Hi from Bolivia
I made it to La Paz in one piece and a day older. The altitude hit me fast, pressure in my ears, lightheaded, unbalanced, short of breath after two steep blocks. Word to the wise, drink the coca tea. It helps, and it tastes better than green tea.
This could have been just a travel post, but this week pulled me into family stuff instead. Two stories for the price of one here, so try not to get confused. I was going to write about Bolivia, but then I had to go ahead and type out this long ass train of thought on my laptop.
Around my birthday month, my grandmother pops into my head. Who am I kidding? She pops into my head often when I think about my family dynamics. Yesterday while brushing my teeth, I asked myself the same question that’s been circling on and off for the last week. “Why would she want one of her granddaughters to have the name of the main character in a movie involving a tragic love story?”
My name is Larissa. These days I prefer to be called Lara. That’s what my grandmother always called me and so does my mother. So here is the story behind my name.
My grandmother left Colombia to move to New York when she was 45 years old. The woman had balls of steel and then some. In those days, things were different. What she did was unheard of. She had left her grown children behind, five of them, to get away from my grandfather.
To this day, I still don’t know the full details of her backstory because she was always so private. My family has speculated from their perspective over the years as to why she left. She didn’t just move out of the family home; she moved to a different continent. I don’t think anyone really knew why. That one decision had an impact on all of our lives. It was the reason my sister and I were raised in the U.S.
When my grandmother arrived in New York, she submerged herself in the language. Including watching movies with no subtitles to learn English. One of those movies was Dr. Zhivago. A movie she watched multiple times over the years.
Enamored with that love story, she had mentioned to her daughters that she wished one of her granddaughters be named after the main character of her favorite movie. Her eldest daughter ignored the idea and named her first two daughters after her mother-in-law and herself.
My mother being the middle child and the one who always needed to stand out, decided she would be the one to fulfill that wish. And a year later the third granddaughter was born, me. I inherited the now infamous name. The one that came with a tragic love story behind it.
I’ve only seen Dr. Zhivago twice. It’s very, very long. First time I watched it, I was bored. Then I watched it again as an adult and it clicked. What a fucked-up and tragic story it was. Between you and me, I think my grandmother had a crush on Omar Sharif. And that’s why I really ended up with the name. WTF!
Spoiler alert, the man longs for Lara the rest of his life, thinks he sees her on a tram and has a heart attack chasing her. No happy ending for any of the characters. Listen, the story involved a war, harsh winter weather, two women and a choice made that affected all of them. Enough said.
My personal story has not been one big romantic tale, and if I have any level of control, it will not end with a tragic romance.
Universe cooperate please!
I had a marriage that appeared to be great on the outside and it was dead on the inside. We had the most ridiculous arguments about making the bed or something trivial like that. Which of course were never really about sheets or whatever other nonsense we argued about. Neither of us was without fault. And I’ll leave it at that.
I made a conscious choice to get out. I left behind what seemed like a very comfortable life. One in which I would have never had to worry about money if I stayed. What does that tell you?
My family did not handle it in a mature manner at first. One family member told my sister that she thought I was crazy. Why would I ever leave? There had to be something wrong with me. And those were the bullshit comments I had to deal with behind my back. Well, I did it anyway. My life, my choices. Fuck whoever didn’t agree with them.
I had checked out of that marriage in every way that mattered long before divorce papers were signed. It was suffocating me, and nobody knew it because the façade had to be kept up at all times.
Nobody was going to dive in and pull me out of the deep end of the ocean I was barely surviving in. If I had stayed, I would have died a very unhappy and unfulfilled human. That would have been my tragic story. And what purpose would that have served?
We were two twenty-something year olds that knew nothing about life or the intricate dance of a marriage. That emotional intimacy that we crave more than physical intimacy was lacking. Looking back, it was never really there.
You know what I’m talking about here. It’s the kind of connection you feel deep within. Like when two people place their foreheads together to express affection.
I experienced this once with a lover a long time ago. We enjoyed talking over extended lunches. Sharing meals with him was its own type of foreplay. Yes, there was physical intimacy but there was also something deeper I couldn’t understand at the time. It’s become a faded memory in my mind now. Resolved and dissolved within me. That story, I may never share.
After that part of me closed off. Not permanently. I am human and I do feel things very deeply. I’m just a little more discerning now. You can’t pass go and collect the 200 bucks if you have not earned the trust and respect. Yes, I know. I use Monopoly as a reference while discussing relationships. Sue me.
Respect and mutual appreciation play a bigger role than most are willing to admit out loud. Sure, you can find and have the emotional intimacy we all seek as humans, but without respect there is nothing but a big fat lie hovering over any relationship. Most importantly, having the self-respect to know when it’s time to walk away.
Are you still with me? I’m about to share some juicy details.
What did I get out of that marriage? One brilliant, independent, beautiful human. My son Bryan.
What did I get out of that divorce? The freedom to be who I am without someone controlling any part of me. And the opportunity to meet a man that will know how to make the damn bed. Kidding! Obviously!
This time around, I can choose to walk this life with someone that sees me and has my back until our last breath.
This was the theme in my head this weekend here in La Paz, Bolivia. It should have been about the Uyuni Salt Flat, but I haven’t been there yet. That’s next.
I hope you enjoyed all the F bombs and the Charlotte’s Web version of my life.
Also, unrelated fun fact. Larissa is a city in Greece. One day I will have to go there for shits and giggles.
the third granddaughter ... thats a hell of a story to inherit