Marina

Best Friend

Sister

Artist

Idol



Warrior

Lover

Maker

Creator



Divine

Angel

Queen

Butterfly


Marina

Happy Birthday to my best, oldest, and dearest friend, Marina. Words don't do us justice; we are all that friendship has ever wanted and was ever meant to be. I love you I love you I love you, with all of my heart.

Te amo, abu amore mio, hoje e sempre.

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.

Ideal Childhood

I'm allowed draw and paint all over the walls.


I eat rice with ketchup as often as I want. 


I never have to get out of my abandoned princess orphan costume.


I scream and cry. 


The word "lady" never enters my vocabulary. 


The playroom looks like a room children play in, instead of a room well-behaved children never make a mess in. 


My family always wants to see my homemade plays. 


I am allowed to collect rolly-polly's. 


I don't have to brush my hair, ever. 


I can play with cars too. 


Barbie never makes an appearance. 


Disney movies are banned. 


There's space for me to run around. 


I can rip the wrapping on presents. 


I don't have to speak up in class; I'm allowed to be quiet and shy. 


I sleep in a tent.


I am not careful with my clothes, they're inexpensive and they can get dirty and messed up. 


I am told that I am a beautiful little girl, and that I can have as many dreams, realistic or not, as I want.


We don't always get the childhoods we want and need; sometimes we have to give them to ourselves as adults. And, maybe, we can give a little bit of them to our children, if we're sensitive enough to know what they each need.

As the caretaker I wish I'd had to my Inner Child, I ask Little Larissa, What do you need today? If I can give it to her- to myself- I do. And so, all those impulses and dreams that were stifled long ago, begin to live again...

There's nothing as touching and sweet as a happy child who's allowed to dream, I think.

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.

The Koala Within

Children tend to have an obsession with a certain animal, and I believe these obsessions are very telling. My brother was a snake lover, my cousin a monkey lover, and I was always a koala lover. I do not think we chose these animals to be our favorites, I think they chose us.

The snake chose my brother, in my opinion, because it matched the aggression he was mostly forced to repress. Its unpredictable, deadly nature inspires respect and fear, granting the snake a power I think my brother craved as a child. The words I would use to describe a snake are applicable when describing my brother too: powerful, musical in movement, regal, sensual, calculating, and hypnotizing.

The monkey chose my cousin because its adventurous, silly, and mischievous nature gave her a sense of freedom. A serious child with an old soul, I think the monkey came to her to provide playful relief and an outlet for child-like recklessness. I would describe a monkey as artful, sly, smart, sportive, tricky, warm, and lighthearted- adjectives fitting for my cousin as well.

The koala chose me, I think, because its warmth and love were the things I could most easily give to others, as well as what I wanted most. The clingy, pacifist, protective almost-bear is so much like me I am sure I was one in a previous life. I was very little when someone gave me a book about koalas, and though I had never seen one, I immediately fell in love. I collected every image of a koala I could find, and I had no doubt I would one day meet one in person and it would love me as much as I had loved it my whole life.

My dad had an Australian friend who once gave me a key-chain that had a tiny stuffed koala hanging from it, and you could open up its little arms and make it cling to anything. That little koala was my favorite thing in the whole world. I loved it, and I wanted to be it. I wanted to be able to hold on to people and things like that and not be told I was being too needy and greedy. That little koala's ability to clasp onto people and things resonated with me as pure love, and, because it was so very cute, it was always loved in return and allowed to stay.

When I was about 15 or 16, my family took me on a trip to Australia and New Zealand. Of all the beautiful and interesting things I saw, the moment I remember most was when we went to a place where they let us hold a koala. I knew that koalas actually didn't like to be handled, so I felt my heart break as it was passed on to people who were undeserving of its love. None of those people loved koalas like I did, and so their upsetting that gentle animal was pointless and cruel. I wouldn't have held it either, because the poor thing looked like it wasn't enjoying the activity at all, but when my turn came, I couldn't help myself. I felt like I was meeting my long lost child and an estranged parent at the same time. In the 45 seconds that I got to hold it, I gave it all the love I had inside me. I didn't care that it smelled strange and dug its claws into my arms- I was meeting a part of myself I'd only ever fantasized about, and I was elated.

When I need comfort or am going through something difficult, my favorite thing to wear is still something fuzzy and gray. When I love someone very much, I embrace them, clasp my hands onto their arms, lay my head on their chest or shoulder, close my eyes, and give them my best koala hug.

My koala-love is part of my nature, as I see it, and I can learn from it. The detached, cynical, fast-paced adult I've become needs my koala self from time to time too. When there's no one around to give me a koala's love, I have to give it to myself. We are chosen by certain animals so that we can stay in touch with the parts of ourselves we repress and with the things we crave the most. It's important to listen to them and find ways to let them live.

I will always have a lot of love for the koala- the kind of possessive, maternal, stubborn, quiet yet unrelenting love that only a koala can understand. And I will always believe I am loved in return by the koala I have within.



Image from here.

Sense Memory

Sense Memory is the use of the senses to re-create people, places, smells, tastes, songs, physical conditions, etc., in order to get in touch with a character's reality. For example, if what my character needs in a scene/play is to be loved by the other character, but on that day I am not naturally in touch with that need, I might sensorially create a person from my life that evokes in me the need to be loved. I would then go on stage with that need awakened in me, and hopefully the scene would work- meaning, it would be real. By these standards, a scene works and is real when the need in the actor is as real as the need in the character. It is one of the main tools of Method Acting, used for decades upon decades in the training of actors. The reason this works is because the brain can not differentiate between the experience and the memory of the experience. I studied at The Actors Studio, where Method Acting got its name, so even if I don't always use it, the technique lives in my body. If your heart is open, it only takes about three seconds for a memory to burst out and take over your whole being. Here are some memorable experiences in my life that I often re-create with the use of sense memory, or that have been enhanced because of my training in sense memory.

Smell:

I walk past a store that is being thoroughly cleaned, and there is a strong smell of chlorine. Immediately, I am transported back to my eleven years as a swimmer. The specificity is such that I can feel my wet bathing suit on my body and the blue slippery tiles beneath my feet. The smell of chlorine in my hair during those years was practically permanent, and my skin was always really dry. Competing was always agonizing for me. I only won a gold medal once. And the day I did, I remember feeling outside my body, like someone else was moving through me, because I couldn't possibly have been going so fast. I breathed only once, and when I got out of the pool I was shaking. I heard my name in the loudspeaker, "Larissa Dzegar- Gold Medal!" and I heard my whole family scream from the bleachers. They put me on those steps- it was the first time I ever stood on the tallest step in the middle, and I had to bend down so they could put the medal around my neck. When they were done recognizing us, I got off the step, knelt by the pool, dipped my medal in the water, and kissed the floor, inhaling a big strong whiff of chlorine and whispering, "Whoever you are, God, I know you exist."

Sight:

I'm walking around and someone walks past me who looks just like Him. The one who took my heart before I knew how to protect it. The one I don't think about anymore and don't look up on facebook for fear of his status saying, "Married". The one who taught me about love and then taught me even more about heartbreak. The one by which all others are compared. Him. I do a double-take, realize it's not him, but I am paralyzed on the sidewalk with grumpy new yorkers telling me to "move out of the fucking way", and all I can hear are my thoughts- the ones I didn't think I'd have anymore- Where did you go, my darling boy? Where did life take you? Where did that time of innocence and sweet love go? Do those teenagers kissing under the stars still exist in us? Did your heart grow colder, like mine, or are you still the boy who told me he was falling in love with me every day? How many other women have you loved? Am I, too, the one by which all others are compared? Does my memory creep up on you too, and take you back to a time when all we knew was the purity of our young love? When we thought we could be together forever? Does your heart still break a little, like mine, when the memory of me creeps up on you? Does that boy still belong to me, like he told me he would, no matter where life took us?

Eventually, the thoughts stop, I do move, and somehow my body just knows to walk to the ATM and get money because I'm going to need two things immediately: something fattening, and something overpriced.

Sound:

It's someone's birthday and I'm at a dance party. It's hot and sweaty and fun. And then someone decides it'll be funny to put on really cheesy 90's music. Lo and behold, "Everybody" by The Backstreet Boys goes on. Flashback to 7th grade. My friend Duna calls me one night and says, "Hey, I'm doing a dance for the Talent Show with Manu and Steph and Tiff. Wanna join us?" I say yes. I don't really know Manu or Tiff that well, and I'm not even that close to Duna, but I love the spotlight, and being in a talent show is exactly the kind of thing I am known to sign up for. Plus, I don't have that many friends. This could be good for my social life. We rehearse over a hundred hours. We buy matching outfits. We diet. We want to be hot for the show. We contemplate being bulimic for a while. We discard that idea. The day of the show comes. We are nervous as hell. This could be awesome, or it could be the end of our social lives. We go up with our kick-ass dance for "Everybody", and it's the most fun I've ever had in my life. Not only does the audience love us (and hey- a middle school audience is not easy to win over) but the five of us become best friends, referring to ourselves as the "BSG's" and creating a bond that helps all of us survive those brutal years of adolescence.

Taste:

It's my first semester in college and I am not so happy. Sometimes, I'm downright depressed. I'm 18 and an ocean away from my home. It's cold. I have to write papers on things I don't really understand. I am struggling to get cast in plays. I do not have a boyfriend and there are hardly any boys at Sarah Lawrence. The only boy I kind of liked is now dating my suite-mate, who is blonde and really skinny, which just makes me feel like shit. I smoke pot occasionally and it just makes things worse. I keep a bottle of tequila next to my bed. Things are just. not. good. But I have a friend. A dear, sweet, lovely friend. Maria. And she notices that something is not well with me. And one day (actually, she does it many times, but I remember the first time especially), she brings me chocolate milk. It's my favorite thing in the world. And when someone brings it to me, I am reminded of my mother, picking my brother and I up from school, bringing us a snack of chocolate milk and "bisnaguinhas". I feel loved and cared for. I feel less alone. The taste is so comforting, I drink the whole thing in one gulp. I hug my Maria. She becomes my friend for life, and the taste of chocolate milk makes itself my go-to comfort beverage forever.

Touch:

My paternal Grandmother, also called Maria, or Baba to me, died when I was 7. She was my idol and the most beautiful woman in the world. She let me put make-up on her and would always tell me I made her look more beautiful, even when I had just put lipstick on her eyebrows. She called me "Larinshka". I am named Larissa, in fact, because that was supposed to be her name, but her mother had such a difficult birth that she prayed to the virgin Mary for her child to be okay- and when my grandmother came out okay, she was named Maria in a gesture of gratitude. I loved her so dearly, and was always so sad that I got to spend such little time with her. When I graduate from college, my aunt flies in from L.A. and celebrates the occasion with me. She gives me a box. I open it carefully- it looks precious- and in it is one of Baba's most beautiful rings, containing her birth stone. I put it on my ring finger. It fits perfectly. I stare at my hand. It looks just like her hand. Long bony fingers, big fingernails, small wrists. The hand that held my own little one so many times to cross the street and go buy popsicles without my mother knowing. She is still with me, and I can feel her touch every time I wear the ring.

Leaving

leave —Synonyms
1, 2. abandon, forsake, desert; relinquish. 9. forbear, renounce.10.

ignore, forget. 11. bequeath, will; devise, transmit.

(www.dictionary.com)

I thought today about the day I left Brazil to move to the U.S. for college. I had only packed two suitcases. I didn't want a lot of things. I was ready to leave. I was eager for change. I had been in a relationship for a year that had worn me out completely and had resulted in some strains with friends and family members when it ended badly on account of an infidelity on my part. I was tired of Brazil's sexism, danger, and lack of support for the arts. I had been in the same school for 14 years and I had never lived anywhere else. I wanted to get away, I wanted new friends, I wanted to act, I wanted my own life. With all this in mind, I thought it would be easy to leave.

When my dad said, "Ok, time to go to the airport," I ran to my room to get my bags. And then, as I looked at the room I had grown up in, with its purple pillows and white clouds painted on the blue ceiling, an understanding of what I was about to lose started to dawn on me. I took a deep breath and turned away from my room, not quite willing to get sad, but then saw the living room, with the big blue couch that my brother, my cousins, and I had sat on to watch movies thousands of times, always arguing for half an hour before deciding which film would win that day. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the guest room, where my brother and I slept (we each had our own rooms, but we liked to stay together at night, so we slept in the guest room because it had two beds and less mosquitos- I know, it's the cutest thing in the world). I couldn't fight the sadness away anymore, and I stood there for a few minutes taking it all in, and then my dad called me and said we had to go, so I whispered, "Good Bye" to my home, ran down the stairs and out the front door.

I sat in the car with my parents and my brother, my aunt and cousins in the car behind us, watching my city go by a little at a time, struggling with these feelings I hadn't expected to have.

The next thing I knew I was getting ready to board and was saying good bye to my family. I looked at my darling cousins, Ga and Toca, whom I had spent my life with, and as I hugged them I felt a part of myself being left behind. Then, I looked at my brother. My best friend and my favorite person in the world. What would Ferret do without her Waldo? We were two pieces that made a whole, we were Bu and Zu, Ferret and Waldo, La and Sa. I fell apart, and so did he. As we hugged and cried, and our whole family around us cried as well, we knew we were losing a part of our hearts. I touched my nose to his nose and said, "I love you little one". I turned around, my parents and I boarded, and I looked back only once, to wave good-bye and see them there, standing and waving, watching me go.

Snap. I felt my roots being cut from beneath my feet. I'd have to grow new roots now.

I cried the whole plane ride to New York. I had left my home and my family in a different continent. I wouldn't be there for their birthdays anymore, I wouldn't see them on the weekends for movies and milk-shakes, I wouldn't be near them when I was sick, I wouldn't hear my brother's voice before I went to bed every night, I wouldn't be able to share in their every-day lives, and, on a lighter note- but not that much lighter- I wouldn't be watching the World Cup in Brazil with my family and friends anymore.

My life was about to change, which was what I had thought I wanted.

Leaving Brazil was one of the hardest things I ever did. There was a loneliness that came with leaving that stayed with me ever since. Like a plant that has been moved from the earth on which it first grew, I have been able to grow new roots, but I have never forgotten where I came from and what my life was like then.

It's hard to leave home. It's hard to leave people. It's hard to leave our old selves. We are left a little bit more alone every time- making space for the new, but still knowing that in that space there used to something or someone else. I left that day knowing I would next return as a visitor in a place that held old memories but where I no longer created new ones.

Simpler Times

I went to Target in Brooklyn today, which, if you know me, is kind of unusual. What happened was I was walking down the street and I saw a girl with a really awesome yoga-mat-bag. So I went up to her and asked her where she got it, and she told me she got it at Target. I was like,There's a Target in New York??? Indeed, there is. And since I have been in search for the perfect yoga-mat-bag, I took a day trip to Brooklyn.

The trip there was kind of a disaster. First, I decided to take the N from Canal Street, so I went to Canal Street, which is kind of like walking into an arm-pit. Then I discovered that the N, that I had just walked 15 blocks to get to, was running local, and I could have just gotten it right in front of my building. Okay. Patience is a virtue. It's an adventure in search of a yoga-mat-bag, after all. So I got on the N that was making all the local stops and, by the looks of it, was being pushed manually along the tracks- I mean, it couldn't have been going any slower. Let's not forget that I was wearing shorts and a tank top, because it's hot enough to die outside, but inside the train it was Siberia, and I was soon trembling while sticking to the blue plastic seat that didn't get the memo that it was summer. Awesome. But then, I finally got to Atlantic-Pacific stop, one of the most horrible subway stations in New York- second only to Times Square, hopped off the ice-train-pulled-by-a-turtle, and was soon standing inside Target.

In my grouchy New York mood, I wasn't expecting to find what was waiting for me at that Target. As I walked past the giant Dorito bags and $5.00 jeans, an unexpected rush of memories bubbled up all around me. I saw myself at 7, running around with my brother looking for Twix bars and horror books on one of our many family vacations in the U.S. Let me explain: My parents liked to pick a country for us to go to over the summer, and then they'd rent a car, and we'd drive around rather aimlessly for a month, seeing the side of things "regular tourists didn't see". Several times, it was the United States, and we'd sleep at Holiday Inn's and stop by every Target and Wal-mart in sight, shopping for the good old American treats, be it in Oklahoma or Texas or Illinois.

I hadn't been inside a Target in a long time, but as I walked around today, it was instantly familiar. The long summers driving around with my family, usually in a mini-van, eating gas-station hot-dogs, looking out into the long roads, which always all looked the same to me, waiting to find the next Target so we could stop and run around looking for candy.

It can be really overwhelming to walk in somewhere that's filled with memories we left behind years ago and can't get back anymore, and soon enough I found myself trying on an outfit I would never buy just so I could sit in the dressing room for a few minutes and take it all in.

As I sat there in an orange polyester shirt and green shorts with sunflowers on them, I realized that what I was experiencing was a feeling of longing. Longing for a time when the four of us spent months on end together in a car, fighting and singing and eating until we couldn't take each other anymore. A time when my brother was simultaneously my best friend and the most annoying person in the world. A time when all I could think of was buying Diane Hoh's next horror book and then getting to a hotel where I could watch Nickelodeon.

Like so many childhood longings, this one was no different: I was longing for a time when things were simpler. I finally got out of the dressing room- and out of those scary clothes- and faced the store with all its ghosts, hoping I might find pieces of my childhood waiting for me around the corner.

It was weird- I was tall enough to reach the things I had to climb on my brother to try to get to before. And movies cost $20 more than they used to (they were also DVD's rather than VCR's...) Target was still Target, though. It was just a store.

What I started to realize was that Little Larissa and Simpler Times weren't hiding behind the plastic wine glasses, they were inside me. Target had just woken them up for me, reminded me of a few details I had forgotten, but their home was in me. It struck me that innocence and knowledge can live within us without canceling each other out, for our 7-year-old selves did not cease to exist when we got older. We added layers, but we still have the core. It seems rather obvious, but I, at least, tend to forget that my Inner Child didn't stay behind in the places where the memories were built- she's still inside me, and who I am now was built from her, not despite her.

They didn't have the yoga-mat-bags, by the way. So I bought a fairy costume for my cousin's daughter (maybe I was buying it for Little Larissa, but let's say I was buying it for my cousin's daughter). As I walked out of Target, I noticed there was a Chuck E. Cheese in the same building. Another day, maybe. Enough memories for one day, I thought, as I smiled, got back into the ice-train, and returned to my life as a 24-year-old in hectic grown-up Manhattan, feeling just a little bit closer to Simpler Times.

Little Larissa

The Wicked Pattern

The first time I fell in love I was about 6. I went to visit my aunt in L.A. one summer, and she had a friend, and that friend had kids, and one of those kids was my age, and that kid who was my age was a boy, and that boy was the most beautiful perfect thing I had ever seen in my short life, and within instants I knew he would be my husband.

His name was Jamie.

Since the only training I had been given in regards to love came from disney movies, I was certain that the feeling would be mutual and that we would kiss and live happily ever after. I don't remember how long we played for or what games we even played before I declared my undying love to him. I proceeded to close my eyes like they did in the movies and wait for him to kiss me. Well, no such thing happened. Instead, he ran like the wind. I obviously had no idea what was happening, so I tried following him around for a while, but he just kept running away from me. Eventually he went away for good, my summer vacation ended, I went back home to Brazil, and for the next three years littered every single paper I could find with Larissa loves Jamie encompassed by red hearts.

Since that was my first experience with love, it became my definition of love. And once we define how we believe something to be, it tends to happen just that way, over and over again, until many years later we find that we're in therapy wondering, over and over again, why we keep declaring our love to men who then proceed to run away, and why we then obsess over it for the next three years. Fascinating, isn't it. One would think we'd catch on to it sooner- I mean, really, how many times do we have to do something before we realize it's a destructive pattern and we're bringing it on ourselves???

So here I am, 18 years after Little Jamie, and if we do the math (I literally just got out a calculator to do the math), it would mean I went through this 6 more times. Well, guess what. I made a list (yes, I did), and there were 6 post-Jamie's in the past 18 years. Not as neatly, some didn't take up three years of my life (thank god), and I was a normal high-schooler who had a new crush every week and dated guys I didn't like and all that, but in the end, the pattern of declaring my love (or what I understood to be love at any given time) to a boy/man, watching him run away from me, and holding on to him for much-longer-than-would-be-understandable-afterwards repeated itself exactly 6 times in 18 years.

Now, I'm pretty obsessed with myself and my life. I've kept diaries since before I could spell the word diary. I write down everything I do, feel, see, hear, and think. I love therapy. I love anything called self-help. I'm an actress. And look, I started a blog, which is basically a structured diary for the public with an added analysis of whatever I write about. I even called it "LARISSA THINKS A LOT." You get the idea.

And yet. Somehow, I have only realized all of this right now. All these years, instead of asking myself, "Why am I wasting my time with someone who doesn't want my love?" and "Why am I not the one who runs away when he doesn't return my love," I always, repeatedly, asked myself, "Why doesn't he love me?" and, worse even, "What can I change about me so that he will love me?"

It feels really sad and pathetic to look back on all the time and love I wasted on people who didn't want it. But it also feels good to "catch it". It always feels pretty good to catch a pattern, actually. Catching it means I'm conscious of it, and being conscious of it means I now have a choice about it. I may not have a choice over who I love, or even how their rejection affects me, but I do see that I may have a choice over how I go about dealing with the situation.

So Jamie and his clan didn't want me and I tried and tried and tried to win their hearts anyway. Okay. Clearly, that didn't work out too well. And it took me 18 years to learn from the same mistake. At least I'm 24, not 74. I actually have time to do something about it.

I don't have a nice conclusion for this post, yet, since it's a new discovery and all, but I do hope that in the future I can blog about this again, and it may include some experiences with mutual, respectful love. And I can say this for now: I'm kicking this wicked little pattern out, and my heart is really excited about the possibility of letting someone in who can return its devotion, and then letting go of those who can't.

My Truth about My Lies

The first time I got really sick at school and had to be sent home I was in the second grade. I had a fever and got dismissed from school, which at first made me sad, until I got home and it turned out that being sick meant I could stay in bed all day watching cartoons with my mom by my side, who took care of me and gave me her full undivided attention. I registered that experience as feeling special. As soon as I returned to school the next day, healthier, I felt a deep desire to go back in time so I could have that feeling again. Since I couldn't go back in time, I figured out that I might be able to re-create that experience by being sick again. But I wasn't sick anymore, and I didn't know how to get sick. It took some planning, but a few weeks later, I went to my teacher and told her I had a stomach ache, the only illness I came up with that I could "fake". I was lying. It was the first time I ever lied to my teacher, and it may have been the first time I ever consciously lied to anyone. I was one of the best students in the class, so she didn't question me for a moment. She sent me to the nurse. The nurse, however, was used to children who wanted to go home to their mothers for the day, and told me I was fine. I could have given up then, but I was longing so desperately for that feeling of special again that I was willing to risk my credibility and reputation as an exemplary student. I went back to my teacher and told her the nurse didn't think I was sick but I still felt sick. My teacher actually got mad at the nurse, telling her that of all her students, I was the one who would never ever make up such a thing, and if I was claiming to be ill, it's because I was. I got sent home, and my teacher personally called my mom to tell her the story and to defend my honor. I had never lied to my mom either, so she believed the whole story. She actually seemed proud of me, proud of the fact that I was such a good, honest student that my teacher would take my word over the nurse's. I was put in bed and she sat beside me. All had worked out according to the plan. But the feeling of special wasn't as strong this time. There were new, overpowering feelings surfacing. I felt like a bad girl for lying, then I felt somewhat powerful for getting away with it, and then I felt endlessly scared that someone would find out I had lied. I had gotten what I wanted, a day in bed with cartoons and my mom at my side the whole time, but it didn't feel the same as the first time, when it was all genuine. Something had been accomplished, and something had been lost, though I couldn't quite figure out what those things were. However, I learned an important, very adult-like lesson: If other people think you're an honest person, you can get away with anything.

I would use that lesson to my benefit over and over again. It became one of the primary masks I would take on: The Honest Person Mask. I mastered the line, "How can you not believe me? Have I ever lied to you?" It would embed itself so deeply into my persona that when asked what one of my best qualities was during interviews I would automatically reply, "People always tell me I'm a very honest person."

Of course lying never felt completely "good". It was a way to survive. Since I couldn't simply demand things like, "I want to stay home with mom today instead of going to school and I want to be the center of her world", or- later- "I want to kiss other boys and not have to tell my boyfriend about it," and "I want to go to a rave without my parents knowing so I won't get in trouble," I had to come up with ways to get what I wanted, and those ways often involved, at the very least, some concealing of the truth. And, for the most part, there were never any major consequences either, other than internal ones that I wasn't mature enough to understand.

Then, one day, something new happened. I was in mid-conversation with a friend, talking about a guy I'd been involved with for a year, saying something along the lines of, "And he loves me. I know he does. Even though he doesn't say it," when my friend said, "Larissa. Stop it. Stop lying to yourself. You've been lying to yourself for a year. He doesn't love you. He doesn't want to be with you. You're going to waste your life telling yourself this lie." I was shocked. I hadn't noticed that I had gotten so good at lying that I had managed to lie, in a massive way, to myself. I wanted to be in a committed loving relationship with that guy, and since that wasn't the reality of the situation, I had thwarted the truth to fit my fantasies, and, as my friend pointed out, ended up wasting a year of my life with my own dishonesty.

Now, I know that women do that a lot. Women create whole relationships that never exist and deny mountains of feelings in order to believe they have something with someone when they actually don't, all because, well, we want to be loved and chosen. Blah blah blah. I'm not trying to say my experience was particularly unique, but it was a new realization for me at that time. I hadn't known the power I had to mess with the truth so that it suited what I wanted, nor had I ever been present to its real consequences in my life. It was as though at that moment, with my friend's words, I became aware of how little control I had over my ability to lie. Since it had become a way to get what I wanted, I hadn't really realized that I actually wasn't getting what I wanted, I was just making the circumstances look like what I wanted. When I lied to my teacher and the school nurse and my mom and pretended to be sick, I did get sent home, but I was seeking my mother's concern and attention, which were granted, but not to me- deep down I knew I was healthy, and so my mother's attention was actually being given to the lie I had portrayed, and that's why the experience didn't fulfill me. It looked like what I had wanted it to look like, so I figured it must be what I wanted it to be. But it wasn't. No matter how we set it up, even a lie that looks identical to the truth is not the truth.

It's like when you look at certain couples that are supposedly happily married. They live in a nice house, they have matching furniture, they have pictures on the walls where they're smiling, they have their set of activities and routines that they do together, etc., but something feels off. And it often is. They are playing house, acting out their parts, for whatever reasons (societal pressure or an unexpected pregnancy are popular ones), and so it all looks exactly like what happiness and matrimonial harmony tend to look like. But it's a lie, and everyone can feel it. And these lies are made of glass, it takes a lot of effort and specific organizing to keep it together, but one strong push and it will all shatter. Thus modern time's divorce rates.

As we say in Portuguese, "A lie has short legs," meaning it won't run very far, it will eventually get tired. I go so far as to say I think there are no inconsequential lies. No matter how it's justified or who it's protecting, it will do some kind of damage somewhere along the line, and it will never feel completely "good". A lie actually takes up space in our hearts and bodies, because we must then live with our knowledge that we have deceived someone, whereas the truth creates space. When I was telling myself that the aforementioned guy was in love with me and we were in a real committed relationship, I was carrying a lie in my heart, and it took a lot of effort and concentration to maintain it. As soon as I let go of it and told myself the truth, I had to deal with the pain, of course, but there was suddenly new space in my life- space for a truthful relationship. The simplicity of it surprised me- all the time that I was spending pretending that this guy loved me was time I could be spending with someone or in search of someone who actually would love me.

Of course, there's one dirty detail. The truth can be lonely. Once I chose to live by it, I broke up with that guy, and then I was single. I had no one to pretend to be with, which meant I had no one to be with. I was actually single for two years after that. And I'm not gonna lie (hah), it was lonely and it was hard. But you know what? Being with someone who didn't actually love me was also lonely and hard, and it was coming at a high cost. The payoff of honesty turned out to be the removal of inauthentic set-ups in my life that I had created in order to hide the empty space beneath it. I'll tell you what, though: that empty space, although sometimes lonely and hard, is real, and doesn't go away when we cover it up with lies. The only way to build upon that space in a way that creates more space is by living in truth and honesty. That is how we learn. That is how we grow. That is how we not only look alive, but feel alive, and our lives start to belong to us, rather than to our lies.

"The truth shall set you free."

Ten Years Ago, or Laly meets Larissa

Since my last post was about my vision of myself in 10 years, it has me thinking of who I was ten years ago as well, and what that version of me wanted me to become, and what she'd say to me now. I decided 14-year-old Larissa and 24-year-old Larissa should meet and have a talk, so I wrote it out, and I used my left hand to write out my younger self's dialogue, since writing with my left hand gets me out of my head and lets that younger me really express herself, and then I replied as myself now, with my right hand. I hope this isn't too confusing. Here it is. I'm calling 14-year-old me by Laly because that was my nickname then, and an appropriate description of who I was as well.

Larissa: Hi, Laly.

Laly: This is kind of odd, I have to say, Larissa.

Larissa: You must think I'm old.

Laly: No, I'm relieved that you don't have pimples and that you're so pretty!

Larissa: You're beautiful. You don't know it yet, but you are.

Laly: People say that all the time. I still wish I was blonde. What happened to your nose? And your boobs?

Larissa: Plastic surgery.

Laly: Oh. Wow. It looks great.

Larissa: It'll hurt.

Laly: I'm afraid of pain.

Larissa: That is still the case.

Laly: Are you an actress?

Larissa: Yes. I am.

Laly: I'm so happy to hear that!

Larissa: You've just played Ophelia, right?

Laly: Yes! Oh my god. I loved it!

Larissa: I know. I still love that memory. You will do a loooot of Shakespeare, honey.

Laly: That's so exciting. So, like, what else have you done?

Larissa: Well, you know that TV show that you're completely obsessed with, Inside The Actor's Studio?

Laly: Yes!

Larissa: Well, I'm just gonna say this: you're going to get a lot closer to it than just watching it on TV!

Laly: Oh my god. Ok. That's amazing. What else? Are you married?

Larissa: (laughs) No, darling. I'm not married. I forgot- you're not a feminist yet. Oh, you're in for a ride. But don't worry, you will love so deeply, and you will be loved just as deeply, and it'll be wonderful. And I'm only 24!

Laly: I think I'm in love now. With two guys.

Larissa: I know. You're going to break both of their hearts. It's ok. Enough people will break your heart later on to make up for it.

Laly: That sounds painful too.

Larissa: It's delicious pain. And it's gonna make you a much better actress.

Laly: Ok. I can live with that. It's really cool seeing you. You seem totally awesome.

Larissa: Hah. Yeah. It's really cool seeing you too. I had forgotten how in love with life you are, how eager you are. How in love with life I am, how eager I am, I should say.

Laly: Well, I'm here to remind you. Always. And can you come by more often to remind me that I'm gonna have clear skin one day and nice boobs and pretty hair?

Larissa: Of course. You won't listen. But I'll try my best. And you should eat more. Your metabolism is really good, eat as much as you want. Diet later in life.

Laly: I'll try to remember that. Oh, and remember that there's nothing more important than integrity in acting. Please don't give in to social pressures, ever.

Larissa: Ok. Thank you for saying that. It's hard, being unemployed most of the time, and wanting people to like you.

Laly: I bet. But we're gonna be ok. I think we're doing really well so far!

Larissa: We are.

Laly: Ok, I gotta go call one of my friends and tell them about this because it's like totally awesome.

Larissa: Go for it! I'm totally posting this on my blog, I think it's amazing to talk to you. Bye for now, darling.

Laly: Bye. Hey, by the way, I'm your biggest fan.

Larissa: I know. And I'm yours.

me at 14 with shahar

me now.

The World In My Head

I don't remember how old I was when I read "The Little Princess", but I remember it had a profound impact on me for the rest of my life. The protagonist, Sarah, was a rich girl who was sent to a boarding school that was strict as hell, but she brought the place to life with her imaginative stories, which the girls would gather to hear. When her father died in the war, however, Sarah became a servant at the boarding school. She survived life's sudden harshness by returning to her stories, by living in her imagination, by transporting herself far far away from her reality.

Luckily I was never sent to boarding school nor did my father die in a war, but certainly- like most people- I had to survive the events that, one by one, took childhood away from me. And after I read "The Little Princess", I became my own version of Sarah, living in my imagination as often as necessary. It didn't take much to send me there- I was an extremely sensitive child- and my mind soon had a world of its own.

In my head lived endless possibilities. When my parents fought- which was always and never nicely- I could go be the most beautiful girl in the world, a princess, who lived somewhere beautiful and safe, where I could walk through jungles with giant waterfalls and have pic-nics with koalas. When I would see starving children my own age begging for money on the streets of Sao Paulo, I could disappear and go to a ball where I could wear long romantic lilac gowns and have curls in my hair and satin gloves. When teachers lost their patience with my shyness, I didn't have to sit through a lecture about social skills, I could go off and run through vast green meadows while the wind gently hit my face. I could do anything. I could be anyone. It was intensely freeing.

I would say I lived in my imaginary world quite often, and I would say it served me well sometimes. But it also worked against me. I was so used to detaching myself from anything difficult that I didn't know how to be present anymore, even when I needed to be. I couldn't focus, it became difficult to study for tests, I felt like a bad friend most of the time because I didn't really know how to listen, and I didn't know how to sit through or with any kind of pain. If I had grown up in the U.S., I probably would have been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder and given drugs. I don't know if the drugs would have helped me though, because I was very attached to my imaginary world. But by the time I got to high school, I recognized it was getting in the way, and I was afraid I would soon be failing all my classes.

I went to an English teacher I kind of liked and told her of my "problem". I explained that my imagination would get the better of me, even in my favorite subjects, like English, and I couldn't bring myself back down to earth once I was off in lala land. She suggested that every time I start to drift off, I take out a notebook and write down where my thoughts were going as though I were writing a fiction story. I was a little disappointed to hear her say that- I was hoping she would just tell me I was normal and that it would pass. But I was desperate to find some solution before I simply failed out of school, and so I took on her idea.

You may have guessed what happened. The girl who lived inside her head brought her head to paper, and a writer was born. Journals upon journals were filled with stories, observations, images, poems, thoughts, essays, dreams and, ultimately, my pains. And once I had a place to put my thoughts, they started to get out of the way.

I still have a tendency to detach from anything painful, but I catch it quite quickly and try to breathe through it instead of run away from it. I still write things down though, but I don't have to, I can usually focus when I need to. I have learned that our painful experiences are our fuel. That which makes us feel weak in life can be our weapon in creative outlets. A paintbrush, a pen, a piano- those are all important tools, but without our life, without our pain, without our willingness to access it, we can not create.

I am really grateful to have had Sarah, that wonderful imaginative little princess, for helping a shy, overly-sensitive child find a world she could live in, then to have found the teacher who guided me towards my voice, and now to have the courage, every day, to face the reality of every moment, with a present mind and a working imagination. The World in my Head is not so much an escape now, but rather a way to understand reality and generate a creative force which gives me power, freedom, and presence.

Trapped Tears

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their Story

Inspired by the poem "I Go Back to May 1937" by Sharon Olds, which was quoted in the film "Into the Wild".

They are drinking and laughing.

They are beautiful and stupid.

They are unwrinkled and full of life.

They are horny and blind.

I want to pull her out of there by her hair,

I want to knock him unconscious,

before they make a fatal mistake.

I want to yell No!

I want to tell her, Run away,

he'll hurt you,

he'll never love you.

I want to hold him back, warn him,

Don't do it,

she's not who she seems to be,

in a few years the girl you see in front of you

will be dead

inside the body of a tired, angry mother.

I want to shake her and say Stop!

Be careful!

No matter how many of his shirts you iron,

no matter how many of his children you raise,

you will never have his heart.

I want to kick him away and say Don't!

Watch out!

You'll never get to live the

life you wanted.

You'll never be able to get out.

I want to beg them,

Please, turn away while you still can

You will yell at each other until he goes deaf.

You will raise children in a home of war.

You will cut each other's souls and

kill each other's dreams.

Don't do it, I want to scream,

You are not the people you will become.

But I don't say it.

I let them fall in lust.

Let them turn into animals and suck the blood

from each other's hearts.

Let them age into soldiers fighting on different sides

of the same war.

Let them make their mistakes.

Let me be born of their biggest mistake.

Let them love me too much because they

can not love each other.

Let me learn love in a house of hate.

Let me be the quiet one.

Let me grow to be a story teller.

Let me be the only one who can tell their story.

Fairy Tale Lessons

I wrote this poem years ago and have edited it recently. Reading my cousin's blog today inspired me to post it.

Fairy Tale Lessons

there's only one woman who can be the fairest of them all. silly queen; she was already old.

fairy godmothers sometimes forget to tell you to leave something behind for the fella. so when in doubt, leave something that could only fit you. like a shoe.

if you never leave your tower, the love of your life will still find you.

dragons are easy to kill.

if you're kinda chubby you can be a fairy.

mothers are not necessary. in fact, it's best if they die at child-birth.

careers are also not necessary. in fact, it's best not to mention them.

when you're passive and unconscious you look really attractive.

hairy, violent, large men should be tolerated and appreciated. listen to your furniture.

homosexuality does not exist.

the less you talk, the more action you get.

love happens only once and it is instantaneous.

the circle of life means females have babies. it's painful, but hey, hakuna matata.

to be a princess you must be shorter than the prince.

old people don't fall in love.

"do you trust me" is always a trick question.

conclusion:

poor humble gorgeous girls get rich handsome princes to rescue them.

the reason they're so skinny is so the prince can carry them and look strong.

if you're one of those girls, don't try having girlfriends. they get jealous. and jealous women are vicious.