i Am Left

i look in front of me

Horrified at the monster presented.

You tell me to be afraid of it.

it’s dark.

it’s dangerous.

it’s black.

i am taught that it is scary.

Something to be tamed.

it’s wild.

it’s sexual.

it’s an animal.

Control the beast and break it down.

i am afraid of it’s power.

it’s ability to manipulate and control.

it could destroy me with a look, a kiss, a word, a hand.

it could rape me.

it could kill me.

My fear clouds my vision,

But as the decision sets in

To make it obey

To teach it to behave

To dominate and suppress it,

The fog from my eyes fades

As the monster comes into clarity.

it is me.

she is me.

i am the monster.

i am the thing to tell your children to be frightened of.

i am the creature to warn your son could seduce him.

i am the one who will steal, lie, and cheat you.

i am the monster you oppress and keep down.

i am it.

And i am doing this to myself.

To her.

To him.

To you.

i have been raised to fear myself.

To fear my own skin.

And i am.

i am terrified of the unspecified power-over-you i seem to have,

That makes you afraid of me.

That makes you shoot me.

That makes you rape me.

That makes you kill me.

i am terrified of all the things i have never done and will never do,

But you will tell me i am capable of.

So, i learn to hate and fear the things that make me powerful.

Powerless to my inability to have you see me as anything but a threat.

i fear me and you,

And remain small, petrified and apologetic.

i didn’t mean to become this.

i never wanted to upset you by my very existence.

i was created from love,

Yet born as something to hate.

But, now that i know what i am offends both you and me,

What can i do to stay alive?

As scary as i am, i am also scared.

i don’t want to kill or be killed.

i don’t want to rape or be raped.

i don’t want to shoot or be shot at.

i am stuck in a loophole of destructive self-hatred.

Not knowing how to stop perpetuating the hate you gave me to hold.

i am responsible to hold space for your sometimes compliments,

As you steal my weaves, my style, my music, my words.

i am required to bear your fear as you beat me, cuff me,

Make fun of my kinky hair, and constant summer tan.

i am forced to hear when you call me a nigger, shoot me with my daughter in the car,

Tell me that “all lives matter”,

While you pay me less, kill me more, make excuses to keep me caged

As you would a rabid dog,

And then you forget me as i fade into the abyss of a hashtag on social media.

#sarahhollis

#sayhername

When i am already dead and gone.

Another animal you put down to remind others of my place in the world.

Have you gotten what you wanted?

Did you receive all that you were looking for?

Do you feel better?

Do you feel more safe now that i’m gone?

Have you gotten your confidence back, since you took all of mine?

Did you find your identity now that you stole mine and told me i was wrong for having it?

i hope my absence makes you better.

i hope you are less afraid at night.

Because you left me with a bag of tricks too heavy to carry.

i am left as the monster, the creature misunderstood.

i am left to fear myself and fear you.

i am left in brown skin, smooth and golden.

i am left to clean up the mess your hate created

When all i ever was to love and be loved by you.

i am left with your shame and guilt.

i am left to hear your lies and excuses.

i am left alone.

i am left to hate myself.

i am left.

Desire’s Fantasy

I feel your breath tickle the side of my neck.

Tracing the teasing lines

Of your lips

On my face.

My breath, static and short,

Anticipates the glory of when they find

The perfect place to land.

Suddenly,

They do.

All that has been stored inside,

Releases with a rush of passion

Making even the tips of my fingers tingle.

I wrap my legs around your small waist

As you simultaneously

Graze your fingers to mine

Until they met and intertwine.

Locked.

Safe.

They ground you in me.

My body salivates and shakes for you.

I’m scared,

As you begin to unravel me.

Open me.

The weight of your being

Rests on top of me.

Your eyes find mine and watch me

Come

Alive.

My head falls deeper behind me

As I break the eye-lit connection.

You power through me.

As I become yours.

Entirely.

I am here for you.

Your rhythm becomes mine

As you lead the dance

Between us.

The puzzle pieces of our bodies

Fit perfectly.

And I come

To

Over and over again.

Your embrace tightens around me

And you come

Closer into me.

So deep

I feel it all the way through me.

Disbelief.

That a life so large can fit inside my small frame.

But, together we create beautiful pictures.

A fluid song,

As your voice engages to my mind.

Senses overwhelming.

You stroke my back.

You kiss the tips of my ears.

It smells of sweet scents.

It smells of us.

You are glowing.

And you give your light to me.

Your voice is the melody

As I harmonize with sighs of your name.

Tell me.

Tell me to be good.

Because I am.

It hurts.

Beautifully.

I want more.

I only want to feel this.

Us.

You.

You.

You.

More you.

Deeper you.

My entity begs for you

To create me

To learn me

To teach me

How to be yours.

Limp

In your arms,

I am born, again.

A creature made from your hands

Lips

Eyes

Tongue.

There is no other place to call home,

For Heaven was shaped

From you in me.

Together,

We conceived the light

That explodes from the pleasure

You always give to me.

 

 

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I love the way you lie in my bed,

as the sun streaks across your face.

Your lips pursed, until they part,

slightly

and reveal the warm breath that wraps around my nose.

I long for you to enter me.

All of you,

in all of me.

I take pictures, mentally, of your perfect nose,

as it exhales the air I long to breathe in.

So we can be one.

So I can share every moment.

I never want you to wake from your deep slumber,

but, stay,

here,

with me, where it’s safe.

I feel the stampede of butterflies light my stomach,

as I yearn to kiss your soft lips that are barely open.

To feel your firm grasp with your powerful hands,

grab my body and have their way with me.

I long to please you.

Pleasing you, pleases me.

But,

eventually,

you wake.

And your silky smooth voice sings into my ears

and I remember,

suddenly,

why I love when you’re awake.

I hear music in every letter,

pronounced like a love song you wrote just for me.

Your eyes create more light than the sun when they’re open.

As if the world only knew darkness until then.

I desire to stare into them,

as I secretly believe

they hold the key to a treasure I must have lost along the way.

But,

with you being awake,

the dream vanishes and the reality falls

heavily upon my heart.

I live in a world,

where I am yours,

but,

you are not mine.

A world where you leave me

like a father leaves their child

to go fight some battle they do not understand,

perhaps,

never to return, again.

And,

I hope,

that if I’m good enough,

you will come back to me.

To lull me back to sleep

with your presence and soft skin.

My favorite lullaby.

And with the blanket

of your graceful body beside me,

that allows me to dream

only of you,

I do not miss a moment of you…

even in my unconsciousness.

When Privilege Ends…

My arm catapulted in the air like a cannon ball. I had to share. I had to talk. This was something prevalent and important to me and I really wanted to respond to the person speaking. And as I watched those able to discuss, I noticed one common thing…. They were all White. Every single one. A White woman. White men. Immediately the anger flooded my face and chest. Can you call on the one Black person in the room, who also happens to be a woman? Can we hear from another perspective that isn’t white? When do I get to speak my truth? The tears rolled down my face, with frustration and anger toward the color of my skin and the lack of understanding to diversify the opinions expressed. About an hour later, when speaking to a friend on the phone about my feelings (who happened to be white), her comment was, “Well, it sounds like you wanted to control and you made it about race.” Although the first part of the statement was true, it was the second half that bothered me the most. I made it about race? Was that my fault? Or, was it something else? And why had I cried in a seemingly safe environment?

 

I was born into privilege. I come from two doctor parents and was awarded all the best education in Boston. Private schools, a Bat Mitzvah, a coming of age party at fifteen, cars, and given every opportunity to succeed and excel in this country. However, what I didn’t realize was how, even though I was born into privilege, mine was limited. It ended. Abruptly. And continues to end abruptly almost everyday. It’s not because I wasn’t a bit spoiled by my parents, or because I throw money down the drain (I’m working on that), it’s because of the color of my skin. Something I have zero control over. Everyday I am reminded that I am not White. I am not part of the majority. I am a part of the minority, and in fact, many of the minority groups.

My parents did the best they could to prepare me for the troubles of the world. My father, who always told me to remember my ancestors, couldn’t have possibly prepared me for the fact that I would feel ostracized by not only my White and Jewish friends but my Black ones, too. How could he possibly have told me at a young age that the women I so idolized on television were unable to relate to me? The Alicia Silverstones. The Kate Winslets. The Cate Blanchetts. Even the Stacey Dashs. None of them looked like me. None of them were Mixed. None of them struggled with finding an identity in a world that could only categorize me as one thing.

 

“You know what you are?” he said with a big smile on his face, “You’re a cracker.”

            I laughed. I thought it was the funniest thing. He was calling me stale, bland, even, and I couldn’t have disagreed more. I was definitely not stale or boring. I was entertaining, hilarious and always a good time. By the time I reached the end of my sophomore year of high school, he had deemed me a “cracker with a little bit of peanut butter, since you have flavor”, because I had slept with enough Black men and only hung out with people of color. Unfortunately, it didn’t hit me until I reached my early twenties that he was calling me a derogatory word for a White person. This was not a word we used in my household, for obvious reasons, but I had never even heard it when hearing about words that people used to describe other races. I had heard Kike, Nigger and others that made me cringe, but this one was new and I had no reference for it.

But, this is something my White friends couldn’t appreciate or understand. Later that year, my oldest friends came for an “intervention” of sorts. I was different. I spoke differently, dressed differently, acted differently, and was attracted to different kinds of people, namely people who were not White. I tried to explain. I had never had a connection to the Black side of myself. In fact, for most of my life, I had been ashamed and denounced that half. Black people felt completely out of reach for me. They danced differently, they spoke differently, they couldn’t understand the desire to listen to KIIS FM as opposed to Jamin’ 94.5. My friends from childhood could not accept the fact that I had to explore other parts of my personality and history. It was something unrelatable, and instead of trying more to have compassion for the way they saw things, I condemned them for their limitation in understanding of my struggle.

 

My struggle is this: I am Black. I am Jewish. I am White. I am not a victim. I am not defeated. But, what I am is misunderstood. I am not privileged. It doesn’t matter how much money I come from or what kind of education I was exposed to. Because of the inherent racism in this country, I will forever struggle with identity and dance between the two ideals of privilege without limits and privilege with boundaries. In every field in the United States, I will always be paid less and have less opportunity for work. It also means I have to be an example. I am constantly put under the microscope. Do I hate White people? Do I explode at a moments notice? Is my anger terrifying? How small do I have to make myself so I am not threatening to a majority race?

What being Black (or any minority for that matter) means is that whether I desire it or not, race will always be present. Where my privilege ends and White privilege begins is in the fact that there is no need for Caucasians to consider how their race makes others feel. That when faced outwards to the world, the first thing people see is never their color. When people see me, however, they first usually register that I am “not white” and are continually shocked that I could be Jewish (lest we forget that Lenny Kravitz was born well before me, as was Rebecca Walker). The struggle that I have to face in my life is a consistent battle with my own mind, along with the world, that if I was White, my privilege would be so expansive that I could embark on virtually anything I wanted and receive fair treatment. Also, in today’s “Politically Correct” world, I have to be told by others what my experience is. I cannot just say, “that feels racist” without making my White friends or colleagues uncomfortable by the topic of race in general. That they then must qualify their statements or feelings by telling me how they are not racist and accept Black people. That I have to deal with “White guilt” instead of “White compassion”, which is what I really deserve. I don’t need them to understand my experience, I just need to be heard. I need to say, that yes, guess what, being the only Black person in the room means I do feel isolated and alone, and I will always be reminded that I am a minority. Even the mere fact that I don’t just qualify as an American (like white people do), but I am technically African American is racist. Why don’t we say British American? Or French American? Irish American? Or even Russian American? Because the base line for normalcy is White and not Black. Because the standard of beauty or classic beauties do not look like me. I am not in the category of girl-next-door. I will always be exotic. Different. Other. I don’t even get to call my President the first Mixed President. He must be Black and Black-Only, even though, he was raised in Hawaii by his White mother.

 

“Can you put these in a dressing room for me,” the woman said rudely as she shoved her daughter’s GAP clothes at me to try on.

            “Um, I don’t work here,” I responded utterly confused. I was shopping with my mother. My White mother, and this woman had assumed I worked there. I remember the state of confusion that was placed before me. Did I look like I worked there? What was it about me, at fourteen years old that made her believe I was a GAP employee. I looked down at my outfit-of-choice for the day. I wasn’t wearing the blue GAP shirt that all employees wear and I certainly didn’t have the nametag that helps identify who the workers are. Why had she given it to me? Why had she guessed I was able to help her and not the other 10 employees in the store?

            “Oh. I’m sorry.” She walked away to find someone who could actually help her.

            The difference between my experience of this moment and the older woman, who made a mistake, is that she has probably never thought about that day ever again. Her privilege allows her to make mistakes about people working in stores and assuming the light skinned Black girl standing with an older White woman could not be related and walk away. No matter if she felt embarrassed or not. Those situations follow me. Daily. And I am forced to deal with my feelings around being mistaken for someone who works someplace all because of the color of my skin. This is privilege. And that does not pertain to me. I am not a part of that privilege and I get to be reminded everyday. It’s plain and simple to me, the thoughts I never created, don’t cause and can’t cure are explanations of White vs Black (or minority) Privilege.

 

This is what privilege looks like. Beyoncé Knowles performs at the Super Bowl. She was fantastic, electric and fucking sexy. Response? The police are calling for her to tell the world that she doesn’t hate them, or else they refuse to protect her during her concert. When the Oscar nominations come out or when Joseph Fiennes gets cast as Michael Jackson (yes, you read that right), and people want to boycott the awards show, I am told that this is overreacting and irresponsible…. Cue racism. Let me get this straight, a Black woman does not receive protection (something she actually requires) until she tells an entire group of people who are known to be prejudiced and racist that she doesn’t hate them. But when that same woman’s racial group are specifically left out of a day dedicated to honoring artistry and when Hollywood creates a throwback to Black Face days with Joseph Fiennes being cast, we are over reacting? We are despondent? We are out of control? One plus one doesn’t equal two. In fact, none of this is equal. This is where my privilege ends and White privilege continues. We can’t even get fair treatment with our Sandra Blands, our Tamir Rices, our Eric Garners and the one brought to my most recent attention, Joyce Curnell, who died because the jail refused to give her water. Water! A most basic need. She was one of five Black women who died in police custody. But, wait, hold on, Beyoncé really needs to apologize to the police first…. So the world can understand she doesn’t hate them. To me, I would almost go as far to tell Beyoncé it doesn’t matter what the police say, they won’t really protect you anyway. Honestly, she’s just lucky she’s Beyoncé Knowles instead of Joyce or Sandra or Michael or me for that matter… otherwise she would probably already be dead on a sidewalk or in their “protected” custody. Also, I am just supposed to understand that a White British man is supposed to play one of the most iconic Black singers of all time, when he doesn’t dance and doesn’t sing? At least give me Justin Timberlake playing MJ if we’re going to totally take out putting an actual African American in there. I am supposed to accept when Joseph says insane (literally insane) comments like (and I am paraphrasing here) his skin was closer to MJ’s toward the end of his life. I am supposed to ignore the history from which Hollywood was born is where White people played Black people on television and in movies and painted their face an ugly shade of brown with overgrown facial attributes. #HappyBlackHistoryMonth

 

Even writing this and sharing it with all of you, will cause usually one of two reactions: anger, frustration, defensiveness or compassion, cheering, and support. It doesn’t really matter if you do this in private, on my Facebook wall or blog, the fact of the matter is along with race comes big feelings. And I mean big. I am not asking for you to defend yourself if you’re upset by this. I am asking for compassion. I am asking for willingness to be taught. I am asking to be heard. I am asking for you to stop telling me how many Black friends you have or that you like Black men or women or that you wish you had my year-round tan or curvy body and small waist. Because truth be told, if you really knew what people of color had to deal with on a day-to-day basis you would never trade. It’s harder. That is what I am asking to be accepted. I am asking for awareness. I am asking for the admittance that 15% of the Republican Party are White Supremacists. Also known as a group of people who literally hate my ethnicity and religion I was raised in. In fact, they hate me so much they would like to kill me. Me. Sarah Hollis White-Stern. A woman they have never met, but because of the color of my skin I am a threat or born from the Devil and must be killed.

 

 

There is so much I am forced and required to accept in this world we live in. I have to accept less money, less job opportunities, less privilege, less knowledge of my ancestors. I have to accept that being Black automatically makes me “less valuable” worldwide for film financing, because Black people aren’t as valuable as Whites.   I have to accept hatred, less protection, less rights. I have to accept although I could definitely play a girl-next-door, I will never be viewed as one, because I have to accept I am not Katie Holmes, Jennifer Lawrence or Gwenyth Paltrow. I have to accept that there will always be less versions of me to grow up watching or even my kids to relate to. I have to accept that #BlackLivesMatter is too separate for Whites to understand and I should be reminded that #AllLivesMatter. I have to accept that someone out there may read this and think I hate White people (I don’t, I am half White and do not hate myself). I have to accept that to some who read this it will come off defensive and rude and unrelatable, because of a lack of willingness. I have to accept that my history shows me that the only way to keep the majority is to have dominance over a group of people. I have to accept that Donald Trump is allowed to be a Hitler 2.0 and call for Muslims to wear identification like the Jews. I have to accept that I am not a man and will have to prove myself more to be treated with the same respect. I have to accept that my privilege ends, there is a cut off, and it’s because I am a person of color.  I have to accept that I am as an African-Jewish American female artist, I am not only a representation of myself every time I’m interact with people, but that I represent all Blacks and all Jews and am required to behave accordingly so that I can actually be heard. I have to accept that my hurt feelings register to some as anger. I have to accept that I can never just say I am American, I will always qualify and be identified as an African first and American second. I have to accept that the reason a lot of Black people are incarcerated is because they are a byproduct of an environment where they have been taught throughout historical and current events that their lives do not matter are awarded with so much less opportunity to grow. I have to accept they have less of a choice. I have to accept that I have less of a choice, less options. I have to accept that because I am mixed I will sometimes feel on the outside looking in around Black people, too. I have to accept that apparently I make it about race… when race was something created by two White men in Belgium centuries ago and has nothing to do with me, but everything to do with my struggle and how I’ve been affected.

 

So, what I am asking is what can you accept? Do you accept that this is my reality? I don’t care if you can’t understand it. I don’t care if you don’t relate. I don’t care if you aren’t Black or Jewish. I do care that you attempt to accept that which I have to accept. I do care that you care. I do care that you understand what it means to have been targeted your whole life by no choice of my own. I do care that you see I am always put under a microscope. I do care that you understand that being a Black woman means I will be beneath you and have to prove myself on a daily basis for being cultured, smart, and attractive. So, again, what can you accept?

 

This is not to diminish the struggle of ALL people. All people struggle. That is a fact. But, imagine struggling with what you normally struggle with in life (growth spurts, sexual orientation, puberty what have you), and then throw race on top of that. It’s another layer. It’s another level of struggle on top of the ones that already exist since we are people. This is privilege. The choice to accept what you want is privilege. The choice to see what you want and ignore anything you don’t want is privilege. Privilege looks like this.

Self(ie) Satisfied

“You need to stop taking so many selfies, Sarah,” two notable friends have said to me on separate occasions.

“Why?” I asked. The real question I wanted to ask was, does it matter to you what I do on my social media? But, of course, the more peaceful approach is just to question why.

“Because it makes people think you’re narcissistic,” or “Because you look really into yourself and it doesn’t help your career.”

It’s the new thing to criticize: selfies. People follow major celebrities or personalities like the Kardashian/Jenner clan, who take hundreds of selfies and have it in their mind that it all means the same thing: arrogance, shallow, narcissism. One time I remember becoming defensive and saying, “well then they don’t know me,” and the other time I said, “I don’t care what people think of me”. But, the thing is my reaction coming out defensively proves the contrary. I then had to do some investigating of these feelings, which took me a while. What was it about two females, both of whom are my friends, saying almost the same thing, causing my feelings to get hurt?

Here’s what I discovered.

I don’t think it’s a surprise to many, if you’ve read any of my other writings, that growing up, I struggled a lot with my appearance. As a young child, I went through the typical “awkward” stage, where I had braces, acne and felt completely out of place. But, there was something more. A deep-rooted disdain of Self that went beyond “the norm.” I felt more than just out of place because I was growing breasts and seemed to be branded forever with an acne-ridden forehead. It was more than having growth spurts and new hormones to get accustomed to.

For as long as I can remember, my standard of beauty was something outside of myself. I looked at the television and movies screens and was told what was pretty and popular. Characters like Kelly, Joey, Cher and so many others told me what was considered attractive. Unfortunately, none of those girls looked anything like me. Now, before rolling your eyes and saying my selfie-number is due to a lack of self-esteem, hear me out.

Imagine a young girl, around the age of ten years old, growing up in a school where her differences in appearance were discussed, but only on a very Politically Correct level. In third grade when asked by a classmate if I was adopted, there was no one to talk about the fact that even though I was brown, my mother could be white. How did that make me feel? The boy was harmless, my school incredibly progressive in terms of race, gender and sexual orientation equality, but even then… no one was there to discuss interracial children or their appearance. Fast-forward a couple of years when hormones really kick in and, at least for me, all I wanted to do was be a part of the dating pool. My awkwardness in full affect and the desire to look like girls like Caitie, Megan, and Elizabeth had peaked. Why couldn’t I be beautiful like them? A question, which might have been translated as, why can’t I be white and blonde? Certain distinctions that, to me, determined my level of attractiveness to the popular boys like Nate, Dan and George.

In high school and college I started liking the boys who thought my beauty was greater than my white girl counterparts. Although confident, it was a falsity. My confidence came from the fact that there were at least Black, Hispanic and/or mixed boys who thought I was pretty. Even then my confidence came from an outside source. Validation of my looks from men somehow proved to me that I could be attractive. But, I was missing it from the most important person: me.

What many people may (or may not) know is that falling in love with myself has been one of the greater struggles I’ve dealt with. Going even deeper, I’ve been on a mission to be beautiful to my self, all the while celebrating the beauty other women possess. I am a very blessed and lucky girl. On a number of occasions, men have asked me whether or not I seek out beautiful women specifically to be my friends. My friends are beautiful. Every single one of them. Completely drop dead gorgeous. All incredibly different looking, and all of them equally attractive. It’s not just because of their outsides, their insides are beautiful, too. I’m a lucky girl to have women in my life who are pretty to look at, but also pretty to speak to. Through no fault of their own, I would always compare myself, especially to those who were blonde with light eyes. I would look at each friend I would wonder, how they were able to some how transfix people upon their beautiful outsides? These were low moments. Moments of incredibly low self-esteem. To wish you didn’t look exactly as you do is one of the worst feelings, in my opinion.

But, let’s be honest, shall we? The image of what was beautiful when I was a kid were all attributes I did not possess. In fact, every weave I’ve ever gotten is a direct result of wanting that “perfect” white girl hair. I don’t blame anyone for my self-loathing, but rather want to make sure it’s understood. It’s a privilege to look at television or movies and see women who could be you or visa versa. One that I think people overlook. Their outsides match your outsides. Granted, times have changed, but the truth is, regardless of whether or not Olivia Pope is considered the new Helen of Troy (“the face that launched a thousand ships”), when I was growing up, we never saw women like Viola Davis taking off their wigs and celebrating their raw beauty (although if we’re going there, should we take a moment of silence for the New York Times article that declared her not a “classic beauty”? What does a classic beauty look like?). It’s loosely similar to #blacklivesmatter. I understand #alllivesmatter, of course they do, but Black people in this country need the reminder, right now, that our lives matter, too. Not instead of. No need to feel threatened. So, just because someone posts a selfie, doesn’t mean they necessarily think they are better or prettier than you (I’m sure there are those who do, but I’m not one).

Times have changed. Now, the cool and trendy thing is to be mixed. Thanks to people like Kanye and Kim Kardashian West, Lisa Bonet and Lenny Kravitz, Jesse Williams and so many more, there are children, mixed children, like North West and Zoë Kravitz who are considered attractive. All this was news to me, the awkward Black and Jewish (also known as Blewish… I am trademarking that term!) girl who grew up in a seemingly progressive city.

Still, self love and acceptance is something that has to start from within. A few years ago, an amazing new social media app called Instagram started making headlines. I immediately took to the application. I thought the concept of a Facebook-like app with only pictures was the best thing ever. In the beginning, most of photos were based off of my location: Sundance, St. Bart’s, Hawaii, Turks and Caicos. However, with iPhone’s invention of a camera that could take a picture of you from the front, the word “selfie” began to circulate. Most of the time, I had asked people to take a picture of me and my boyfriend, or my friends at a premiere. I saw more and more of my friends begin to put pictures up and hashtagging selfie. I remember criticizing certain girl friends who, I thought, “took too many.” But, once the fad caught on, so did I.

So I started taking selfies. I started to work my angles. I started to want to take selfies in my outfits, celebrating my self-proclaimed good sense of fashion. As my friends who are reading this know I hardly do anything half-assed. One selfie, turned into fifteen, then thirty…. The number grew. But, with my selfie taking another deeper connection began to form. It may sound ridiculous to some of you, but with every picture I posted of myself, I could look at it and say, “wow, I actually think I look pretty in this picture!” much to my surprise every time. It then translated from the picture, to life. Little by slowly. My disdain for other girls taking selfies evaporated. I realized I could love my own looks and also love another woman’s gorgeous selfie, too. Why should I care if a woman wants to celebrate her beauty (boys, I know you take selfies, too, but most of the selfie-hating comes from one female to another)? Cue change to perception. I started to think of selfies as a proclamation of self worth. To say, I think I’m attractive and even beautiful, shouldn’t be scoffed at or torn down. I’ve worked hard to get here. Is it narcissistic to think of myself as beautiful? What is really the difference between posting a picture of myself that I took and having some other person a photo and then posting it? More importantly, why do friends feel it necessary to attempt to affect a self-confidence I have been building for the last 29 years of my life? Also, what I want to know is, what about a selfie or specifically my selfie gives certain girls a visceral reaction, that they become annoyed, distant and stop liking pictures? Is there something threatening about my love of self or picture taking? I really wonder about that one. Yes, I have been guilty of not liking specific photos, and no one is required to like a selfie (I don’t need you to approve of my pictures for me to post it anyway), but when I have done that, my gut suggests I take a look as to why I am so despondent. Usually, what I find is that it is in direct correlation to my lack of self-worth or an abundance of jealousy or competitiveness.  For me, the object of my selfie isn’t to get a lot of “likes”, it’s more like an appreciation of my own beauty.

This has been hundreds of years of issues between women. There can only be one woman at the top, think Working Girl status. One attractive girl, otherwise we’re all competing against another one. Where you came up, there is another younger, prettier girl behind you willing and hoping to take your place. Or so we think. The solution seems simple to me. Why compare and despair? Does it hurt too much to say, “Gosh, that girl is freaking beautiful and she knows it”? Double tap. I think society has it backwards on this. The knowledge that we should all possess of our beauty should never be questioned. I don’t care what size you are or if you’re light skinned with green eyes, or if you are missing limbs or a burn victim. It doesn’t matter if the World thinks you are the most beautiful person in it, or if they say you’re “not a classic beauty” and don’t understand why a dark skinned woman could be with an incredibly attractive white man on television. None of these things matter. They are all outside validations. What matters is to KNOW that you are beautiful, not because someone out there thinks you are (which I guarantee someone does), but because the most important person knows you are. You are the most important person to get acceptance and self worth from.

I guess what I’m trying to say is before you tear down a girl for posting a selfie, consider her history. She may be just like me, beginning to find herself beautiful on the inside AND the outside. She could be the young mixed or black girl who wants to look like Blake Lively, Olivia Wilde, and Angelina Jolie, who are some of the most beautiful women in the world, but don’t look anything like her. She could have found her voice to say, “hey World, I think I’m beautiful. You don’t have to cosign my beauty, but I wanna share my beauty with you.” She could inspire some younger girl, who doesn’t think she’s pretty because she doesn’t have the same assets as her friends and is hoping one day she will come to like what she has. Ladies—instead of telling each other what is so wrong with one another, why don’t we celebrate the fact that maybe we can love ourselves, love our beauty, love our look, and love our worth. So, the next time you come across a selfie, try liking it and building that girl up. A world without judgment and more compassion and (self) acceptance is what we should all be striving for. I don’t write this for everyone to start liking my selfies, on the contrary, I put this out more so to say, I hear what you’re saying, but I am not listening to you, because I love me more than I love you and I’m proud of finally feeling that way.

Oh, and also, I will continue to post selfies.

I wish you all blessings and all the self love possible.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!

“He climbed into my bedroom window, because my mom and dad locked the door from the outside, and we ran to Brigham’s. And then, he opened his shirt and showed me that underneath he was Superman in disguise! He told me was in love with me and that he wanted to marry me!”

Stories.  Fibs.  Lies.  Sometimes people tell lies to hurt others.  Sometimes they tell them to protect others.  Sometimes people tell lies because they’re insecure.  And sometimes they tell them because they’re bored with their own life.  Sometimes it’s easier to believe in the fantasy of life.  And other times it’s not about ease, but the need to escape from the reality.  Why do you tell lies?  Why do I?  Does it matter if the lies are big or small?  Or is it the number of lies you tell?  Perhaps what matters is to whom you’re telling the lie to?  If it doesn’t hurt anyone, or make a difference in any way, what’s the big deal if you lie or not?

At six years old, I had mastered the art of telling a fictional story about my life. On a bus heading to a birthday party, I was proving that I did, in fact, have one hundred boyfriends. This story, in particular, was a special story about how Superman (one of the hundred) had saved me from being grounded by my parents. Of course, he had been disguised in a Boston police uniform (of course…) but once he revealed himself to me, I knew I was safe once again and more than ready to be rescued. I looked at my best friend, Jessica, and gave a look for her to go along with my story. Jess was definitely not a liar or storyteller, but she reluctantly chimed in and proceeded to tell the other kids on the bus that my story was true (how she knew, I’m not really sure?). Although it was an innocent white lie or story that I told as a little girl, at a young age, I was already prone to not find myself compelling and felt that whoever had the most boyfriends was the most interesting girl.

Unfortunately, I did it for so long, that as I grew up, it became harder and harder to stay truthful to myself. The small lies that I began telling others about me, I started to believe. At times, it was as if I transferred myself into a fantastical world. A world, I created where I was the most interesting person in it, but not the real me. The only way I thought people would want to be my friend or evening finding me captivating was if I lied about interesting things that happened to me or famous people who I pretended to know. For example, when I was thirteen, I tried to convince my Hebrew School friends that Leonardo Di Caprio was coming to my Bat Mitzvah (Titanic had just come out and I was completely obsessed with him). At that point, I was too old to tell such elaborate stories like when I was six and my friends knowingly never believed that lie.

 

Recently, I’ve been wondering where all my insecurities come from. Where did they begin? Who started them? Was it something I saw (or didn’t see) within myself subconsciously as a child that I didn’t like? Or, was it from a comment another kid had told me? I’m not sure. As I try to wrap my head around it, all I can come up with are fragmented memories of silly things that I thought never affected me. Either way, somewhere along the line, I started telling “white lies” about myself, or my life. Stories, like Superman coming to save me, were things I told regularly as a child. And, as of late, I’ve been wondering why? What were my motives for lying to my friends? When did I make the decision that I was not interesting enough just by being myself?

In truth, honesty scares me (pun not intended). Am I interesting enough? Will people like me? What if I’m not enough? There is something about being completely open and allowing myself to allow someone to know my thoughts. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t think that others will like me if they knew my real thoughts or maybe because I don’t think I’m deserving enough to just be the real me. However, I know I crave intimacy and honesty with other people, particularly men. Even if I can’t do it all the time, it’s definitely one of my vices. It’s almost as if I love to seem vulnerable and open in front of guys, but rarely ever with women. I’ve always wanted to be that cool, down-to-earth chick that was such a guy’s girl. I’ve never been the one to really lean on my girlfriends. In my mind, they can lean on me, but I’m terrified of the judgment they may or may not place on me if they really knew me.

I think most people believe things about me that are perceptions of what I give them. I’m an excellent chameleon; a word that most would use in a positive way, however being that mutable, was only because I couldn’t tell the truth about myself. As I aged, I would combine telling stories of real fact mixed with drops of lies sprinkled around the truth, making it virtually impossible for people to guess if the truth was there or not. Don’t misunderstand me, my lies were not to hurt anyone, they were mostly about my life or the things I had done in it. This pattern became second nature to me; it became me.

 

My fibs were tactics I used to make people like me. They were used to control people’s thoughts and feelings about me. If I “needed” a guy to like me, I started improving myself in ways only he would appreciate. I became the perfect fit to his imperfections. When I started dating my ex, all of a sudden my lies weren’t just about myself or even the life I was living… it was my entire heart. I was lying about my happiness to everyone including myself. But, my mind was overshadowed. I couldn’t see my way through the fog and eventually I convinced not only my family that he was good for me, but also convinced myself I deserved his behavior. I made myself small for him and lied to myself that it was ok. From being small, I believed I was much better, more tame, more quiet, more him, and ultimately less me.

I have never felt good enough or worthy enough to just say what was on my mind. My ex taught me that most of my thoughts were not to be shared with others or even trusted. I remember being terrified of making the “wrong” impression on anyone with anything I might say. Here I was in my mid-twenties, a girl who was once described as someone who was loud and unique, to a very bland and quiet girl. But, taking my pattern into account, this makes total sense. How could I have been myself? His personality was quiet and uncomfortable, so I matched him, and mirrored what he needed from me. Now, though, I was so far from myself, I lost me. The lies about our life together consumed my truth and filled it with impurities and unworthiness. At the same time, I have to take responsibility for not being honest and truthful, even just to my own heart, and instead continuing to lead a life of shame, guilt, and dishonesty.

So, what’s the truth? Did I ever love him? Was he completely wrong for me? Are there lessons to be learned? Here is the truth: yes, yes, yes. The night he threw me out of our house together was the best thing that ever happened to me. It taught me that my lies do in fact hurt someone… they hurt me. Whether or not I realize it at the it’s inception, the lie chips away at me, bit by bit.  Lies hurt the very person who is lying. They hurt my reputation and my own opinion of myself. If I am constantly lying to people about who I am, then what must I think of the real me? Unworthy. Base. Boring. Insecure. Words I’d never want anyone to use while describing me.

I wouldn’t wake up. I didn’t want to smell the coffee. I didn’t want to admit that everything I was saying and doing was not only hypocritical, but it wasn’t the truth. It wasn’t me. I was giving myself the love I thought I deserve my whole life. And when I was kicked out of our life together, I slowly began to realize that this wasn’t my life’s destiny. This wasn’t the life I wanted for myself. This wasn’t who I was. This. My life. Was a lie. So, where did that leave me? What was to become of me? At first, I wanted to continue to lie to not only him, but myself, in pretending that he was the kind of man I had envisioned myself ending up with. I was going to lie to my parents, friends and siblings about my happiness, my truth and the kind of person he was. And without the most traumatic experience I had faced up to that point in my life, I would have still be there… lying to everyone. Through that, I found out I didn’t want to lie anymore.

I want, more than ever before, to live a life of truth. Of openness. Of vulnerability. Open to finding the comfort of being honest. Or, what I would call, being comfortable with the discomfort. Being honest is a constant struggle. I am always checking my motives and making sure I am being truthful to myself. It’s not about making sure that I am honest with my friends or family…. Honesty starts from within. Those who lie like I did, lie in spite of themselves.

 

What I hope to achieve is a lightness within my personal truth. It’s okay to be wrong. It’s okay to not be interesting all the time. I don’t have to perform for anyone, including myself. I should perform someone else’s truth, because it’s the script I’m reading for an acting job, not because I don’t know how to be the best version of myself. From truth I find the purity and satisfaction I have been striving for my whole life.

 

So, I guess at this point the question is who are you, Sarah? If no one knows who you are, if you pretend to be someone else all the time, if know one knows the real you, can you actually be brave like you want to be and say it? Who are you? Take down the barriers and be vulnerable. Be honest.

Here is my truth: I guess I feel like my truth has always been a question. Growing up, it was always a mission to make people interested in me. I think this started at a young age… I’ve always sought attention, which I think I always attributed to my desire to be an actress. To some degree, it’s definitely a large part of it. But, if I was really digging deep and being honest with myself, I was worried just plain old me was not compelling. I’ve always wanted to live smaller, since everyone in my life has always told me I’m too big, too hyper, too “crazy”. So, I mirror what people want from me. If they want a boisterous, boy-crazy, shocking monologue/rant girl, I can absolutely be that person for them. If they need someone who is unthreatening and quiet, I make sure to mirror that. To make them comfortable. I live in a consistent state of discomfort with my Self. Now, in all honesty, I’m tired of the critics. And mostly, I’m tired of appeasing them. I need to live out loud and be proud of my process of self-discovery. Before, I never want to seem too big, too loud, and constantly worried I would be discarded and forgotten. Now, I am proud to say I am a strong woman, connecting with my Self, my Truth, and my God. Consciously, I am making a change in my life and being me. All the time. And it’s okay if you don’t agree with my thoughts or opinions. It’s okay if you don’t really like me, because the most important thing is that I finally like me. I finally believe me.

 

“To believe in something, and not to live it, is dishonest.”

― Mahatma Gandhi

 

“Let’s tell the truth to people. When people ask, ‘How are you?’ have the nerve sometimes to answer truthfully. You must know, however, that people will start avoiding you because, they, too, have knees that pain them and heads that hurt and they don’t want to know about yours. But think of it this way: If people avoid you, you will have more time to meditate and do fine research on a cure for whatever truly afflicts you.”

― Maya Angelou, Letter to My Daughter

Let It Begin With Me

Dear Reader,

 

Firstly, before I dive in, I should say it’s good to be back. And yet, as I write that, I confess I don’t really know who I’m talking to. My readers have been mothers, daughters, men, women, fathers and sons. They have been close friends and fans from my work. They have been frenemies and life long friends, crushes and exes. But to whomever you are, Reader (and I realize I may be talking to myself),… I know it’s been a while. Let it be noted, I haven’t forgotten about this blog or my dedication to self-discovery. Unfortunately in all my rants also known as blog posts about change and accepting myself, I forgot to actually live the change and embrace it from the inside out. I was speculating about the changes that needed to happen. I thought about all of the things I need to work on, but I was actually doing the work. All of a sudden these major changes, including opinions flip flopped daily, sometimes hourly, and I hadn’t accounted for how much energy and mental capacity it would take from me. I don’t mean this in a negative way, I think with discovery comes a necessity to be open and live hour by hour. I’m not perfect. I try desperately not to proselytize as someone who is perfect, but rather someone who is full of mistakes and is trying to learn from them.

 

For the last month, or so, it has been a lot to write down the different emotions I’ve been going through. I’ve had surprising crushes since my breakup, a few wonderful kisses, some tears, but mostly smiles and light. I booked my very first lead in a feature film, which was a huge accomplishment for me, and a mark of success (but it was short lived… time to find my next job!). I’ve stopped wearing weaves. I have a new place to live. As more and more changes came into my life, I was unprepared to write my thoughts about what was going on as they were happening to me. For me, any amount of change can feel colossal, so all of this happening at once was sometimes too much to handle. That all being said, I hope you can forgive my radio silence for the past couple of months.

 

My next entry is about truth. And not just my ideas and memories about being dishonest with people and myself, but actually talking about my truth. And actually who I am. What I think of myself, this, to me, is the most vulnerable and strongest entry… I know this is only my sixth. But, this is the stuff I’ll be writing about from now on. So, again, I invite you to come on my journey… some days will be different than others. I may be unpredictable as I find out how to be my most authentic self and artist. But, please bear with me. Honesty is scary and brave all at the same time, which has proven to be a difficult scale for me to balance. Even formulating a coherent sentence explaining my Self proves to be a challenge to me on some occasions. The point of this entry is an experiment or test, if you will, to see if I can do what I’m setting out to do. I don’t want to just write about truth and honesty and purity, I want to live it, too.

 

Welcome, back to those who have decided to continue (even despite my inconsistent entries… I will try never to have it happen, again). And for those who are new, welcome to me.

 

Enjoy our process,

Sarah

 

To Be? Or Not To Be?

I started breathing heavily and my thoughts went wild with imagination of “what could happen” tomorrow.  It was the night before the first day of filming and I was having an anxiety attack.  I was nervous, unsure, and most of all, insecure about what I was doing with my life.  Was this the right move?  Was I doing the right thing?  My mind was cloudy and filled with self-doubt.  I wasn’t sure if I deserved this.  And even more importantly, was this the project to jumpstart my career?  To make my parents proud?  Was this just the beginning?  Or, worse, was this the end?  I stopped breathing practically.  Crying and scared out of my mind, for the first time in many months, I wanted to call my ex.  Somehow, even in my state of crazy, I was able to be reasonable and realize that was not the solution.  Instead, I was able to get in touch with one of my oldest friends, Jimmy.  He reminded me of all the things I needed.  “It’s time for people to meet Schmoo,” he said excitedly (he’s always known what to say to make me laugh and smile).  He said I was talented, strong, and incredibly driven.  This is where I was supposed to be.  This is what I meant to be doing.  It was time to surrender.  It was time to try to stop controlling everything.  It was time to just BE.

Cherry Jones and Sarah Hollis on the set of “24”

Have you thought about all that you’ve ever wanted in life?  If you were being honest with yourself, if there were no consequences, if you didn’t have to choose between one thing and another–what would you want?  Take away the hesitation, take away the societal restrictions; take away everything that doesn’t include what you truly want in your life.  What would you want?  What does it mean (to you) to have it all?

I’ve always only wanted two things.  I want to find my idealistic love and I want to be a successful actress.  Since I was a little girl, there’s a feeling I get from performing.  Those who do perform or create know what I’m talking about.  When you perform a piece that really connects to you.  When you become synonymous with the character.  When it “hooks in”.  I think everyone approaches it differently, so all I can know is my own experience.  For me, it’s like falling in love.  It’s real.  It’s pure.  It’s passionate.  Sometimes it’s scary and funny at the same time.  It’s vulnerable.  Sometimes I try to fight against it, but ultimately, it completely takes over my body and my mind.  It’s the most beautiful thing in the world.  Regardless of how it feels, I know one thing: it all becomes a bit hazy and clear at once and I want to relive that ecstasy over and over again.

I don’t want this to come out wrong, but there is nothing like performing, for me.  No man measures up.  No love is that deep.  No sunset is that gorgeous.  No lips are that tender.  I want to act all the time.  If I could, I would work every single day, whether it’s in rehearsal or performance, in television or film or on stage.  Sometimes I even perform for just myself.  Like, when I hear a piece of music that connects to me (or to something I’m going through), I visualize that I’m the person singing it.  I wrote the words.  I had the experience.  It was me.  I have a physical response to great words being said through my body and voice, which serves as the words’ vessel.  It’s an incredible feeling to experience how other people live, even if it’s just for five minutes.  It’s the most exhilarating roller coaster ride I’ve ever been on.

But, it goes so much deeper for me, too.  I want to act as a way to talk about the important things in life.  I want to share in life experiences with people and raise discussions that help people understand themselves.  Or at the very minimum affect change within myself so I can do a little good around me.  Acting is the way I express myself and understand humanity a little better.  There is definitely something selfish about it, also… it’s the best feeling I’ve ever had.  Acting, for me, is both selfish and selfless.  Selfless because I want to change the world with it.  I want to make this world a better place when I leave it.  It’s selfish because giving to all of you is giving to me.  Acting is a give and take.  An experience shared with the audience.  Even with the fourth wall up (fellow actors you know what this is), there is a personal message to everyone who views it. It’s better than any high from any drug.  It’s better than any love I’ve ever felt.  People say that falling in love is like the joining of two souls, but imagine what it feels like to fall in love with a character you’ve created.  Musicians, writers, actors, all artists… understand this idea, this notion, of how creation and art can make you fall in love with something in an other worldly way.  I wanted to become an actress not for the fame and accolades (although both of those would be an ultimate plus for me), I wanted to be an actress because it’s the only place I’ve ever been able to express myself completely.  Acting transforms me. Feelings I can’t describe. I give my life to my acting, because my acting gives life to me.

There’s a feeling that happens every time I watch a romantic movie.  I somehow visualize myself as the girl on screen.  As an actress, I obviously think about being the actual actress on set, but there’s something else that happens with me.  I think about being the actual girl falling in love.  What it would be like to have the man of my dreams completely fall in love with me after a million different funny or serious things try to tear us apart.  I think I’ve always been one of those girls that has been in love with the idea of love.  When I watch any film, I secretly transform myself into the mood of the movie and become the character wholeheartedly.  I adapt her emotions, desires and everything that inhabits her.  I want to fall in love like she does, experience heartbreak like she does.  If she’s depressed, I exit the theater feeling the depths of her depression.  I act because I want to feel the depths of people’s perceptions.  I want to lend my body as the vessel to express all my pent up thoughts and questions.  As I’ve said in an earlier post, acting is the one love that has never left me… more importantly; it’s the only love that keeps giving to me.  It influences me, makes me vulnerable, compassionate, and magnetic.  It makes me everything I’ve ever wanted to be.

But, what about love?  Real love between people?  Once, upon a time an acting teacher told me a point would come in my life where I would have to choose between the love of my career and love in my life.  First, let me say, I completely disagree with my former teacher.  Although, there is a certain truthful element to it… there has to be a certain amount of focus if you want to be successful… I believe I can have both.  Although being in love is an incredible thing, I’m not sure at this point in my life if I could properly love something as much as I do my acting.  I’ve definitely tried to have both at the same time, and because I often abandon my goals and aspirations for that of the person I’m dating, it definitely has not worked.  But, what I want in my life is that passionate love that I’ve always dreamed of.  Kissing in the rain, unbearable, overwhelming emotion, type of love.  It’s more than the love I see in the movies.  Every love song ever written speaks to me in such loud volumes.  I think it’s the desire to have love that makes me so in love with love (sorry for the repetitive sentence).

It’s always interesting to me… sometimes I think that love has the best of me.  I crave it so badly, that I somehow fool myself into thinking that I’m “in love” with someone that, in actuality, either I just lust or simply just care deeply about him.  In college, there used to be a joke that I was the kind of girl that “fell fast.”  Maybe it’s not that I really fall fast in love?  Perhaps, I’m so eager for a man to love me that I place all of that desire on him and by doing so just fall in fake-love?  I want love.  But, I’m ever so slowly learning that really… if I had to choose (and eventually I don’t think I will have to), I would rather be in love with my acting-love and myself.  And until then, I’m okay with not being in love with anything else.  Every time I speak the lines of a great writer, I feel like I’m giving a part of myself to you, to the world, to me, to God.  My acting is an expression of faith, belief, and vulnerability.  It’s everything I haven’t said that I wish I could.  It’s everything I’ve ever felt and never had the courage to tell people.  Don’t get me wrong, I hope one day to find a man who is going to love me the way I need.  I want to look into a man’s eyes and see myself looking back.  One day, I know I will fall in love with someone who doesn’t allow me to get lost in him, but rather, influences me in a different way.  He would want me to be my own person, strive for my goals and be there as support and foundation of a new expression in my acting.  I definitely haven’t had that yet, and I look forward to the day he comes into my life.

Until then… acting beautiful words is my passionate love.  Performing others thoughts and desires is my kissing in the rain.  Reciting a Shakespearean sonnet is my perfect mate wrapping his arms around me.  And performance is the peace I find inside, while lying down next to the man of my dreams and waking in his arms.  Acting is the person who allows me to BE.

****Thanks for reminding me, Jims.****

There’s Beauty In The Breakdown

I stared at myself in the mirror.  It was my first time really out of bed in three days that were sporadic doses of sleep, nightmares and incredulous amounts of marijuana.  I looked thin, pale and exhausted.  With my eyes bloodshot from burst blood vessels, my hair a mess and puffy eyes, I decided it was time to take a shower.  My friend barely left my side, even when she went to work, she checked in on me regularly. Homeless, jobless and nothing to call my own (except for my dog and clothes) I washed away the painful years of walking around with my eyes completely shut. I existed as a shell of myself.  Finally after so long of being afraid to be myself and criticized for being who I was, I was free.  But, breaking free meant going back to zero and having to find out who I was all over again.

“Stay” by Rihanna and  “Say Something” by A Great Big World played on repeat on my iPhone and as I felt the hot water run down my thin body, images of the past few days flew into my mind.  A few days prior I sat at brunch with my friends, and I couldn’t lift my eyes from looking down at my hands.  Every time I opened my mouth to speak I felt the lump in my throat rise and my eyes swell with tears.  In between my girlfriend’s thoughts and words of encouragement, periodically looked into their eyes and saw their concerned expressions. This was more than just heartbreak.  This was a broken person sitting before them. I could barely eat, my appetite had vanished and instead, a desire of sleep had crept in.  I kept my face, eyes, and voice low and allowed my friends’ words to pass through me.  But, today, I finally decided to take some of the words to heart and clean myself off.

Stepping out of the shower and wiping the misted mirror, I looked once again at the face staring back at me.  Here I was again.  I had lost my identity to my boyfriend.  I became what he needed and wanted, but this time it was worse.  I had been inducted into a crazy, unstable world that was scary and lonesome.  Even my friends had begun to distance themselves from me.  He had intoxicated me and I was rancid with his odor.  My friends couldn’t stand the stench that enveloped me.  But even though I was clean from his world, now, I felt unsteady in who I had become.  Hadn’t I always been strong?  Opinionated?  Racy?  Passionate?  When did I become broken?  Weak?  Unsure?  Dependent?

 

I looked at myself with new eyes.  Distorted.  I suddenly saw myself with the concern looks that my girlfriends had.  Months later, I realized that I wanted to be wanted by someone who could not love me enough.  He reached into the darkest sides of myself and exposed them.  Now, they were out in the open.  He placed me deep in a hole and threw dirt on top of me as I almost suffocated on insecurity and self-hatred.  But, I didn’t get buried alive.  Although, I had been stripped down to bare bones, it now was time to rebuild.  And in order to truly rebuild (and hopefully for the last time), I had to come face to face with my reality.

 

 

Going through breakups have always been hard for me.  I always get so wrapped up in my relationships that I completely lost myself.  I have been in relationships since I was fifteen years old.  I remember liking a boy in pre-school and thought I would marry him (shout out to Theo!).  From that time on, I remember as soon as I met someone I liked, I tried to become everything they would want in a girlfriend, I wanted to become everything they ever needed.  I’ve always thought of myself as open and accepting, but I’ve discovered that through my openness, when I dated someone I became too mutable. Became the Ying to their Yang.  Their ride or die.  I immersed myself in their world and hold on for dear life.  Became like girls in the movies who try to make everything work out and fight for love. 

I always knew I had a history of losing myself into whatever boyfriend I was dating at the time.  Unfortunately, once they broke up with me (I think it says something that I’ve never broken up with anyone), I felt incomplete.  But, this time my whole world, including my artistry, had been wrapped up in his.  Why was I so scared of just saying and doing the things I wanted for so long?  When did I lose my voice?  Why did validation from men become the center of my universe? 

When looking at my friends (some of whom were in relationships and others weren’t), I envied how they could be magnetic.  One of my best friends has these entrancing eyes that pull you in and lock into you with an unassuming confidence.  She had an ability to make any guy open up to her, and upon first glance most fell in love with her.  Another has a big bountiful personality that fills up the world.  She can cast her eyes on a man and by the end of the night he is in the palm of her hand, lapping up her incredible energy.  So many of my friends possess this force where people are just drawn to them. 

<<I remember my guy friend when I was thirteen describe this force as “smell.”>>   Smell was not only good looks, but also an energy that could bewitch a guy and make him come to her.  I always wanted smell… A weird sentence to write, I know. But, I started to see the point was that I always wanted this ability to make someone fall head-over-heels in love with me.  I wanted to be magnetic.  I wanted someone to peak into my soul and become addicted to me, who I really was.  Sadly, the truth is, I never felt that way about myself.  I never felt how desirable I was to myself. 

The feeling I lusted for was what happens when someone really falls in love with you.  Those who have had someone fall in love with them know how this feels.  It’s that kissing in rain, exciting, beautiful, safe, giving kind of love.  You take over their thoughts, and you are the only one they want.  I’ve always wanted to be that for someone, I guess.  Thing is, I just forgot to get it from myself, too. 

 

In the beginning, I woke up from nightmares of memories of the scary nights I spent alone in my thoughts and anxiety, especially when I slept alone.  My mood was similar to a pendulum… some friends knew what to say and others didn’t.  I was forced to live my emotions and life day-by-day… sometimes it was minute to minute.  I clung to my friends in a way I had never done so before.  I was vulnerable and forced to allow them to help me.  It was a place I had never been before. 

Usually, I was the friend who was the mentor and gave advice.  I was always giving relationship advice to everyone but myself.  Now, I was placed in a position of listening and learning from them.  Now, I had to be the one to receive advice and give in to everything.  Now, there was nothing to hide behind.  What friends ended up giving me was exactly what I needed: incredible love.  They coddled and held me.  Told me I was beautiful and that I was much better off.  Reminded me why I had moved to Los Angeles.  Took me out to lunches, dinners and drinks.  They allowed me to be and they didn’t run away and hide.  They didn’t desert me like I always feared.  They let me talk.  They opened their hearts and homes to me.

            Eventually, the bad dreams stopped and were replaced with dreams of others and though a part of me was still broken and unpolished, instead of cowering in it, I learned to embrace it.  I tried to embrace it.  I always knew I was in love with someone when I loved him even at his worst.  It was time to include myself, now.

 

I stand in the mirror at a different friend’s house, now.  And I look at the face staring back at me.  The face has some color and it’s gained back the weight it lost so quickly.  Smirking back at me is a girl is open and on a mission.  Everyday is a blessing, even if a couple curses hit her from time to time.  Her eyes are open, clear and focused.  She’s not completely healed.  Life is still taken day-by-day and sometimes minute-to-minute, but ultimately she’s brighter, somehow, freer.  I look at myself and I see it all: happiness, sadness, fear, confidence, optimism, pessimism.     But, the difference now is that I’m learning to accept it.  I’m learning to include myself for the very first time.  I’m learning to be a magnet to myself and to be the subject of my own desire.  

 

I would like to dedicate this post to all my friends and family who helped me during that time.  I will never quite be able to explain how much I love you, admire you, and am forever in your debt for loving me when I didn’t know how to love myself.  Your strength gave me strength.  Thank you for making me feel beautiful, for taking me as I am and allowing me to figure it all out with your guidance and support.  You know who you are.  I love you with my entire being and will spend my life trying to repay what you have given me. xx

From Ugly Duckling to Inner Swan

I tried to arrive on time.  I really did!  It had been 8 months since I had seen him and so much had changed since then.  He had finally proposed the love of his life and I was recently single from a verbally and emotionally abusive relationship.  But, because of his fiancé and my respect for their relationship, the fact that I had been in love with him for the majority of my life could no longer be a factor. 

 

Well, fuck.  I arrived not only late, but 15 minutes after he did.  Cold, disoriented and completely frazzled, I showed up, tripped over his foot and haphazardly set my things down…. Remain, calm.  I told  myself, Be cool.  He’s going to get married, Sarah, what are you really going to do?  His fiancé is not only pretty, but is totally cool.  I got to know her, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I used to have deep seated feelings for him, I think we could be really close friends.  She fits him and his lifestyle.  She suits him perfectly, and I wanted that for him. 

For so long, I thought he defined the essence of cool.  I measured myself according to his rules of what was deemed in style or badass.  But, now, I was older, wiser, and we had years of history between us.  I tried to remind myself that there were some people out there who thought I was cool (I think??).  Finally (after catching my breath and sipping my very hot tea), I calmed down and looked into his eyes.  And was transported back in time to when we first met.

 

I was eight years old when I first laid eyes on him and immediately entranced by his mysterious allure.  He played sports and he was almost ten years old.  I, on the other hand, was clumsy in sports and was not almost ten.  I convinced myself that it was a match made in heaven.  With boys coming in and out of my life, he was the only one who remained the same.  We didn’t see each other that often, but there was always the desire to have him find me irresistible and as incredible as I viewed him.

            As I grew up, the patterns of my relationships with guys remained the same.  I would set my heart on a guy and immediately imagine the rest of my life with them.  I would put myself through heartbreak time and time again whenever my love was not returned.  I placed them on the pedestal that I so badly wanted them to put me on.  On top of everything else, I had a very long lasting awkward stage.  My parents would never admit it to me, but with big unruly hair, a severe overbite (followed by three years of braces and the infamous anti-“Tongue Thrust” retainer), and an attitude that reeked of insecurity and desire of acceptance, my adolescence was synonymous with the Ugly Duckling’s.  Boys were so uninterested in me that I was shocked when I turned fifteen and some started to find me enticing.  Had I suddenly become hot and desired?  Most of the attention was from Black or Hispanic guys, and so I decided to only be into the guys that were into me.  They made me feel sexy and like being Mixed was something special and unique.  Even though I was feeling incredible about my looks, it was only thanks to the men who had deemed me so. 

 I quickly snapped back into reality, as my memories of kissing him had interrupted my train of thought.  He hadn’t heard about my terrible break up with my ex.  And I tried to tell him the “sugary sweet” version about being dumped, even though that story didn’t exist.  A gruesome and awful breakup had to be told.  I wasn’t sure what I expected from him, but I had made an early promise to myself to be honest.  As I told him all the gory details, he listened carefully.  Stared into my eyes.  My soul.  I, in response, listened to his words of advice, his concern, and his empathy for my current situation.  Again, I instantly reverted back to my eight years old self.  Memories started rushing to my mind of how utterly influential he had been for the entirety of my life.  In some ways, he was my first love; but also, the first time I had started evaluating myself by how boys rated me.  Every year that I saw him, he made such an impact on my view of my looks and personality, that sometimes I couldn’t let go of the feelings until the following year when I would see him, again.  But, finally, one magical night after skinny-dipping in the artic cold ocean, something extraordinary happened.     

Even though I fell in love with him when I was a little girl, it took until I was a teenager for him to really notice me.  After not seeing me for two years and being kicked out of my boarding school, he called me “beautiful”.  I would never forget it.  He sat next to me, and he said it so quietly, as if he was whispering a sensual secret into my ear that only he and I would share.  I remember his soft masculine voice saying, “You are so beautiful.”  It was so hushed, it felt like a calming warm wind brushing over my body.  I shivered a bit… I wasn’t that I was cold, but it was his voice that gave me goosebumps all over.  The words I had always wanted him to say to me.  And finally he had.  I was beautiful.  I was beautiful to him.  He said the one thing I had never been able to say to myself.  All of a sudden, the guy I always wanted, verified my attractiveness and I felt like the Swan that had finally shed her Ugly Duckling past.  He leaned over and gave me our very first kiss, on a porch bench looking over out over a gorgeous starlight sky.  For the next several years our love affair continued as it had begun, I admired him and thought he was perfect, and when he noticed me, which I felt a sense of victory and allowed his opinion to define me.

 

But there he was, looking at me now, through a different lens.  Our past was just that: our past. So, why did his opinion of my looks still matter?  Had I not grown at all in the twenty years of knowing him?  Or, was he supposed to be the love of my life that I would never actually attain?  Or, was it some sick demented way of my brain reminding me that I had so much unresolved work to do on myself?  Was I still really that same insecure girl who doesn’t know if she wants to be Black, White or Jewish?  Was I still the same girl who was so unsure of her own beauty?  Was I still the same girl who judged her worth by whether or not men found me attractive?

In that moment, over tea and coffee, I knew that he no longer looked at me with the same passion we once shared as teenagers (and appropriately so, might I add!!!).  I felt a mixture of joy and sadness rush over my body.  I was so happy to be there with him, in that moment, remembering the words he had said to me almost twelve years ago, and sad that those words no longer held the same meaning for him that they did for me.  As our conversation continued, I felt the relationship between us slip into just friendship and began to say goodbye to an old love.  Maybe that’s what I needed to do.  It was time for me to start believing in my own beauty, instead of coveting only the opinions of men.  Gathering up my belongings and ownership over my beauty, we hugged and said our goodbyes. 

 

 

It was a bittersweet ending to the first man who ever gave me the validation I have continually searched for in my life.  And, it’s funny…. In some ways, while he was my very first chapter, he was also the beginning of my newest chapter: finding the beauty of myself, by my self.  Now, as I’ve started to find the beauty within, I will remember the sweet moments we shared: the ones he gave me, the ones I gave to him, and the ones that will forever tie us together.