit in front of a computer all day, do tasks that neither interest nor fulfill me, watch the clock, wait for the day to end, come home too tired to socialize or blog or work out or return calls or respond to emails, eat something, and finally go back to sleep which was only comforting because it was not like the day it followed. And so I realized that I had finally met someone I'd observed from afar all my life, someone many people around me had known for a long time. That someone was called Adulthood.

Adulthood has taken over me for the past month or so, and I have slowly been introduced to responsibility, compromise, and a desire for independence. Perhaps for most people all this seems normal, or like "it's about time"- I'm 25 after all, but for me it has been completely jarring and, in many ways, really difficult and sad.

I've always had one goal. I've always known who I was. I've always made every decision based on how it would best serve the one thing I knew I was meant to do. For as long as I can remember, I have only ever lived to be an actress. Since my parents always had enough money and since I wasn't raised in a culture that encouraged financial independence at age 18, I figured I wouldn't ever have to compromise what I wanted to do, what I was meant to do, for the sake of a paycheck or stability. But I also thought I'd have it figured out by the time I was 25. That I'd have a path drawn out, that I'd be closer to success and recognition, that I'd be able to make a living with acting, or that I'd be able to make a living somehow and still act.

As it turns out, I'm 25 and I have a master's degree in what I love doing but I don't know how to do it for a living. I'm tired of being dependent, and the acting industry has completely burnt me out. Auditions make me feel like a puppet, rejections make me feel unworthy, and playing roles that don't mean anything to me leave me unfulfilled and wanting more. So I sought a more regular lifestyle, found it, and have slowly gravitated towards letting it take over my life. The less I think about acting and how little of it I'm doing, the less it can hurt me. And if I'm the one who shuts down my dream, then at least no one else can crush it.

But the result is that my heart is breaking every day, as though I'd just buried my Self and am in mourning. Going through the motions of adulthood exhaust me, pretending I can do it permanently nearly kills me. Not to mention how mad Little Larissa is at me. My 7-year-old self is scolding me, shaking her finger at me, "You can't just give up! How can you give up?? These are our dreams! We've wished them into fountains all our lives!" And I don't really know what to tell her. It's just time, I want to say, I have to do something else now, for a while, I have to figure out my life, I have to be responsible. But she wouldn't understand it. I hardly understand it myself.

Who I am is an actress, I know that like I know my name. But how long can a dream be sustained for when it exists only as something we wish upon a star? At some point it has to either materialize or be discarded, it seems. And I've been lost. I've been terrified of going through another year of the same bullshit auditions for unpaid projects that aren't even that good. I'm tired and I'm not happy. The idea of giving up on acting brings me even further down, but I can't keep doing it and not making a living either.

So here I am, staring at Adulthood but still clinging on to my dreams and idealizations of life, not quite ready to let go yet. Getting scolded by my inner child, but looking at my life as it is and knowing that something has to change.

I'm looking for signs, I'm waiting for clarity, I'm hoping for solutions.

I'm staring at myself and, for the first time in my whole life, I'm wondering who I am.

Infidelity

A friend of mine recently sent me an email about cheating. She had just heard someone recount their stories of infidelity and was extremely upset by it, and was wondering why she was so upset, being that the infidelity did not even directly affect her. Although I am not innocent on the subject- or perhaps because I am not innocent on the subject- I knew how I felt about it and why she was probably so upset. Since other people have also asked me to write about this topic, here are some of my thoughts on cheating.

First of all, let me clarify how I define cheating. I think my friend Chris best described it when he said, "It's less about what actions are taken and more about how the other person will feel."

When two people have made an agreement to be exclusive and one person develops an interest in another and acts on it- be that kissing, dating, or having sex- without clearing it up with the person they are committed to, I call that cheating. If there was never an agreement made regarding exclusivity, then I don't call it cheating. Irresponsible and unkind behavior, maybe, but not cheating. Also, I don't consider looking at other people or fantasizing about people other than the person you're with cheating.

Someone recently said to me, "What they don't know can't hurt them."

To which I say, Bullshit.

In a nutshell, cheating is not cool because its essence is rooted in lying. And all lying does is limit space to grow, since a relationship post-cheating-and-not-telling-the-truth-about-it is then between two people who have two different ideas of what their relationship is. The party that's been cheated on is now living an illusion, and the cheater can only focus on keeping up that illusion.

If you're going to cheat, then at least be honest with yourself about what you're doing and the potential damage you might be causing.

I have taken part in an infidelity- big time, in a way that affected an innocent third party. I was in love, and I thought that justified my actions. I knew that what I was doing was wrong, but I was too blindly in love to really consider it. He was the one who had made a promise to someone else and he should have known better, but I was no child and certainly never entertained any illusions about just how much responsibility I was holding over someone else's feelings. I knew what I was doing. And when eventually we had to stop, not only was I heart-broken, but I was then haunted by my guilt. It took a lot of therapy, meditating, writing, yoga, crying, and creating to move past this huge disappointment and forgive myself. Although I learned and grew because of how much love existed between us, I would not do it again. I hurt someone, tremendously, and I hurt myself just as much in the end.

I also had a brief fling with a friend's ex-boyfriend. He was her first love, and although they had broken up three years prior to my hooking up with him, I knew it would hurt her. We thought about never telling her. She was a dear friend. But I didn't want her to have any illusions about what kind of a friend I am. That action made me a shitty, flawed friend, and I respected her enough to let her choose whether she wanted to forgive me and keep the friendship or not, so I told her. She was really hurt, and I am still recovering from it. She never spoke to me again. I would not do that again either. I had to do it, so that I could learn, and so that I could see that I am capable of majorly fucking up (I have this problem where I try to be the perfect friend/girlfriend/daughter/sister, etc. and it does nothing but destroy me). But it was a lesson that came at a very, very high cost.

I've actually never been cheated on, so to speak. I was in an open relationship for a while, so I couldn't call it cheating, but I remember really hating the fact that he slept with other women. I've also been led on about what a particular situation I was in was really about- one of those, "I wasn't lying, I just wasn't telling you the whole truth" kind of things. It hurt me deeply, and I learned that I don't think it's right to shut off the part of ourselves that wants to love someone so much that we won't be with anyone else, because the thought of that person getting hurt is not worth any fuck in the world.

I certainly believe that love can end and that people want and fall in love with other people, and that there's merit in honoring those feelings. I also think that different couples can have different arrangements, and that with honesty and awareness, it's possible to create a relationship with rules that suit both people's wants and do not necessarily follow society's morality rules. I'm an advocate for honesty, all around. I much rather hear, "What we have might not be working, because I'm developing an interest in someone else," than live in the illusion that everything is okay and we're still in love and loyal to each other so as to avoid a conversation about someone's potential infidelities. I also believe in forgiveness and compassion. I don't think someone who cheats is a bad person, incapable of truly loving someone, or inhumane. I don't think someone who forgives a cheater is weak. We are all capable of hurting each other, and we are all capable of realizing it and overcoming it.

Over the course of all these lessons and mistakes, I've learned how I aspire to live: If I'm in love, I don't cheat. If an agreement is made that says we are exclusive, I honor it. I value loyalty and respect, even though I do not believe human beings are 100% monogamous by nature. I think our inner animals want to fuck all the time, and not just be with one partner.

But we're not just animals. We are humans with consciences, and we must honor that part of ourselves too.

The most beautiful thing about being a human being, I think, is the ability to care for others. Care so much that we take in their feelings before acting upon our desires. Cheating, in that respect, is a violation of our humanity. It says, "I am going to pretend not to care about another person's feelings. I'm going to do this even though it will hurt someone else, and then I'm either going to feel guilty about it, or I'm going to justify it until I feel nothing." There's nothing sadder than shutting off a part of ourselves so as to get away with or go through with something.

As humans, our ability to care for each other and empathize is what sets us apart from other species. Our awareness of each other's pains and our power to cause it or prevent it gives us an understanding of infidelity and lying that other creatures don't have. To dishonor this is to hurt our humanity and limit the possibilities we have for love and respect.

Although I feel quite clear about this, people are constantly presenting me with scenarios that seem to challenge my thoughts. In the end, nothing is black and white, wrong or right. But if we can be honest with each other, then I think that's a good place to start.

What do you think?

A Difficult Year

There should be a hand-book, complete with how-to dvd's and survival techniques, for a creative artist's first year out of school. There should also be support groups, massage therapists, and retreats, all free and unlimited, available throughout that first year.

Here is my story of my first year out of school, I share it in hopes that it may help others, and attract positive changes for me as well.

I'd been in school since the age of two, never taking a single year off, going straight from high-school to college, then from college to grad school. The idea was that I'd have acquired a Master's Degree by the age of 24 so that I could go off and be a movie-star and best-selling author by, say, age 29.

And so, a year ago, there I was, 23 years old, holding my M.F.A., excited as hell about the life that lay ahead of me. I was trained to the core and ready to go out and work. I could finally audition for everything, without worrying about it conflicting with my school schedule. I could be in plays and start working my way into the world of television and film. I could write. I could read books that were not school-related. I could spend two months in Italy if I wanted to. I could maybe get a touring show and travel around the United States doing theatre. I could do anything! The world was full of possibilities, and I was young enough and educated enough to take advantage of all of them.

I thought my first year out of school would be really empowering, glamorous, and freeing.

But, in reality, this past year has been really difficult, depressing, unexciting, and depriving. I did audition for everything, and it turned out to be a horrible experience almost every time- I haven't been to a single pleasant audition all year! I did one play, which was free and performed outdoors (not such a great idea in New York's humid summers). I did four student films, none of which I was particularly fulfilled by, and was an extra in Oliver Stone's next film (if you think that sounds glamorous, think again. Extras are like bus-boys: necessary but unappreciated, underpaid and unhappy). I tried to be in a showcase, and it got canceled. I tried to put together a film group with some friends, and it fell apart. I tried to put up a play on my own, but then I couldn't get the rights. I submitted myself to 100 agencies, and didn't get a single call. Since I wanted to spend the year focusing on my career, I didn't take on a regular job, which means I had no salary, which made things like traveling to Europe impossible.

Without structure of any kind, my days blended into each other, and I started sleeping until noon, eating irregularly, and spending a lot of time alone in my apartment. My enthusiasm for acting started to seep out of me, and soon I found myself in a heavy cloud of sadness and defeat. The shock of going from acting, learning, and being around actors every day to the exact opposite started to settle in- and it was ugly.

By the way, that whole "you'll stay in touch with who really matters after school" thing is a lie. It's very easy to lose touch with everyone, even the people you care for, when you're not seeing them every day, and when everyone is depressed and struggling. After the first few months went by, I was only seeing my best friends maybe once every two or three weeks.

I went home to Brazil around christmas time, since I hadn't been home in a year and had to get out of New York, away from my life, before I did anything stupid or got any fatter. I was actually so depressed in New York I thought I might move back to Brazil permanently, but after two months there I realized my life was in New York and I had to get back to it. I did get better while I was away though, I got to rest, I took an acting workshop that brought me back to life, I lost some weight, ate healthy food, traveled with my mom, and, in an effort to awaken a long-sleeping closeted writer, started this blog. I returned to New York with a lot of new, restored energy. I was ready to start auditioning again and keep on trying to be an actress.

But the story repeated itself.

And now, over the past month especially, I have felt the wave of depression wear over me. It's been stronger this time, strong enough to make me really consider giving up on acting, as some previous blog posts may have given away.

I'm so scared of that thought though, that I have been trying everything I can think of to overcome it. I started the workbook "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron, which is a great resource for struggling artists. I took a film-making for actors workshop and made my own little film, which really reconnected me to my deep, undying, beautiful love for acting. I started writing a play I'd been thinking about, and asked a friend to help me so that I would really do it, not just think about it. And I write here as often as inspiration hits me. I keep submitting myself for things, auditioning, hearing no's, or not hearing anything at all, and auditioning some more. I've also started looking for a paying job that might have something to do with writing. The truth is, I don't want to give up on acting, I'm just really tired of this business and scared of how it's deadening my soul- part of me thinks that maybe if I leave it now, at least I'll still preserve the part of me that still loves acting. The last thing I want is to become jaded, angry, and bitter about acting.

It's been a really hard year, and I think that anyone about to embark on their first year out of school should know just how hard it is. Maybe if I had known then I would've prepared myself a little. Painted a wall in my apartment bright pink to fight depression away. Made a schedule for myself that gave me some structure, every day, and involved physical exercise and some joy in it. Created realistic goals that I could actually achieve this year- maybe just get a call-back, instead of getting the part, or put up a reading of a play, instead of the whole play. Plan a day-trip to the beach instead of a long month-long trip to Europe.

I don't know if the year to come will be any easier, but I am hoping it will be different. Maybe I'll be a little more prepared now for the hard times. I did buy some bright colored shirts to break my all-black wardrobe, got a plant, and planned to do yoga regularly. And I've written a prayer, which I'll share here since this is one place where I connect with the world through creativity, and maybe someone else can use this prayer as well.

Dear Universe,

I ask for guidance and help with my career as an actress and writer.

May opportunities come my way, and may they feed my creative soul as well as further my career.

May I see the light and beauty in the harder times, and may I find truth in the moments of doubt.

I pray for strength, perseverance, opportunity, and joy.

I am grateful for my gifts, and I pray that I may express them to their full potential.

With love,

Larissa Dzegar

Rejection

Since I blogged about the traumatizing inhumane qualities of auditioning in my last post, I thought I'd blog about the outcome of that very audition.

I received a letter today, and my dad knew I was expecting it, so he called me when he saw that it had arrived. I was at a film shoot in brooklyn, and luckily got to go home shortly after he called me so I could open the letter without too many hours of anticipation.

In the 45-minute train-ride home I swear I aged some fifteen years. I comforted myself by noticing the details around me. One man looking over another man's shoulder to read his paper. A girl with a bright blue dress that made her skin seem so fair. A man with a black suit and a red tie, looking rather tired from his day yet refusing to take a seat. A woman with a long black skirt and cotton shoes that seemed too big for her feet. The details went by me, one by one, and finally, I was home.

My parents had gone out, so I was home alone. I held the letter in my hand for a while. I sat on the edge of my couch, near my cactus. The room looked pretty, with the sunlight coming in softly and all. I started feeling like I was about to experience something good, something wonderful, something magical.

I thought I had gotten it. I really did. I felt it in my gut. And my gut always feels so right.

But this time it was wrong.

The cold short distant letter started with, thank you but...

Do you know how exquisitely horrible it is to open a letter that rejects you from something you worked so hard for, for something that in some way defines your sense of worth?

It felt like getting punched so hard in the stomach that the blow actually broke my spine and the hand that threw the punch never got removed. I still feel that heavy hand in my insides, crushing my organs, holding on to my breath, smothering my dreams. If the experience of wanting something and having to go through a sort of animal parade to try and get it is bad- I'm referring to auditioning here- then the experience of not getting it after going though that is beyond any realistic description of awful.

I went for a walk. I needed to be alone but surrounded by people. I walked for a little while, then stopped at Barnes & Noble's when it started raining. I started texting and calling my friends. It was a cryfest. I spilled coffee all over my dress at one point, and found myself crying in the bathroom of Barnes & Noble's while throwing water on myself and getting soaked.

I felt pathetic, stupid, and worthless.

When I got home my parents were waiting for me. I had told them. I fell on my mother's lap and cried.

And then, slowly, I started breathing again. I ate something. I started putting things in perspective. Started telling myself the things we have to tell ourselves in order to survive these things, Everything happens for a reason. I'm better off. I didn't want it that bad. This doesn't mean as much as I'm making it mean. I'm not a worthless piece of shit. I can still act. It's ok. I'm gonna be ok.

These affirmations went on all day, amidst sobs and cries. They may have to go on for a few days, weeks, months. I will detach myself from the experience with time, look at it from a distance. And it won't seem so bad, perhaps.

But the experience of this rejection will always live within me, little as it may get. The words on that letter are inside me now, and though they may come to mean different things, I'll always remember what they meant and did to me today.

They took a little piece of me with them, and I can't get it back anymore. It may be one of the saddest things I've ever known.

Auditioning

I've been working on a theatre piece that is about auditioning, and have thus been going to auditions as kind of a detective, noticing everything that I feel and see during each experience. Today I had a major audition, the kind people prepare for intensely, and I myself had been preparing with my scene partner for several months. Here's what important auditions look like:

We, the actors, arrive extremely early. We've probably been up since before the sun came up that morning.

All around you, you see actors stretching out their tongues, expanding their rib cages, rolling down their spines, talking to imaginary people, listening to their ipods, etc. We are nervous, we are excited, we are scared, we are experiencing strange bowel movements.

There are uncomfortable chairs everywhere. Some sit, some stand. No one talks. If they do, it is in a whisper. There is an unspoken rule about respecting other people's space.

If any regular non-actor people walk in, everyone knows, because those people are never sensitive to what is going on around them and usually say something really loud and inappropriate. They are quickly escorted out. The actors are relieved, we do not want to remember that an outside world exists right now.

In most auditions, there are always the actors who don't care, or who pretend not to care, and are supposedly not nervous. They sit around reading novels or answering emails on their iphones. I didn't see any of those today. What we were doing was important, on some level, to everyone. The building itself demanded respect, and we complied.

In the twenty minutes before the audition, the pair about to go up gets some space alone. It is hard to talk about anything. Some prayers are said. Intellectually we could probably talk ourselves out of our nerves. We know this is not exactly a life-and-death situation. But only an actor knows what the minutes before an audition are like. Rational thought gets buried somewhere out in Kentucky and we are alone with our emotions. Even if we don't want what we're auditioning for that bad, we know one thing for sure: We do not want to fail. No actor is okay with sucking. No matter who or what it's for, we want to do well. We want to honor our character, our talent, our dream.

Someone comes in and tells us it's time. We are escorted to the room, which in today's case was a real theatre. Our hearts are pounding so hard we are certain everyone can hear it. We feel our stomachs wanting to run to the bathroom and get us out of there.

We walk on the stage, which is brightly lit. The "people in charge" are hidden in the darkness of the audience. We see only their silhouettes. They do not speak, they do not make a single noise. We wonder if they're real people out there.

And we begin, usually before we're actually ready to begin, because we don't think we'll ever be ready to begin, and we know we might throw up if we wait another second.

We do it. We either sink or fly, it's hard to tell. An audition is rarely our shining moment. We just accept whatever happens, we hope we didn't suck, we hope our talent came across, we hope we touched the people in the dark safe seats of the audience.

And then, as we exit, there is a sudden sense of loss. Months of work and preparation, hours of nerves and excitement, and it's all over in five minutes. We leave our darling characters, our precious work, our loud nerves, all behind. We are empty.

Maybe we go out for coffee after and talk about it. Maybe we just each go our separate ways. The rest of the day is a daze.

And then, we wait. Who knows for how long. We wait to know if we got it or not. It won't mean as much as the audition itself, usually. Sometimes though, it can feel like our lives depend on getting it.

There is nothing quite comparable to auditioning. As I write this I know that anyone who is not an actor can not understand it, and I search for a parallel, but can not find one. Maybe you can imagine wanting something really badly, and then being taken to court to prove how much you want it, and having to then stand in front of people you can't see and don't know who will judge whether you are worthy of it. And you only have five minutes. When the clock accuses 4:59 minutes, you can prepare yourself to hear a curt, "Thank you." And then you have to walk away, and wait for a letter to tell you if you met those people's expectations or not. I'm sure you're thinking "Only a crazy person would voluntarily choose this life!" Yes, well. We think that too.

I hate it when people tell me I have to develop a thick skin when it comes to auditioning. I have to detach myself from wanting it. I have to see how insignificant those five minutes are in comparison to what my whole career will look like in the end. Do they think I don't know that? It makes me want to laugh. As if I could flip a switch in my heart that makes me not care. As if it were possible to love this a little less.

As my friend Deema described it, after a day like today we feel like we've been hit by a truck. And, I added, peed on afterwards. How to cope? Well, I ate a tiramisu the size of my butt. Went to yoga. Took a long hot shower. Blogged about it. And now I'll go to bed.

And tomorrow I'll wake up feeling somewhat distant from the whole experience, have some coffee, and go about my day.

And when I'm ready, when I feel strong, or perhaps desperate, again, I'll submit myself for more auditions. It's what I do, after all.

And we wonder why actors are all crazy.

How Did That Happen?

Eleven years ago, on April 20th, 1999, I was a regular 8th grader, going about my business as usual, hopping from class to class, half-daydreaming, half-present. I expected nothing from that day, as I expected nothing from any day at school. I was certainly not prepared for the announcement I would hear at my algebra class right before lunch. A news report had just been distributed to all the teachers at my school, a news report so dreadful it paralyzed my otherwise perfectly-in-control-math-geek teacher. She stood before our class, not knowing how to deliver the news. We, even at 13, instinctively knew something was wrong. We sat in silence and waited. Finally, she started saying, "It seems like there was a mass..." and her voice started breaking. She took a deep breath and then started again, "There was a massacre at a high school in Colorado today. It looks like some students got some guns and... " Her voice trailed off again as her eyes got watery. The class was stunned into silence. We sat there and said nothing for a while. Then we started asking questions. We wanted to know everything. And once all the facts were given to us, we sat in silence again.

We were silent for days.

For some reason, it hit me really hard. I watched and read every news coverage on the story. The images and stories imprinted themselves in my heart. I had no connection to any of those kids or to that high school in Littleton, Colorado- I had never even been to Colorado- but I was deeply disturbed and forever changed by that tragedy. I searched- I am still searching- for the answer to the most-asked question, "How did that happen?" How did those young boys, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, with their whole lives ahead of them, get to the point of such despair that they decided to buy guns, walk into school with them one day, and shoot their classmates, then themselves. Twelve students and one teacher were killed, and many were injured permanently. I wanted to know who they were, I wanted to know how they had been raised, I wanted to know more about the culture they had grown up in and what their high-school experiences had been like. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to understand.

I sought to understand what I, or anyone else, could never really understand. But there was something about them that I did understand, and that I would grow to understand even more deeply as I had my own high-school experiences. I had good parents, I had a great relationship with my brother, I had friends, I went to a high school that provided counseling and support, and I had my love for theatre to get me through any rough teenage times. But I also understood what it was like to feel like you did not belong. I knew what it was like to know you would never be the most popular person in your high-school, not even close, and to have to pretend, every day, that you didn't care. I had friends, close good dear friends, but I knew what it was like to secretly wish I had more friends, which would mean that more people liked me. I knew what it was like to feel invisible, at home and at school, and to never feel like what was important to me was important to anyone in charge. I knew what it was like to be terribly, dreadfully, unbearably lonely. And I could imagine magnifying those circumstances: never feeling like I could talk to my own parents, living in a town where nothing ever happened, where maybe I wasn't even invited to uneventful basement parties, going to a school where there were no subjects that interested me in any capacity, having only one friend- and I'm sure the list could go on. And although I can't understand the boys murdering their classmates and then killing themselves, I can start to understand their need for a violent gesture, their need to be seen, and their deep, desperate need to get out of their lives.

I am still obsessed with the Columbine shootings. I can't even write about it right now without shaking. I can't do much about it, I can't even do much about understanding it and answering the question "How did that happen?". But I can remember it. And I do. Eleven years have gone by and most people don't think about it anymore. April 20th comes and goes. Columbine high-school was closed today, and a few articles were written. Some students there still think about it, still wonder, still go to school with ghosts. And the families of the murdered teenagers still remember this day when they lost a piece of themselves. I can't imagine what Eric and Dylan's parents do on this day, what they do with their lives, how they have managed to get on.

And I, who never had any connection to anyone at Columbine, spend my day thinking about it. Not only thinking about the tragedy and mourning the losses, but also still wondering what propelled it. Wondering who Eric and Dylan really were. Wondering if it really could have been prevented by simply making guns less available, or some other explanation that was thrown at us by the media. Wondering who's to blame. Wondering if we've learned from it. And lastly, wondering, perhaps forever and to no avail, how it happened.

April 20th, 2010. Columbine, your victims are remembered.

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