lost and profound.

today was two american girls living and working in seoul who went to see the art across america exhibit at the national museum of korea.

today was two american girls and a canadian boy eating nepali food in dongdaemun (seoul). 

today was one american girl in seoul organizing her trip to dharamshala, india this summer.

today was one american girl in seoul contacting her american yoga teacher in cleveland to ask if it is possible to sell her aromatherapy products throughout asia.

today was one american girl in seoul talking to her mother in youngstown about her egyptian-american* best friend living in london with her scottish boyfriend.

today new york didn’t call so loudly.
not over peru.
not over cambodia.
not over senegal.
today london didn’t call at all.

*it infuriates and confuses me that i should not call my best friend “african-american” though she was born in africa and carries a passport from an african country. yet my black american friends should call themselves “african-american” though it is equally possible that their ancestors are from somewhere other than sub-saharan africa. and my white afrikaner friends who were born and raised in africa do not call themselves “european-african” though they are of dutch descent.

the limitations of language and the daily misnomers we all use…they exhaust me. (of course this is just an example. one on which i hardly consider myself an expert, as a white american. it isn’t about my feelings on people and their personal search for cultural identity; it is merely…writing about what words can’t do.)

at twenty-six, the mean girls haven’t gotten any less mean.

from the time i was little, my parents have done nothing but love and support me. but beyond my mother and father, whispers from the rest of the world have always been there, saying the same thing.

play small.

dim your light. hang your head. be less. less threatening. less annoying. less self-assured. 

from the time i was twelve to the time i was about sixteen, a pretty vicious rumor went around school that i stuffed my bra. (i didn’t, by the way.) girls would fake sneeze at me as i walked past and boys would chase me down the hallway throwing wadded up tissues at me. let’s be clear. nearly a decade into adulthood, i’m what one might call a busty woman. but in middle school? sure, i had more than some. maybe even more than most. but by no means did i have a figure that was terribly different from that of my peers.

so what, then? why me? why did i receive the bulk of the shame and ridicule?

because, unlike many of the other girls my age, i wasn’t adequately ashamed of my body. as i went through puberty and my body changed, i accepted it with pride. i wore clothes that fit me instead of trying to cover myself up. i waged no war with my body in its period of transition. i wore dramatic eye makeup and outrageous hair clips. i dared to be myself. to love myself.

and for that, in the eyes of my peers, i deserved to be punished.

play small, they said. what are you trying to do? who do you think you are?

eventually, middle and high school ended, and i went to acting school. i didn’t go to parties. and when i did, i didn’t drink alcohol. i didn’t eat meat. i didn’t experiment with drugs. i did, however, date men (boys) who tried more forcibly than my middle school antagonists to make me play small. young men who called me chubby, who told me i should be thinner or prettier or stronger or more flexible or more durable…and smaller. smaller. always smaller. distract yourself with becoming less so that i can be comfortable next to you.

play. small. they warned me. we’re only trying to help. the world is cruel to those who dare to shine brighter.

again, i ignored their protestations. i took up professional acting work. i fell in love with a good man who was not afraid of me, who believed in me. but so unfortunately, many of the other people in the acting community had been victims of theft. they weren’t vigilant in guarding their light. they let it be taken from them, bit by bit. they succumbed to eating disorders and varying degrees of substance abuse. and the longer i spent in their midst, the more i felt at odds. i had to get out. i wasn’t strong enough. i wasn’t ready.

i moved to korea with their voices ringing in my ears, just remember. play small.

that man and i are no longer together. and the loss of his love in my life made me feel as though i was in complete darkness. like the blackest black out. dark so dark, i could taste it. and i lived there. i lived there until (long story short) i didn’t. i lived there until the light came back…and then one day i realized that the light had never left, that i’d only just shut my eyes.

i met beautiful, talented, interesting people. but i met some of them as if through a pane of glass. i could look into this community, but i could never be a part of it. i was, i am, an outsider. and there are the whispers. plain as day. but they’re not just whispers anymore.

who are you? they say, who do you think you are? in all of your flawed mediocrity, how dare you take up space? how dare you shine? how dare you be so audacious?

and tonight, on a saturday night i’ve come home alone before midnight, tonight, they win. tonight i cried. tonight i played small.

but i realized that i wasn’t better for it. i didn’t feel better. i felt lonely and inauthentic. i felt small.

maybe not tomorrow, but hopefully someday, these people will come around. i will give them a better opportunity to see me for who i am, and i will do my best to act with (as much) grace, humility, and honesty (as i can). and i know this will probably happen again. and again. and i’m afraid it might always hurt. but now i’ve done it. now i know how it feels to play small to appease them. now i know why i’ve never listened before.

don’t listen. please.

don’t play small.

and yet, you’re my livelihood. you’re my passion, my habit, my career, and my joy. how can i love something so limited, so untrustworthy, so often disappointing?

once i’ve forgiven you for your shortcomings, i will come back. but until then, i can only look for inspiration in images, and when that inevitably fails me, in the words of someone else.

syntax, you give me hope.

it’s been a long time coming, and i think the day has finally arrived.

i’m going to go back to the gym.

ironically, this is occurring four days before my (six month) membership expires. (i’m going to try to extend it…we’ll see how that goes.) 

anyway, for the last few months my relationship with my body has been incredibly tumultuous. i have an office job that takes up nine hours of my day. i’ve been sick, and many different kinds of sick at that. i had a blood clot surgically removed. i dealt with pretty serious “women’s issues,” for lack of a better phrase. i got shingles…yes, chicken pox at age 25. i had an allergic reaction on my face that took months to heal. and, most recently, i’ve had a pretty severe sinus infection. beyond that, i’ve also been rehearsing for a production of neil labute’s the shape of things, a play that deals specifically with society’s obsession with appearance. 

in the play, i’m in my underwear for a scene. my first impulse was to work out daily, restrict my caloric intake, and hate myself immediately for every “failure.” of course, once i examined my motivations for these changes, it became apparent that i neither agreed with them or felt motivated by them. truthfully, i didn’t want the other women who came to the play to look at my body and judge me, to think, “gee, she knew she was going to be in her underwear, and this is the best she could do?” eventually, i realized that, of course, if these women (or men, or goats…) had nothing better to do than scrutinize my body, then they were probably horrible and insecure people. i also realized that this would be a great opportunity to get onstage in my underwear without being emaciated which would possibly even encourage other average-sized women to feel body confidence and acceptance. 

so…without meaning to, i gained three kilos (6.6 pounds). well, shit. 

sure, i shouldn’t work out because of what other women would think of me. i shouldn’t work out to be attractive to men or otherwise to be accepted. however, i should and do value the idea of having an active lifestyle. i value eating well and taking pride in my appearance. i value having a body that is capable of running, lifting, yoga…ing. once i overcome the hurdle of “getting back in shape,” i know that i experience genuine calm and happiness from exercise, as well as a sense of accomplishment. and i realize that kind of happiness is truly priceless. the kind that i can provide for myself that someone else can’t take away from me.

i also realized that in order to start working out again, i needed to clean a few things up.

no, not my apartment. as usual, it is pretty much spotless. of course, i need to clean up my diet. sneaking weekly pizzas and beers and chocolate and pastries and lattes and french fries…it adds up. and pretty quickly. i feel worse, look worse, and have less energy when i eat poorly. it doesn’t satisfy me. but in a way…actually…it does. it’s a big fuck you to all those “other people” i made up in my head who expect me to be skinny. it’s my way of saying, i don’t need to be this! i don’t want to be this! i’m my own woman, and if i want to be FAT, i have every fucking right to be! bitch!

and that’s great and all…but for many reasons, it’s also harmful and unnecessary. 

i also realized that i need to clean up my friends a bit. i’m really grateful to say that my life in seoul is surprisingly void of drama or frenemies. there isn’t anyone outright who i need to get rid of or whose friendship i find toxic. but i guess that’s what made it so difficult to spot. i had to come to terms with the fact that some of my closest friends here just genuinely do not support my aims to be in better shape. and i think it’s probably because they are just not at a place in their journeys where they’re ready to better themselves, so it is envy-inspiring and difficult to watch me succeed. (because i will succeed.) they want to start working out or quit smoking or lose weight or eat less…but they lack motivation, so it’s much easier to talk me into eating two desserts and going for drinks than it is to change their own lives. of course, these friends are some of the most generous, loyal, and loving people i have here in my life. i have no intention of distancing myself from them. but i do have to be conscious of the time we spend together…maybe just meeting for coffee instead of dinner. and i need to be more strict with myself when faced with a macaroon and the rolling eyes of my friend if i say no. fine, roll your eyes. because eating the macaroon isn’t helping either of us. i’m not “being there for them,” and i’m not being there for myself. 

which is my goal. to be there. for myself. in good health. for a long time.

so after my show closes next weekend, i’m taking the winter off. no rehearsals. no commitments. just me. i’m hoping to get a membership to a yoga studio not too far from me. (well, a few subway stops…and that’s probably going to feel far at 6:30 in the morning, but it could be worse.) between that and the gym and walking my puppy, hopefully i can make it back to a size where i feel comfortable and healthy.

i know that the first step in any sort of change is making one’s intention clear. so that’s what i’m doing. i would like to surround myself with positive influences, with friends who love and support me. with friends who have similar goals. i would like to change my lifestyle to make room for healthier foods and more physical activity. i would like to move forward in my asana practice, as well as get back into running. eventually, (though i hope sooner rather than later) i would like to get back into and become more knowledgable about weightlifting. perhaps i will consider a personal trainer if i can find one who can help me achieve my goals in the way i’d like to achieve them. (that’s to say flexibility as well as strength, and free weights over machines.) 

and maybe in the spring, i can emerge from this long winter (both literally and figuratively) feeling back on track and good about myself.

this doesn’t make me less of a feminist. and if i want to have this, then i deserve it, and it is no one’s place to make me feel guilty for wanting this.

thanks for being there to listen, universe.

cheers. :)

and in our lives, i think we have a very finite number of people who truly see us, get a glimpse of us, even fleetingly. though we can and often do hurt these people, though they hurt us…well, there are only so many of them. they don’t come round every day. and i think once enough time passes, the hurt doesn’t matter. it only matters that once, for however many little moments, we saw each other. we recognized each other.

in a lifetime together, you can’t keep score.

no one loses unless you start keeping track.

when it’s quiet, i know that we both still care. 

the most heartbreaking thing you ever said to me was, “i used to feel you in bed next to me at night, but i don’t anymore.” after almost two years long distance.

you show that you still care by pretending i never existed and ignoring my facebook requests. i show that i still care by being as impatient and insufferable as ever.

we just ran out of options.

please. if visiting you would have helped, i wouldn’t have cancelled my flight. i would have gone. i would have done anything if i thought it would have helped. i would have gone to school had my loan request not been rejected…and in that case, i’d be moving back to london probably this week, calling you from a pay-as-you-go phone number we’ve both long forgotten.

but it just stopped working. and we ran out of ways to make it work.

if you could have or should have done anything better or differently, i don’t care anymore.

you don’t get to hate me forever. at some point, you have to forgive me. because i am still the same me. and what we have or had is still very real, even if it’s changed.

…it is amazing how something so consuming can become something so insignificant. it is amazing how we can survive, how survival will claim us even as we try to run from it. it is amazing how the heart endures, heals, progresses. and mine has.

but there is always room for you.

(and only after writing this post did i realize it has been exactly a year and two days since you told me you were done.)

and in the dream, you said, “but what we had wasn’t real.”
and i said, “it was better than real. what we had was magic.”

i saw a picture of you, and it did nothing for me. i barely recognized you. it’s getting better. another year. another 5,000 miles. maybe even another person. and i’ll be good as new. or good as looks new, anyway.