but i was looking up name meanings for my story and i came across mara

The Price of Coming Out

The book The Price of Salt was first recommended to me as an infatuated 18-year-old girl in high school. Stubbornly in denial, I ignored the recommendation. It wasn’t until 10 years later, when its movie Carol came out, that the story pulled me in so deeply I still find it hard to let go of its words. 


For me, falling in love with a woman for the first time was so much more intense than falling for a man. There was no precedent. To paraphrase Carol, she was flung out of space. I’d never read about that kind of love in books or saw women like her in movies. So when it happened to me, when she happened to me, I looked into the world for understanding in art and there was just static noise. I had nothing but the all-consuming weight of everything she made me feel. There was no outlet, and it began to feel like a burden.


When I finally saw Carol, it was the first piece that told parts of me and other women I know so well that it was, at times, utterly overwhelming. It’s a rare and beautiful thing when a single creation changes how you view yourself and your own work. Seeing it for the first time was nothing short of the extraordinary moment when art eviscerated the world around me, silencing me while making me feel all of it.  


Because I still remember the moment I saw her signature on that sheet, unable to understand why her name drew me closer. I remember my friends calling me to catch up. I knew I wanted to talk about her but didn’t know why I felt I couldn’t. I remember how the autumn air shifted when I saw her again, unable to look away from a glance that had stopped me. I didn’t know what it was then, I just knew it was changing me, right there in front of the world and no one seemed to notice.


Carol was the first time I saw my experience so authentically and elegantly portrayed on screen, reminding me what it was like the first time I felt all of it… leaving me thinking I’ve been there, I’ve felt those things, I’ve said those words and had those arguments.


But that’s what great storytelling does. It puts you in the middle of its world and makes you feel like it’s all happening to you for the first time - or happening for the first time all over again.


You’re suddenly arguing again about what you feel, even though you don’t even know yourself what those feelings mean. But you defend and you deny that you don’t feel that way, that you’re not that girl, because it’s the only way you keep any sense of normalcy in a room full of the electric chaos she brings. So you swear you’re not in love because love would mean your world will irrevocably change.

And then it does.


You wake up wrapped in sheets that aren’t yours, and there’s a beautiful woman across the room smiling at you. And it’s the way she puts on her heels and does her hair, the way she kisses you and creates that burst of everything through your lips that makes you realize your life will never be the same.

When a thousand indecipherable moments culminate into one, it feels more than an epiphany - it feels transformative and transcendent.  I will never know how to translate that into my work, I just know when I find it in others. 

And I found that in this story. I felt it when she was first accused and exposed of what she felt, stripping her identity with just a few words. 

I remember the denial – my own and theirs - the attempt to rationalize that impenetrable, intangible force that made a mess of our world. 

I can tell you what it felt like when my family first asked me about it. I can tell you how their voices changed to whispers in the next room and I can describe the downward curves of their pursed lips. I can tell you about the silence that came after I told a friend. I remember the first time I cried when it was too much to take in and comprehend.  

I can’t describe how I became dismantled by the presence of another. 

But I do know that those moments still come now, ten years later, whether they’re fleeting or immortal. Whether it’s a woman or a man. Some will be lovers, some will be friends, some will be passing strangers, perpetually reminding me that no matter how much I fight and deny, we’ll never have control over what we feel.


That’s what this book and this movie did, they made all of those silent looks and loud moments infinite again.


But it all worked because Patricia Highsmith wrote an incredible book. Because the talented Rooney Mara & Cate Blanchett had chemistry. Because Todd Haynes directed art onto film. Part of me is glad I never read this book as an 18-year-old.  It wouldn’t have hit me the way it did as an adult. I would have denied parts of it back then just like I denied parts of myself.


And that’s why we need more stories like these. Because the girl I was then took over ten years to become comfortable saying it out loud. It took over ten years for me to start putting pieces of the girl I was and the woman she was into my own work.

The more we talk about it, the more we normalize it, the easier it will be for LGBTQ experiencing it all for the first time. 

It’s almost National Coming Out Day. I urge you all to embrace it. If you can’t yet, embrace a book or a movie or piece of art that helps. If you haven’t found one yet, I urge you to create it. 

Be Brave x

Artificial Love [1]

Part 1 | Part 2

Featuring: Suho/Reader

Warnings: Harassment, Assault Mention 

He was as handsome as ever. And you felt the same towards him as you had always felt: nothing. 

Written by: Admin M


Originally posted by veriloquentmind

“Where were you?”

You glanced up into the mirror to see Junmyeon walking into your room, his face painted in quiet anger. You smiled at him sweetly, and waved away the woman doing your hair.

“That’ll do, Mara, thank you.” Taking the brush from her hands, you finished what she had started as she left the room.

Keep reading

He always reminded me a little of my father.

Robin Williams, as I knew him, was warm, gentle, expressive, nurturing, and brilliant. While it can be hard for me to remember filming Doubtfire, I’ve been flooded with memories in the past few days. It’s humbling to know I am one of the few people who was there for these moments, that he’s no longer around to share them.

He was a creator as much as a performer. After one of my friends posted Robin’s “impression of a hot dog” on Facebook, I realized she had no idea that wasn’t in the script. It was supposed to be a monologue where he listed every voice he could do, but he decided to take the ones he’d been given, add more of his own, and just riff for a while. Chris Columbus, our director, would let Robin perform one or two takes with what was written, then do as many more takes as Robin had variations. Sometimes I wonder why they didn’t give him at least partial screenwriting credit.

He was so quick and prolific, coming up with so many lines and bits even though there was no way we could use them all. At the end of the first dinner scene (where I said my most infamous line), he uses chopsticks like antennae to make me smile. That was a reference to a take that didn’t end up in the film, where Robin was supposed to make a speech about his new job boxing and shipping cans, then turn it into a song. He went off book, as always, and before we knew what he was doing, the chopsticks were by his ears and he was freestyle rapping from the point of view of an ant railing against the humans who kept stepping on its friends.

Robin would do anything to make me and the other kids laugh. Those hand puppets that dance alongside the genie in Aladdin‘s ”Friend Like Me”? That must have been his suggestion, because Robin made those in real life. He’d break them out between takes to entertain us between takes. “I don’t like you,” his left hand would say to his right. “You smell like poop!” I would laugh uproariously — I was five, so poop jokes were the height of hilarity — as his right hand yelled back “Well, there’s no toilet paper at my house!” When he saw me watching him work on his laptop during downtime, he played a sound file of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz screeching “You wicked old witch!” When we were filming the petting zoo birthday scene, he fed a pony oats out of his hat, then held it out to me and said, “Wanna wear it?” When we were filming the climactic dinner party scene, he would make his carpet bag bark like a dog under the table, then order it to be quiet. He seemed to know instinctively what we would find funny, and never had to resort to saying anything that was inappropriate for children. He was, after all, a father himself.

Robin was so on so much of the time that I was surprised to hear my mother describe him as “shy.” “When he talks to you,” she told her friends, “he’ll be looking down at his shoes the whole time.” I figured he must have been different with grown-ups. I wouldn’t see that side of him myself until a few years later, when I was invited to be part of a table read of What Dreams May Come. He came alive in the reading, and had us all laughing at lunch, but my strongest impression came when we saw each other for the first time that day. Robin crossed to me from across the room, got down to my level, and whispered “Hi, how are you?” He asked how my family was doing, how school was, never raising his voice and only sometimes making eye contact. He seemed so vulnerable. “So this is what Mom meant,” I thought. It was as if I was seeing him for the first time. He was a person now.

As of this past Monday, Robin and I had not spoken in a few years. We weren’t on bad terms, we had just lost track of each other. He was working in films still, I was not anymore, he still lived in California, I’d moved probably nine times since I last had his contact information. The last time I saw him, I was a freshman at NYU and he was filming August Rush in Washington Square Park. I went up to him while he was walking away from the set to his trailer, and called his name. He turned around, not sure what to make of the girl in the glasses and NYU hoodie calling him like she knew him.

“It’s me!” I said. “It’s Mara.”

“Oh, Mara!” He told me how grown up I looked and asked how I liked NYU. It was small talk, but something about the way Robin looked at me made it feel like he truly cared. This was someone for whom everything mattered.

I wish we had talked more. I wish I had reached out more. Being a Worst Case Scenario kind of person, I’ve worried so many times about losing so many people I care about, but I never could imagine losing Robin.

My grieving has been private. I kept off my public Facebook page and my Twitter and tried to reading or watching avoid any entertainment media. Doing interviews is usually fun and easy for me, but I didn’t feel I could do any then. If I was crying seeing Robin’s face on the Daily News, I would not have been able to keep it together on cable news, and people didn’t need to see that. 1 Lisa Jakub, my big sister in Doubtfire and my honorary big sister in real life, wrote a beautiful blog post about her experiences with him and was able to appear on TV. She said all the things I couldn’t. It reminded me how she handled the Doubtfire 2 announcement a few months back with such grace, while I ended up coming off a lot more brusque and dismissive than I had wanted. Life imitating art, I joked with her: in Doubtfire, she was the more mature older sister, while I was the little one who always blurted out the wrong thing. One of us cautious and pensive, one of us quick and outspoken. 2 Much like the two sides of Robin, as my brother Danny pointed out: “You guys were him.”

I had thought maybe the next time I saw Robin I would explain myself to him, let him know that I had loved working with him but didn’t feel like we could do it again, and that being in major studio films again meant a level of scrutiny I didn’t think I could deal with. I wanted to apologize and know he understood. It hurts to know I can’t.

I’m glad people are starting to talk seriously about mental health, depression, and suicide. I’ve discussed my OCD, anxiety, and depression in the past and will continue to do so more in the future. Mental health needs to be taken as seriously as physical health; the two are inseparable. But I am afraid people will romanticize what Robin went through. Please don’t romanticize mental anguish. I know many people who think to be an artist means you have to suffer, or at least wallow in old miseries. It’s not only an incorrect assumption — there are comedians who had happy upbringings, I swear — but it will only hurt them and the people who care about them. Artists who struggled with mental illness, trauma, disease, addiction (often the latter is a way of self-medicating after the first three) did not want or welcome it. I don’t know if I’d consider myself an artist, but speaking as someone who sometimes makes stuff, my best work is created when I’m content and contemplative, looking back on painful times rather than in the middle of them. To focus on someone’s pain instead of their accomplishments is an insult to them. As my friend Patrick put it, a person is a person first and a story second.

In the past few days I have said “thanks” and “I love you” to so many people. I’m fortunate to know people who care and have been so good to me, and it’s heartening to know there are so many people who will miss Robin, too. I heard about his death from a comedian friend, and got the specifics from my brother Danny. Both had reasons to love him, and I was glad I heard about it from them rather than the internet. Though once I got on Facebook that night, I was immediately overwhelmed with how many people had kind words to say about him. Many of my friends are comedians who were inspired by him, but others just loved his movies and comedy and had since their childhoods. If you can affect someone when they’re young, you are in their heart forever. It is remarkable how many lives Robin touched, and how many people said, just as I had, that he reminded them of their fathers.

I suppose — could I really end this any other way? — we’re all his goddamn kids, too.

—  Remembering Robin by Mara Wilson