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and in real life, that’s how we communicate, isn’t it? We’re all over the place: we jump back and forth in time; slow down and expand on some moments; fast-forward through others; editing as we go, minimizing flaws and maximizing assets. We are all the unreliable narrators of our own lives.
The friends we make when young are rarely the kind of people we seek out later in life. The length of time we have known them accords them a kind of nostalgia in our eyes, if you will; an indulgence; a “free pass” in our lives.
It’s like falling in love, isn’t it, when you make a new friend? And Kate was Lana’s first close female friend. Her first ally
believed I had to change everything about me: my name, my appearance, how I carried myself, how I spoke, what I talked about, thought about. To be part of this brave new world, I needed to become a different person—a better one.
Unlike we Brits, that is—pathologically polite, almost servile, always agreeing with you to your face, only to bitch about you viciously the moment you turn your back.
A kind of hypervigilance, I suppose. We look outward, not inward—scanning the world for danger signs—is it safe or not? We grow up so terrified of incurring anger, for instance, or contempt, that now, as adults, if we glimpse a stifled yawn while talking to someone, a look of boredom or irritation in their eyes, we feel a horrible, frightening disintegration inside—like a frayed fabric being ripped apart—and swiftly redouble our efforts to entertain and please.
“When we are young,” Mariana said, “and afraid—when we are shamed, and humiliated—something happens. Time stops. It freezes, in that moment. A version of us is trapped, at that age—forever.
self-derision is merely a defense against feeling pain.
“An actress is a little bit more than a woman. An actor, a little bit less than a man.”
Our motivation is always pain. It’s obvious, really. All of us are trying to escape the pain and be happy. And all the actions we take to achieve this goal—our intentions—that’s the stuff of story.
These are the mad hoops damaged people jump through: so desperate to receive love—but when it is given to us, it can’t be felt. This is because we don’t need love for an artificial creation, a mask. What we need, what we desperately long for, is love for the only thing we will never show anyone: the ugly, scared kid inside.
Who are you? I wonder. Ask yourself this honestly; and you might be surprised at the answer. But will you be honest?
