The Body Stories: Trailer and Website!

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

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

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

website: http://thebodystories.weebly.com

trailer: 

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

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

A Feminist Christmas

Men and women are both in the kitchen. Everyone serves, sets, collects, and cleans.

No one talks about how little they ate for a month in order to fully enjoy those three potatoes on their plate.

Barbies are banned. Unless someone has invented a Barbie that has a real woman's body.

There is dust, because no one spent the whole day sweeping, mopping, swiftering, scrubbing, and waxing. The world is made of dust, after all, and everyone understands.

Blow-dryers, flat-irons, curling-irons, and hairspray are all left untouched.

Little girls savagely rip wrapping paper. Ladylike behavior is absolutely not allowed.

Heels? They make for very unique tree ornaments.

Women scratch their eyes. Eyelashes are not paralyzed by mascara.

Gift tags from married couples read, "From Ms. Barbara Dell and Mr. Barbara Dell." 

And even though it's Christ's day, everyone remembers to celebrate his mother, Mary, who gave birth to him. (No one calls her The Virgin at this party.)


Happy Holidays!

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.

A Bitter Taste of Freedom - Movie Review

“I feel responsible for what my country does,” said Anna Politkovskaya in footage brilliantly captured by Marina Goldovskaya, and that statement tells us, in a nutshell, who this incredible woman was. Despite popular belief, she was not a soldier, an “iron lady,” or a martyr; she was an ordinary woman who was exposed to an extraordinary reality, and she knew she could not keep it to herself.

A Bitter Taste of Freedom follows Politkovskaya’s life, with footage spanning from the early years of her marriage up to the building of her career as an investigative journalist revealing the tragic truths of the Chechen war. Her courage and fearlessness came at a price, though, and at age 48, she was assassinated. She left behind her two children and her first grandchild, also named Anna, who was born only 5 months after her assassination.

Interwoven throughout the film is footage of war-ridden civilians in Chechnya—mostly women—mourning and crying over the bodies of their family members. The heartbreaking reality becomes strikingly clear: these people’s stories and troubles have been ignored and, without Politkovskaya, they would have remained so. She had a duty to these people that was bigger than fear; as one of her friends says, “She kept coming there because she felt needed.”

Goldovskaya’s film is not only a tribute to Anna Politkovskaya, but also serves as a messenger that carries on the work she did, which is still unknown to many people around the world. The film proves that Politkovskaya was not silenced with her death; her work was far too important, and hopefully her courage will inspire others to keep reporting the truth and taking a stand for peace.

What Goldovskaya captures beautifully is Politkovskaya’s spirit and passion. People who criticized her writing for being too emotional, I think, will be shamed when they see this film. She was a genuine, glowing presence, responding to a vocation she did not ask for but could not turn away from, reporting courageously on what most journalists would never dare to touch.

What we learn through this film is that Anna Politkovskaya, a woman who saw and reported on countless deaths and the vileness that exists in human beings, was a woman full of life. Her passion for life, I believe, is what drove her to fight for it. A Bitter Taste of Freedom, in taking us through her journey, pays homage to that which Politkovskaya fought and died for: truth, peace, and freedom.  

*

A Bitter Taste of Freedom will be screened at the IFC center in New York, August 19^th- August 25^th. Visit their facebook page for upcoming screenings, as well as links to the trailer and interviews with Marina Goldovskaya.

Feel Good Friday of Favorites

I never do weekly themed posts, but I'm so happy that, suddenly, I kind of feel like it.

Here are some things that make me feel good!

My Favorite Inspirational Video- The Sunscreen Speech

My Favorite Quote 

 

My Favorite Cookbook

My Favorite Movie

My Favorite Flower

image from here

My Favorite, well, Everything

image from here

Feeling Good Yet? 

Scream it With Me: TGIF!

The Big Bikini: A Lesson in Being Larissa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wear a bigger bikini. Be comfortable. Be Larissa.

Lesson learned.

The Ideal Me

I see a beach with very white sand and a very clear, blue ocean. Someone labeled this paradise, and I believed it. So that is where I live. The Ideal Me, that is.

And you know what's funny? The Ideal Me doesn't have the perfect yogi body, flat abs, perfect shiny hair, flawless skin. Actually, she has wild beach hair and a soft tummy. She wears a long skirt and a braless shirt. Her nails aren't done, her legs aren't waxed. She is neither old nor young, and she is most certainly not a young-looking older woman. She is timeless. She has no make-up on, not even the liquid Benetint blush I swear I can't live without. She is barefoot and her feet are not graceful and elegant. Her breasts are not unnaturally perky and her butt is not hard as stone. She is kind of messy, and she seems almost careless.

But this Ideal Me that is so imperfect on the surface is so unquestionably, contagiously, boundlessly happy. She is at peace. She glows from within. She is always smiling. She rolls around in the sand, she splashes about in the ocean, she floats with the calm waters, she skips along the shore, she dances in the rain, and she laughs and laughs and laughs. There is nothing in the way. There is nothing she is waiting for.

She is also alone. This paradise does not include a love interest, family, or friends. It is just her. But she is not lonely. She is not afraid of dying alone, of getting old alone, of not having children, of not being loved enough in this lifetime. She doesn't see a time-line for her life, filled with marks of when things should happen by. She doesn't have a map or a compass, she lives freely and she has an unshakable certainty that everything is just as it should be.

This image comes to me effortlessly, I have no control over it. Sometimes it visits me when I feel very anxious, sometimes it shows up when I am very happy. Sometimes I open the refrigerator without knowing what I want, hoping that in that cold white box full of food there will be an answer to my mind's noisy questions, and all I hear suddenly is her laughter. She lives inside me, but she is present outside of me as well. She's just there; a stranger I know so well, a part of me I had no part in making.

It surprises me that The Ideal Me is not some glamorous Hollywood actress with a perfect body and a hot husband who's madly in love with her. She resembles more of a tree-hugging unshowered hippie, actually. She can't even be described as confident and self-assured. She just is. She just knows the things I hope to know, with all of her being.

She exists because I need her to exist. She has no message for me. She is just a presence, a part of myself that is able to live only under the umbrella of the "Ideal Me". She is a guardian, keeping my essence safe from the masks and armor reality has me wearing. And she leaves me with a stillness that roots me. She allows me to be.

Somehow, I do not find myself seeking to become her. I have not made her a goal. I keep her in this "ideal" place because somehow I know I can not be her. I have to be this version of myself, who worries, clings, dreams, and always wants more. She exists in some parallel universe, and the best I can do is honor that. I pay attention to the image, I let it affect me, and I welcome it, but I can not strive to make it a reality. She lives on that paradise beach, and I live in New York City. She doesn't need a career, and I have to act. She isn't waiting for love, and I am. She is happy with herself, and I am still working on my relationship with myself every day.

That is The Ideal Me. A vital part of me, capable of breathing life into my deadest pores, but not me. That is all she can be: an image. The human being part, that whole living life thing, that can only be done by this me.

Perhaps she looks at me from her world and envies that I get to have all my humanity, all my flaws, all my short-comings, all my insecurities, all my wishes. Maybe she thinks I have it easy, I get to fuck up as much as I want, because this is all a learning experience for me. Hah. That makes me laugh.

That's just how it is this time around: she gets the Ideal world and I get the Real world, but we get to see each other from afar and keep things in perspective. We keep each other safe. And that's a nice comfort, I'd say.

The Long Skirt

I'm one of those people who can't throw anything away. I keep things I most definitely don't need, forever. It drives my mother crazy and drastically limits my closet space. The thing is, I don't enjoy buying new things, so most of the things I have were given to me, and therefore I have some sort of attachment to them. And, as an actress, I just like to keep things so that I can refer to them when I need material for my work.

One of those things is a long green skirt. It's made of a thin cotton and it wraps around my waist and ruffles just slightly in the bottom. It's very poetic and hippie-ish and old-fashioned. It's 7 years old now, and faded and hard to wear, but I still have it. I got it when I was 17, in Spain, on my first back-packing trip through Europe with my friends Marina and Gabi. I had just graduated high-school and, for the most part, wore whatever fashion magazines told me to (see blog post The Doctrine of Vanity on January 16th, 2010, for more on that). My friend Marina had been going through her free-spirited phase for a while now, so this wasn't her first long skirt or "hippie" item, but it was mine. I don't remember why I decided to try it on, but I do remember the feeling I had when I wrapped that delicate cloth around me. I had never really worn anything like that before. There was nothing gripping at my stomach, tucking my tummy in, or shaping my butt, or grabbing at my crotch, or restricting my knee joint. I instantly felt supremely feminine- and not in a mini-skirt-worn-for guys-to-look-at-my-legs kind of way, but rather a feeling-womanly-for-me-and-only-me kind of way, which was extremely empowering and new.

Wearing something for my own pleasure, without worrying about what guys, or even girls, would think? I seriously couldn't remember if I had ever known what that was like.

The skirt was slightly overpriced (80 euros for a piece of green cloth that wraps around you!), but I bought it without hesitation. It became my absolutely favorite thing to wear. And I wore it so much. When I got back from Europe, I wore it because it reminded me of the feeling of freedom and independence that I had gotten to know and love during that trip. Then, when I went to Sarah Lawrence, I wore it on my first day of school. I wore it the first time I went to central park by myself on that first fall away from home. I wore it to my first Women's Studies class. I wore it to my first rehearsal of The Vagina Monologues. I wore it, essentially, all through college, and it became part of my memory of special times. It was the first of many long skirts I would own in college. It became my signature look: long flowy skirt, flip flops or sandals, no bras, long hair dyed red at the tips, and ray-ban sunglasses. I guess I thought I was in the 1970's, but all of us at Sarah Lawrence did, so it was okay.

And then, when I graduated from Sarah Lawrence, I put all my long skirts away in a bag. I was no longer living in the woods/suburbs with 800 powerful, free-spirited women, I was going back to city-life, and my skirt was no longer appropriate. The freedom and openness I felt when wearing it weren't exactly safe for a big city. I learned that when you have an open and sensitive heart, you have to be really careful in urban cities- you have to protect yourself. If you're too vulnerable, you might get hurt. And I wanted to be taken seriously as an adult now, so I had to dress like one. It was time to go back to pants and shorter skirts that made me feel integrated, in control, and slightly closed off from myself- which was my way of becoming an adult now living in New York. My skirts went off to some mysterious corner of my closet and I transitioned into city clothes fairly seamlessly.

I tried to wear one of my long skirts again one day, not long ago, and immediately felt the relief of having all that space and freedom in my body. As soon as I had that much space, I wanted more space. I wanted to put on shoes that didn't restrict my feet or the space between my toes, I wanted to wear a shirt with gentle built-in support so I didn't have a bra rigidly holding my breasts into place, and I wanted to let my hair out of it's controlled pony-tail. But that would have been too much. I wore the skirt, but put on tights and boots and a blazer and kept my hair up. I went out in the city and felt normal. This was a manageable way to wear my skirt. But before I could get to happy, the skirt let me know it didn't want to be worn anymore. It kept coming undone and falling apart on my slippery tights. New York City wind kept messing it up and making it fly open. I was having a hard time walking at my usual city pace. It just didn't fit. And it wasn't really me anymore. It was, but it wasn't. I had the feeling that it might still be me, but in a different setting, some day. I went home, took it off, and put it back in the bag.

But I won't get rid of them, especially my long green one. Not even if my mom offered me a Prada bag in exchange for it. I can't let go of it. And I like having it around, looking at it sometimes, letting it remind me of womanhood, power, strength, independence, and freedom. It makes me happy and I worship that.

I know that it was a big deal when women started wearing pants. They are practical, after all, and they signified a huge leap for women's independence and equal rights. I know there's power in that too. And there's power in mini-skirts as well, for a woman's flirtatious sensuality can be really beautiful and empowering. But for me, nothing feels quite as unbinding and holy as a long skirt, especially if made with a light fabric and not at all gripping in the waist. I love the musicality of it, the sweetness and inviting yet mature femininity of it.

And there's hope yet that I'll come back to my long skirts. When I meditate and envision my entelechy- my realized potential, my future self in ideal circumstances- she is very happy and free. She lives somewhere near nature, where it's safe and spacious. Her inner peace and warm heart are tangible. She is very connected to her womanhood and femininity. And she is always, to my complete delight, wearing a long skirt.

Pictures of me at Sarah Lawrence, 2003-2006, with my long skirts...

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."