Thoughts on a Birthday

I usually don't like my birthday. I always cry, I'm hyper emotional, and I'm extra sensitive.

But this one, perhaps because I braced myself so hard against it, was a good one. I went to the beach on Saturday, had a blast, followed it with burgers and chocolate, then had brunch on Sunday, and today, the actual day of birthday, was pain and sob free. I was happy-- happy to go to work, happy to have dinner afterwards, happy to open gifts, happy to take the phone calls, happy to wear my new dress, happy to celebrate me. 

Maybe I've grown up. Maybe I got used to it. Maybe I'm actually okay with a day of being special now.

I don't have a deep emotional post to put up today, much as I expected I would. Things are suddenly very simple. All I wanted was to feel loved. I felt loved all weekend long, and all day today. Everything was okay, and I am somehow, 1 hour and 15 minutes away from the end of my birthday, still okay.

I am at peace.

I am happy.

Everything is just as it should be.

What can I say? ...

Happy Birthday to me!

The Mystery of Happiness

"How lucky we are, when we're spared what we think we want!"  - Lionel Shriver

I read that quote in Shriver's brilliant novel We Need to Talk About Kevin (the film is great as well, but the book is filled with gems), and it resonated with me so much that I wrote it down everywhere-- on notebooks, bathroom stalls, other people's phones, soles of shoes, and all social media platforms.

It put into words a powerful realization I had made about myself and my life but didn't know how to describe. I seem to have less and less certainty of what makes me happy, and I think that's a very good thing to come to terms with.

There were many things I thought would make me happy. 

I thought being thin would make me happy. I thought having small, perkier breasts would make me happy. I thought expensive bags would make me happy. I thought being a movie star would make me happy. I thought having a tall handsome boyfriend who would one day become my husband would make me happy. I thought being financially independent would make me happy. I thought having clear skin would make me happy. I thought not having stretch-marks or cellulite would make me happy. I thought being blonde would make me happy.

As I look at that list now, I see all those things I thought would make me happy were just that: ideas. Moreover, they were not tied to any real understanding of happiness, but rather to a deep need to belong. I would look around, see what made other people fit in and be cool, and label it as a recipe for happiness. If I have that, if I look like that, if I do that, if I own that, then I'll be happy.

I did get a lot of the things on that list. Others I gave up on. Either way, happiness didn't come automatically with the package. Yes, there was a great deal of satisfaction in losing weight and in being seen next to tall handsome boyfriends, but I wasn't happy. I placed my happiness outside of myself, not only in these external "achievements," but in other people seeing me as good enough to have them.

It's comfortable to do what is believed to make us happy. Everyone is relieved when I'm thin, clear-skinned, financially independent, and next to a tall handsome man. Those are the things I'm supposed to want and, for long enough, they were exactly what I wanted. But it takes effort to maintain the illusion. One day you eat a cupcake, you get a pimple, you lose your job, your boyfriend bores you, and you wonder if it's possible that happiness lives in things that are inherently transitory.

In realizing this, I have felt both confused and clear. I look at myself, my life, my goals, and my dreams with new eyes. Is this really what I want, or is it what I think I want? Do I ever know what I want, or do I only ever get to know for certain what I don't want after I've had it? 
 
I always had clear pictures of my ideal future: married (to a tall handsome man), with children of my own, and traveling the world starring in movies and acting in plays. Now, those pictures are blurry. I don't want these things "in general" anymore. I still want them, but only if it feels like it's right for me when it happens, and not because they fit into this pretty picture that makes me, and everyone else, more comfortable.

Maybe I'll fall in love with a short chubby hairy man. Maybe I'll be a teacher and act in plays for free for a long time and it'll be okay. Maybe I'll live in a suburb. Maybe I'll have straw handbags. Maybe my boobs will sag and it won't be so bad. Maybe I'll gain five pounds instead of losing the always-goal ten. Maybe I'll stop getting pimples and start getting wrinkles and I'll miss my pimples. Maybe I'll adopt four Vietnamese girls and fall desperately in love with them. Maybe I'll be a single mom. Maybe I'll have three marriages. Maybe I'll make a big movie and miss acting in little plays. Maybe I'll shave my head. Maybe I'll be single for years. Who knows.

Whatever it is that I don't know I want, I am now open to it more than ever before, and I am so excited to live.

Image from here.

Have you been spared what you thought you wanted and now see how lucky you were?

The Smart Girl Act

I know a lot of big fancy words. I'm articulate and I have a knack for language. I am educated and full of degrees. I know how to be The Smart Girl. It's easy, comfortable, and keeps people at just enough of a distance while maintaining their admiration. Also, I love the sound of my voice saying smart things. I picked up the act and perfected it as soon as I figured out I wouldn't succeed at The Hot Girl Act.

In high-school, I wished that I could be hot and popular. But I'm not a disciplined person, contrary to popular belief, and unless blessed with the thin-no-matter-what genes, hotness takes work. I don't know how to control my cravings and I don't like exercising. I like to eat, and I like to eat bad food, and I'd sooner get liposuction than spend 45 minutes a day doing crunches. It's not that I'm not hot (I wasn't in high-school, but I grew into some degrees of it later), it's that I don't know how to carry myself with ease as a Hot Girl. I am too awkward, too insecure, and too self-aware. When someone thinks I'm hot, I smile cutely and try to hide that I'm waiting for them to discover that I'm really not.

Now, read a book, write an essay, and discuss a topic-- those are things I can do. To the point of bordering (frequently) on arrogance, I love knowing what I'm talking about and impressing people with how well I can phrase it.

As my title suggests, however, it is an act. The Smart Girl Act is a pose, a performance, and a deflection of who I really am. I know it is, because I can see it when it comes out. My voice kind of changes, I have these strange gestures that make me feel more like an intellectual, and I interrupt people frequently because what I have to say is certainly smarter. I often sound like a pompous ass, and I can hear it. But I can't stop it; as soon as the desire to be liked comes up for me (and it comes up all the time), I bring out The Smart Girl. It's my safety net: if nothing else, they'll admire me for being smart.

I am not that arrogant on the inside. Within, I am simply begging people to like me. I am waiting for someone to love me enough to see through the wordy exterior. And though I can say a lot of things and sound really good saying them, I hardly care to be the smartest person in a room. I do plenty of stupid things, so why bother to present such a polished mind? I just don't know what else to do.

I am learning, at least, to observe it in action. Oh look at me now, showing off that I read that really long book full of big hard words... And, sometimes, I remember to take a breath and stop talking. Just be, and be myself, without forcing upon others my idea about who I am. It's hard, and I'm not fully succeeding yet, but a habit takes time to break. Little by little, I hope to shed the inauthentic Smart Girl Act and trust that I can be liked without it.

Tough stuff...

Anyone else got an act?

Roar

I teach little kids, and the theme this week was a lion. A small child's first response to "We're lions!" is to roar. I have to roar too, but they are better at it than me. This is a precious time for them. It's before most of them will be punished into politeness, before You can watch TV if you stop screaming, and before their voices get tucked away for good. For now, they are rewarded for roaring. The bigger the roar, the better.

I was a shy child. If I had been my student, I likely would not have roared. I would have sat quietly in a corner and daydreamed myself into a different world, where no one ever made me do anything I didn't want to do. But that doesn't mean I didn't have a roar in me.

The first time I roared, I was nine, and I did it right at my mother. I was angry that she didn't let me sleep over at a friend's house, and while I would normally have quietly complied, my friend instructed me to at least put up a good fight, otherwise I would never be able to do anything I wanted. Your mother can't control you forever, she said. It was a new concept for me, and it gave me the courage to tread on uncharted territory: standing up for myself. I didn't throw a tantrum, but I stood my ground and used a voice I had not used ever before; a loud, demanding, unapologetic voice that sounded much like a roar. What will you do when I'm an adult? Keep me at home? You can't! You can't just not let me do things that everyone else does! I repeated what my friend had instructed me to say. I was using logic, but I was also being vocally fierce.

My mother thought her daughter had been abducted. She literally said, "This is not the daughter I know." I was afraid of my mother. The mildest misbehavior usually lead to being severely reprimanded, and I was a very sensitive child. I couldn't stand to be yelled at. But on that day, I was brave. And she did not scream back at me or punish me. She was in shock. She really did not know the child who stood before her. I, too, was being introduced to this part of myself for the first time. 

The next time I wanted to sleep over at a friend's house, she let me. 

Her reaction was the one most of my family members and teachers would have had. The Larissa they knew, the Larissa my mother raised, did not roar. She was not a lot of work. She was the good child. Polite, delicate, graceful, compliant, diplomatic, and sweet. My brother was "the terrorist." I was the saint. It was a role I was comfortable in, one of general invisibility and obedience.

But no child, no human being, is all terrorist or all saint. I had a roar in me and, from time to time, I would let it out and shock the people who knew me best. For the most part, no one was comfortable with this.

When I was 21, my dad and I were having an argument, and I started to roar. He interrupted me and said, "We're not going to talk anymore. We'll talk again when you calm down." I had a realization at that moment and burst into tears. I roared even louder, "NO! You will talk to me NOW. You don't get to choose to only talk to me when I'm calm! You have to deal with me NOW too, when I'm frantic and upset!"

As an adult, I was able to demand that my not-so-polite self be not only listened to, but loved. No one, not even my father, was going to get away with loving only the pleasant part of me anymore. You don't get the kitten unless you can accept the lioness that comes along with her. I had set my ultimatum.

It would, naturally, echo in other relationships as well, outside of family. At first, I didn't want anyone to fall in love with the good girl before they knew the bad girl. This extended to friendships as well as romantic relationships. No one was allowed to know that I wanted a monogamous committed relationship until they could accept and love the part of me that wanted to have sex on a first date.

It is a real challenge to find the balance between the gentle kitten and the roaring lioness. But if I ever try to repress one of them so that the other may flourish, it acts out when I least expect (and want) it to. Be the sweet, loving, kind girl for too long and a monster will come out. Similarly, roar and scratch for long enough and the desire to marry and have children starts to seep out of my pores. Despite my best efforts, I cannot keep either one silent for very long. If I listen to both parts of myself and let them out, then I am free. If not, I am a slave to the one I do not bring forth. That which you do not bring to the light will destroy you, we learned when we did shadow work at school. True words indeed.

Luckily, I have really come to love both of these creatures I can be. As I roared with my young students this week, with whom I have to be infinitely patient and kind, I felt my docility co-existing with my recklessness. ROAR and out came the lioness, followed by the sweet kitten, That's right boys and girls! Great job! I loved that I had both qualities in me, and that they could both serve me simultaneously and balance each other out.

I am grateful to that friend who, 17 years ago, encouraged me to find that first roar. I am so proud of my nine-year-old self who stood up for herself and kept on doing so, even though it was scary and didn't always please other people. I am also grateful for the well-behaved little girl in me who survived by going unnoticed for a long time, and who holds on to my sweetness, grace, and good manners.

And the lesson has been learned: inside every lioness is a kitten, and inside every kitten is the potential for a roar.

I think I look pretty good roaring.

That Damn Week of Positivity...

I am officially one week late on my follow-up post for my week of Extreme Positivity. (And I know you've been checking, because I check my google stats, even when I'm not blogging.) So I'm sorry.

In short, my week of Extreme Positivity was hard and I didn't like it, and I didn't want that to be how I started this blog post.

For a week, I wrote and re-wrote this post, trying to find a positive authentic spin on my positivity challenge. At heart, I want to- no, I live to- inspire. Whether on stage, over coffee with friends, in writing, or on my yoga mat, I find nothing more gratifying than to have fostered a reaction in another human being that reads, You have touched me.

But I have learned that when I try to force that reaction, I come off as arrogant. My audience shuts down. And I feel the one thing I absolutely cannot stand to feel: inauthentic. 

My week of extreme positivity left me, mostly, unchanged and uninspired. Not that I massively failed at it- no, I had my happy thoughts, my mantras, my good actions, and so forth. I did what I had to do. I smiled and heard my happy music and went to yoga and ate beautiful food and so forth. I focused on the good stuff, even as I was sweating through a fever one night and coughing up my rib cage.

But I didn't like it, and I didn't feel that rush of joy I was hoping to feel. There wasn't a major a-ha moment. And I kept lying to people about it. They'd ask me how my week of positivity was going and I'd, say, "Great!" Because what else could I say? I was being positive.

It's not like I learned nothing, though. I made a few discoveries that felt meaningful and changed my behavior:
- Wit is not often positive. My presence on social media, therefore, suffered from this week.
- Avoiding that which will cause a negative thought is not as hard as it seems. Don't drink as much the night before. Don't take the subway during rush hour. Don't let the dishes pile up. Etc.
- It is possible to catch most thoughts, if you set your mind to it, and shift them from complaints to gratitude. I can't believe they've blocked off this road for construction turns into I'm so grateful there are a dozen men and women willing to work outdoors in the cold in order to ensure proper roads for me. 

I wouldn't say it was useless, no. But it felt like a lot of effort with a side of fake. And it felt somewhat robotic. I am a fan of impulses and reactions- it is one of the reasons I mostly fail at enlightenment- so the week felt like being in an awful lot of control. Not my strength, to be honest.

It was, after all, an experiment. And while I like succeeding and I especially like major breakthroughs, I know I cannot force change or growth, and I am better off looking at things for what they are. There is always some benefit for me in setting up something difficult for myself, and there's always a lot to learn from that which I don't like doing, so I can appreciate it in that sense. But, overall, it was harder than I thought it would be, and the pay-off seemed much smaller than the bargain.

I hope this isn't too disappointing or uninspiring. Several people told me they might want to try it themselves, and I do encourage you to do so. People are different, and this may be a much, much better plan for someone else. And I may do it again myself at some point. I am a different person every day, and positivity will have a different effect on me every time I take it on.

My best advice from this is, take it one step at a time. One thought, one breath, one moment. Positivity, I found, is most comfortable in the present.

Challenge: One Week of Extreme Positivity

I am good at complaining. I play a really good victim. I can make most people feel sorry for me. Ask my ex-boyfriends.

This coming week, my brain already has its favorite complaints ready to shoot out and paint everything a nice dark shade of super-victim...
 
I'm sick. It's tech week. I'm not getting enough sleep. I'm working too hard. I don't get a day off. It's cold. I haven't worked out lately and I feel fat. It's Valentine's Day and I don't have a valentine and I feel old at 26 and my mother wants grandchildren yesterday and my heart is just exploding it's so ready to love so where is he???

It's exhausting.

So, I've proposed a challenge for myself: One Week of Extreme Positivity. (I was going to call it One Week of Not Complaining, but I didn't want a negative in my title). For this week, starting tomorrow, February 13th, I will practice Extreme Positivity. No complaints. No victim act. I will welcome smiles, compassion, gratitude, joy, and love.

Am I planning to just Pollyanna it out? Put on the Mormon smile and let my complaints fester within?

Not exactly, but sort of. I never thought it was healthy to not complain at all. I believe in balance. One must let out the steam. My problem lies in unconsciously shading most situations with, Oh, poor me. The idea is to bring awareness to my mind's fiercest habit and to encourage some, Oh, lucky me!, even in the unlikeliest of circumstances.

Sally Hawkins as Poppy

I loved the movie Happy-Go-Lucky. Sally Hawkins charmed me as Poppy, a somewhat modern, realistic, and accessible grown-up Pollyanna. I remember radiating with positivity all day after I saw that film. My goal this week is to maintain that feeling for a week. Look on the bright side, see the glass as half-full, and make some lemonade out of life's lemons!

How am I going to do it?

I have a plan:

- I've set up my phone to send me reminders 5 times a day along the lines of, "Practice positivity," "Love today," "Breathe in happiness," "Find gratitude."

- I wrote it on my planner: Focus on the good stuff!

- I have dug up the articles of clothing I own that are not black or gray. I think wearing some pink and yellow might help me remember to spread smiles!

- I have set aside five minutes every day for the deliberate contemplation of extremely good thoughts.

I think Lynda Carter would be proud.

- What's the opposite of a victim? My guess is a bully or a hero. Let's go with hero for this week. Wonder Woman is my screen saver for the week.

- I made a play list called Happy Songs. They will start off my day, every day this week.

- I will make a gratitude list at the end of each day.

- Baking makes me super happy, so I'm gathering my favorite recipes and will try to bake at least twice this week. Happy homes smell like chocolate ganache cupcakes as far as I'm concerned!

- Find time for some kind of exercise. It totally helps my mood, whether it's going to the gym, yoga, or taking a dance class. So, this week, even if it's just for 20 minutes, I'm committed to exercising at least four days out of the week.

- Keep a record of how I'm doing throughout each day.

Those are my initial plans. I may come up with or discover more. I do expect that complaining thoughts will still come up, but I am hopeful that I can keep them in check. Even in writing this, I am already feeling an abundance of warmth and joy. I am actually really excited about this- I love setting up time lines for challenges and coming up with a plan for executing them. It makes them seem so much more attainable.

So, here I go! One week of Extreme Positivity! Check back in a week, folks, and feel free to share with me any ideas you have on sustaining positivity!

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 Artist's Way

Child Artist- image from here

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

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

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

The Ladies of Leading Ladies

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm glowing.

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

Summer

Summer crept into New York City this week- hot, muggy, humid city summer. It burst into my apartment when I opened the window in the morning, it found its way under my shirt as I walked around, and it manhandled my hair throughout the day. And how I loved it! How precious skin looks to me now, after so many months of nothing but noses and fingertips being exposed. The sudden freedom of flip-flops instead of heavy boots, the lightness of shorts instead of tights and pants, the comfort of sweat instead of frostbite; all these are things I am able to appreciate now.

And it seems so clear why summer births romances. Of course it does! There are people outside, sitting on steps, having ice-cream, watching each other, aware of all this sudden skin and heat and desire. Bodies are warm, and so are hearts, and everyone knows it. There will be outdoor movies, concerts in the parks, a full farmer's market, streets crowded with tourists, and people everywhere.

I've always felt winter makes me older; less enthusiastic and more guarded. Summer, on the other hand, seems to bring out my youth and encourage my openness. It's easier to talk to people, it's more fun to walk around, it's full of mischief and leisure. I am reminded of the day before I went on summer vacation at the end of 8th grade, when a girl in my class remarked, "See you in a few months, when we will be changed!" I asked her what she meant, and she said, rather effortlessly, "People change over the summer." I never forgot that, as I saw it establish itself as a truth in my life every year. Every summer has always brought new things into my life, and a new part of myself comes forth.

Yes, summer is here, a new season, a new opportunity to grow. It is warmer, the air is buzzing with desire, and I am lighter. Lighter, but also excited and alive. My passion for life oozes out of me (this is, by far, my favorite euphemism for sweat, feel free to steal it), and I feel ready for anything and everything.

Here we go, summer. I can't wait to see myself in a few months...