Hello, my name is Lisa Jakub and I used to be an actor (Or: The answer to "why did you quit acting?")

Hello, my name is Lisa Jakub. But most people in a restaurant/dentist’s office/yoga studio dressing room, call me “Hey, you look like that girl from Mrs. Doubtfire/Independence Day/Matinee.”

There is a good reason for that. I am that girl. More accurately, I was that girl. Or maybe I always will be her. A couple of decades later, I’m still trying to work that part out.

These days, I’m an author, speaker, workshop leader, yoga teacher, and a happily retired actor.

The actor part is an awkward thing for me to write about. Because I spent ten years running from my past. A friend said that I’m so dodgy about my old life, that I behave like someone who killed her entire family and moved out of state.

I’m that elusive about it.

But I didn’t kill anyone.

I was just an actor.

But sometimes when people find out I was an actor, it changes how they see me. They seem to think that I’m somehow inherently different from them. And they always look at me with a thoroughly perplexed look on their face – and say "why would you ever leave Hollywood?"

You’ve probably left a job before. Why did you leave? Probably because you didn’t enjoy it anymore. Maybe something about that job didn’t feel authentic to you or fit in with what you wanted from life. There were probably parts of your job that you really liked, but one day, when you made your pro and con list — the con side was longer. Maybe you had done the job for eighteen years - like I had. Maybe it was time to do something new. That’s why I left my job.

I didn’t hate it. It wasn’t awful and I’m not whining about how hard my life was. Parts of my job were wonderful. But then I got to the point where the competition and the politics and the superficial nature of the industry started to get to me. I felt like a phony who was trying to live someone else's dream. My anxiety and depression intensified. So, I decided I should leave, before I became one of those alcoholic/eating disorder ravaged/drug addicted train wrecks of a former child actor. I had no desire to be a cautionary tale.

But when people recognize me, it’s hard to explain all that, because movies and fame have become such a revered thing in our society. It makes me look special or different or weird – when in fact, I’m just figuring my way through the world. Just like everyone else.

So, when I left L.A., I tried to bury Lisa Jakub. I went to college, got married, became a writer and learned how to do normal-people things like use my stove. When people said, "you look like that girl..." I said, "yeah, I get that a lot." And ran away. I was trying to forget that the old life existed.

Everyone has something that they try to cover up about themselves, something that makes them feel different and a little strange. Something that they worry will make them not quite fit in, like that quickie divorce or the anxiety disorder or the funny-looking thing on their foot.

Movies happen to be that thing for me.

Have you ever tried to run away from something? Every time you turn around, you always find it sitting right on your shoulder. In my new life, I’m a writer and I process my whole life through words on a page. It comforts me, organizes me, and helps me make sense of the world. Through writing this blog and my first book, You Look Like That Girl, and then my second book, Not Just Me I’ve learned how to have a healthy relationship with this part of my life.

I don't run away anymore.

Movies don't have to be front and center because I don't think that what I did when I was fourteen years old is the most important or interesting thing about me.

I just don’t want to pretend anymore.

Farewell to Robin Williams: a thank you note

robin

Robin Williams died today.

It seems surreal to write that.

But since writing is the way I process the incomprehensible -- I find myself writing.

Everyone is tweeting and facebooking and calling into radio shows about what a great talent Robin was.

Yeah. He was. But that wasn't what I adored about him. It was the fact that he was an incredibly kind human being.

When I was 14 years old, I went on location to film Mrs. Doubtfire for five months, and my high school was not happy. Originally, they had agreed to let me do my school work remotely with a tutor and send it back to the school. (Kid actors are required to do three hours of school work everyday on set. ) But, my job meant an increased workload for teachers, and they said they were not equipped to handle a "non-traditional" student. So, during filming, they kicked me out.

It's devastating, at 14, to have your formal education terminated. I felt like a freak and a reject. When I arrived at work the next day, Robin noticed that I was upset and asked me what was wrong. I explained what had happened, and shortly after that, he handed me a letter that he had written to my school. He explained that I was just trying to continue my education while pursuing my career. He wrote embarrassingly kind things about my character and my work, and requested that they reconsider and allow me to return to my classes.

When I told him I still didn't think they would take me back, he said, "It's kinda like Amnesty International. That school just needs to know that people know the truth."

The school framed the letter. They hung it in the principal's office. But they didn't invite me to return to school.

But here's what matters from that story. Robin stood up for me. He was in my corner. I was only 14, but I had already seen that I was in an industry that was full of back-stabbing. And it was entirely clear that Robin had my back.

I know I said thank you at the time and I'm sure I wrote one of those stiff thank you notes that 14-year-olds write with slanting lines and spelling mistakes. But that all seems so insufficient now.

Even though I had not spoken with Robin in a very long time, I always assumed there would be some future opportunity to tell him that his letter changed my life. It taught me that you stand up for the things that matter. And even if your attempts fail, you tried. You told the truth. You took care of your friends. You fought back.

None of us really know what fights Robin was battling* but I know his struggles were not uncommon. It's estimated that 16 million people in the US have struggled with depression - and I include myself in that statistic. It's real and it's not shameful and there is help available.

You can bring it to the light, you can tell the truth, you can go to a meeting, you can reach out to a friend.

None of us are alone.

And if you have someone in your life who you are grateful for -- someone to whom you want to write another heartfelt, slanted, misspelled thank you note - do it. Tell them they made you feel loved and supported. That they made you feel like you belonged somewhere and that you were not a freak.

Tell them all of that.

Tell them today.

-----------------

The number for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

*ETA - Since I wrote this article, Robin's wife publicly discussed his other health issues. Obviously, I don't know the reasons for his decision but I do know that he had struggled with depression, regardless of whether it was a factor here. Depression was something that he and I talked about. I'm not intending to diagnose anyone - just sharing a story about someone I loved.

Here is the letter:

Clubbing baby actors

I just wanted to fit in.

Desperately.

All 15-year-olds just want to fit in. They skulk around like those fish on the ocean floor who can alter their skin color to match the rocks. That was me - trying to blend like my survival depended on it.

But Mrs. Doubtfire was still in theaters, breaking all kinds of box-office records and 20th Century Fox was putting two-page ads in The Hollywood Reporter thanking everyone for buying a movie ticket. Blending was getting harder to do. But L.A. was my life now and I needed to figure out how to be part of that Hollywood crowd. A club on the Sunset Strip seemed like a good place to learn.

We didn’t even want to drink. My friend Christine had a crush on the singer of the opening band. Her sister had been in a movie with him, and our entire intention for the evening was to jump up and down in front of the stage and scream.

The place was dark and throbbing with coolness. People oozed cool and rubbed it all over their already cool friends. People moved around the place so comfortably that it seemed like it was their living room. I used all the acting skills at my disposal in an attempt to copy those people -- and knew I was failing miserably.

Just before the band was due to go on stage, Christine and I headed to the bathroom to preen. She dug through an extensive bag of tools, expertly applying and lining and touching up. I didn’t wear makeup and having no preening abilities of my own, I glanced around the dim, grungy bathroom. I noticed a condom machine hanging on the wall. It was apparently  “for our convenience.” I nudged Christine and snickered.

Both of us had sadly undeveloped chests and few social skills beyond giggling - the machine hardly intended us as its target audience in need of such a convenience.

Nevertheless, flavored condoms were intriguing. The machine’s label reported that they came in three thrilling flavors: piña colada, chocolate and strawberry shortcake. I didn’t drink and was allergic to chocolate, so the strawberry shortcake was the clear winner. Christine and I had a lengthy debate about whether the chocolate condoms were made with real chocolate and if they would induce an allergic reaction.

I thought it would be a horrible time to find out.

She thought I was an idiot.

She started rifling through her purse and pulled out some linty quarters.

"Here. Get two."

"Wait, why are we buying these?" I asked.

She snorted at me and handed me the change.

"Research."

As I loaded the machine with Christine's quarters, she leaned on the bathroom door. This was a scene best kept between the two of us. As our 50 cents went into the machine, slick pink and green packages slid out. They looked cheery. Fun. Yet, I was still scared to touch them. My heart beat quickly.

Christine appeared savvier, though I don’t think she really was. She was just one of those people who always appeared to know what she was doing. Whether on a film set or in a club bathroom holding a piña colada flavored condom, she always seemed as if she has been through it a million times. She was a stark contrast to me - it didn't matter what I was doing, I always looked like I was about to get yelled at.

She ripped open the packaging with her teeth, a move she must have seen in a movie. I approached the wrapper more tentatively, pulling on either side like it was a bag of Doritos. We removed the smooth creatures from their packaging. We unrolled them. We concluded that they probably looked kind of like penises...if penises were florescent, semi-translucent, covered in a strange powder and stinking of sweet chemicals.

“Ready?” Christine asked. I certainly was not but I was standing in a bathroom holding a condom, what could I say?

“Okay. Lick it!” Christine demanded and we each raised the limp rubber to our tongues.

At that moment, the door swung open, catapulting Christine from her guard post and a Goth girl, bedazzled with safety pins, blasted into the bathroom. Christine and I panicked, threw our condoms into the trash and ran the hell out of there.

Taking refuge in a dark corner with humiliated tears flooding my eyes, I cursed Christine for not guarding the door properly and letting us be the freaks who got caught licking flaccid condoms in a bathroom. She also had tears in her eyes, but hers were caused by stomach-cramping laughter. She smoothed out my hair and attempted to comfort me.

"Don't worry about it, Lis. Besides, you are not going to need one of those for a long, LONG time."

Before I could respond with something like "Shut up" -  she grabbed my hand, ran to the stage and screamed for the cute lead singer like nothing had happened.

There were many enviable people in that club, owners of designer handbags, prestigious addresses and powerful careers, but I only wanted what Christine had. Her lightness was admirable and something I could never quite locate within myself. My friend's skin fit her just fine and she never seemed to care too much about outside opinions. Her ease in this world was like a foreign language that seemed impossible to master. I borrowed some of her sparkly MAC lip gloss and hoped something deeper would rub off on me.

That night, I thought the worst thing that could ever happen was getting caught by a Goth. But four years later, Christine got sick. We didn't know what was wrong, but I sat with her in the hospital and massaged her aching hands. We played The Cranberries on an endless loop. We talked about going to get frozen yogurt as soon as she was released from the hospital.

But she never was.

The lupus moved quickly, and she passed away when we were 19.

I'll spend the rest of my life trying to capture her lightness. Admittedly, whenever I think of that Sunset club, I can still taste strawberry condom dust and palpable shame in the back of my throat. But whenever I feel myself trying desperately to blend with the cool people, I always feel Christine smoothing out my hair as she laughs at me.

"Don't worry about it, Lis."

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Things change and nothing changes: Mrs. Doubtfire 2 debrief

I have a pretty normal routine when I get up in the morning. The dog goes outside to sniff around the yard. I do my meditation and yoga. We both have some breakfast and I make tea. Then, just before I sit down to write, I quickly check email - which usually consist of friends sending me links to farm animals on Buzzfeed and an exciting opportunity to turn my computer into a money-making machine by working from home. But last Thursday, I woke up to an interview request from Brazil.

I figured it might be a weird day.

And it was. The Hollywood Reporter announced that Mrs. Doubtfire 2 was in development. This was the first I had heard of it. Suddenly, I was being swamped with questions about whether or not I would be involved.

But here's the thing:

No one has asked me to be involved.

It's kind of like going ring shopping at Tiffany's after your first date. Everyone just needed to take a deep breath for a minute.

I'm not sure even sure how I would feel about a sequel, let alone what my feelings are about being involved. I am retired from acting - it's not the life that I want for myself. But if my friends/former co-workers ask me to consider something, I'm going to listen to what they have to say.

And really, who knows if the film will actually make it to production, or if my character, Lydia, will actually be in it, or a zillion other things that could come up in the meantime. There is no need for decisions yet.

The most interesting thing I had planned for the week was staining our back deck, but suddenly I found myself the topic of internet chatter. On Wednesday, I was just saying stuff. On Thursday, I was "making statements."

It got a little overwhelming with emails and unanswerable questions and interview requests, especially because my answer to everything was a legitimate, yet wide-eyed, "I don't know." It felt like suddenly everything in my life was changing - it was totally out of my control. Chaos was swirling around and from where I stood, this Doubtfire thing seemed to be all everyone was talking about.

So, I did what I do when I feel stressed and ungrounded. I turned off my computer and went to my volunteer job at the animal shelter. I'm always more comfortable with animals and when I can stop thinking about my life and help someone else.

When I walked into the area where I usually work, there was a woman who I had never met before. When I opened the door she turned to me with a sudden look of joyful recognition.

"Are you the one that I've been hearing so much about?" She asked.

My face turned red. I really wanted to stop thinking about Doubtfire 2 for just a couple of hours. I wanted to just do my regular life stuff without hearing another opinion about what it means if I do it or don't do it. I stumbled around and said something eloquent like:

"Uhhh. Oh, I donno."

"Yes, you are! You are the one who has been working with Pumpernickel! What's your name?"

Pumpernickel is a cat that came into the shelter about a month ago. She weighs barely 5 pounds and had been run over by a car. The clinic saved her and she is now up for adoption. She is absolutely adorable, but she has been deeply traumatized and tends to lash out unexpectedly. Pumpernickel has been my project and I've been socializing her -- she recently transformed from attacking anyone that got near her, to being a snuggly lap-dweller and giver of tiny kitty kisses.

The vet heard she was doing well, and came to see Pumpernickel's caregiver and say thank you. She doesn't know anything about my life outside the shelter, and she doesn't give a damn about what HuffPost Live was saying.

It was one of the prouder moments of my life.

I suddenly realized - that's the shit I want to be famous for.

My priorities snapped back into line like a well-cracked knuckle. You know where else this "news" of Doubtfire 2 didn't matter? At my yoga studio. At the farmer's market. With my dearest friend who, after checking to see how I was doing with it all, mostly wanted to talk about the fact that she just learned she'd been buying the wrong bra size for years.

Sometimes, it's easy to get whipped into a frenzy over entertainment news - especially when it involves being misrepresented in an Us Weekly headline. But the truth is, it doesn't really change anything.

We all have those distractions that threaten to take over our lives. Those moments of drama where it appears that something is important just because everyone else is throwing their opinions around. That moment doesn't have to define you. It's can be interesting, sure. But it doesn't need to displace the real things. It doesn't need to become something bigger and better than the priorities you intentionally set for your life.

Whatever the outcome of this whole Doubtfire 2 thing - I'm still the same person who giggles at Buzzfeed lists, knows a lot about her friend's new bra and tries to convince Pumpernickel to not scratch someone's eyes out.

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"So, what is Robin Williams like?"

Sometimes I try to estimate how many times I've been asked this question over the years. And if you replace Robin's name with Will Smith/Pierce Brosnan/Sally Field/Timothy Dalton....

Innumerable times.

I understand why. These people are beloved. Folks want to know if he was funny or she was nice or he was high. I get it.

But I'm curious, how do people expect me to answer? All of those actors were lovely and that's how I respond. But even if they weren't - I'm NEVER going to say that. Why would I slam anyone to you, a person who I just met at the grocery store? Would you say something other than "they're great" about your co-workers to a random person in the cereal aisle?

I guess people want a funny little tidbit about what that famous person was like, but here's the truth -- I am too preoccupied trying to look composed while chatting with a stranger and simultaneously attempting to hide the dandruff shampoo in my cart to come up with a pithy story at that moment. Plus the fact that it was like, 20 years ago, and many of those stories are not crystal clear anymore.

It also brings up another uncomfortable aspect of this whole thing. If that's the first/only thing you ask me - maybe you don't really care anything about me as a person. Maybe you are just using me to get a story about someone else. It's like having a super popular older brother and everyone just wants to know about him.

I'm interesting, too. Not because I might be able to tell you something funny about Robin Williams, but because I've danced in the baraat at an Indian wedding, once fed carrots to a wallaby and have undergone hypnosis. And I'll bet you're interesting, too, but I'll never know because I'm trying to come up with a cute story you can retweet.

But since I still get asked, I'll go on autopilot and say the thing I've said a bajillion times:

"Yeah, he/she was really great..."

And it will be true.

But I'll always wonder if there wasn't a more interesting conversation we could have had.

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Why would we want Mrs. Doubtfire 2?

November 24th, 2013 marked the 20th anniversary of the release of Mrs. Doubtfire. It's astounding that people see me, a 34-year-old writer who lives in Virginia, and still recognize Lydia Hillard.

Ever since the movie came out, people have been wanting a sequel. Maybe Mrs. Doubtfire could be working as an undercover cop? Masquerading as an international spy? Blowing the lid off injustices in the beauty pageant industry? There is no end to the possibilities of contrived silliness.

While I'm grateful to have been part of a movie that touched so many people, I can't help but wonder why that isn't enough. It doesn't make any sense that there would be a follow-up to the story, but that doesn't seem to matter. Mrs. Doubtfire 2 doesn't have to be good - sequels almost never compare to the original - but people seem to want more anyway.

As we dive into the holidays and this Season of Wanting, epitomized by commercials suggesting that a Lexus with giant bow would be a great gift, I'm reminded that this is just how we tend to do things. We want more of everything. We are a nation of consumers, ready to trample each other to death for a cheap blender or stab someone over a parking spot at Wal-mart. We make long lists of things we don't need, but we suddenly feel empty without them.

We can easily mistake the endless wanting for ambition, but in reality it looks a lot like self-imposed suffering based on our own fears of not being good enough.

Because for that one flickering moment, we get more of __________ and then we feel like we've accomplished something meaningful. It seems like a tangible indication that we have a place in the world. For one second, we can take a deep breath...until we see that Williams Sonoma is having a sale on simmer sauces and we begin the wanting all over again.

And then you throw in a little nostalgia. I get it - there was something wonderful about the 90s. It was a simpler time. I, too, long for those days when you could walk someone right to the airplane gate and everybody could eat gluten. When "Whoa!" could be a catchphrase. When The Real World presented reality television as a groundbreaking social experiment, instead of a way to get famous for being rich and idle.

But, as countless people discover at this time of year, it's really hard to go home again. The world is a constantly changing place. And sometimes, in trying to recapture the past, you can ruin the memory of what you had. It's kind of like wearing a mini-skirt when that's no longer a good idea.

Maybe Mrs. Doubtfire had its time. In 1993. It seems greedy to try to squeeze more out of it. It's flattering that people want more, but maybe we can just be grateful for what already exists. Maybe we can take that deep breath and just be content with what is.

I don't know if there will be a sequel. Maybe there is a way to do it well. But I come back to the original question: why do we want it? Why do we want more of something that is just fine as it is?

My life has moved on since 1993. After I retired from acting, I spent a long time pretending that movies never happened, because when I talked about my childhood, people looked at me funny or accused me of not getting over it. So, I didn't talk about it for 10 years, and then I was accused of running from my past. I realized that I needed to stop caring about those outside opinions and do what felt right.

There will really never be total dissociation from Doubtfire. When you are part of a movie that is on TV almost every Sunday afternoon - a movie that people quote to you in line at the grocery store, a movie that has become a part of the culture of the 90s - it's just not really possible.

So, I embrace it.

Finally.

And then I let it go.

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In which I attempt to impress my niece with "Teenaged Girl Underwater"

My 7-year old niece wants to be a marine biologist. She was explaining that her first favorite are great white sharks, but dolphins are her close second favorite. At the time, she and I were standing on a paddleboard, cruising around the sadly shark/dolphin-free Bass Lake in California. I don't get to hang out with her, or my 5-year old nephew, very often, since my sister-in-law and her family live on the opposite side of the country. As an only child, I was never sure that I'd have the chance to wear the label of Auntie - so whenever I do see them, I always bring gifts to try to bribe my way into being Cool Aunt Lisa. I'm not naturally good with kids, so I rely on books, baseball hats and interesting stories. I jumped at the chance to get into her good graces.

"I got to swim with dolphins."

She quickly turned around on the paddleboard to look at me, almost dumping us both off.

"Really? Why?"

Shit. I hadn't really thought this through. Should I just say something about Sea World? No, I shouldn't lie to 7-year olds.

"Ummm. Well. You know I used to be in movies, right? Didn't you see that one with your Grandma?"

I thought I had remembered that she came across Mrs. Doubtfire with my mother-in-law, and she had been totally confused about why Aunt Lisa was on TV and looking so young. Other than that, we'd never talked about it. In fact, my former acting career so rarely comes up with any of my in-laws, it's easy for all of us, including me, to forget it happened at all.

"No. Ohhhh. Wait. I do kinda remember that."

I explained that I had done a TV movie called Bermuda Triangle and that's where I got to swim with dolphins. And actually, there was a shark in it, too.

"Great white?" She asked.

"No, it was just a blacktip reef shark." She tried to cover her look of mild disappointment.

I tried to get my cred back.

"I think there might actually be a clip of it on YouTube, if you want to see it." She brightened and nodded, but she was clearly lost in a different thought.

"You know, I think being on TV runs in our family. My Grandma used to be a dancer and she was on TV. So, it's just like that!"

(When her Grandma was 8 years old, she was in a dance troop called the "Hi-Steppers" and they were once on some sort of variety show wearing top hats and white gloves.)

"Yep, just like that!" I agreed.

When we got back to dry land, I was able to find clips, here, here and here to show the kids my dolphin encounter. I tried to ignore the fact that these were clips of me in a hot pink bathing suit in family-friendly TV movie that somehow got removed from context and categorized under the slightly pedophile-ish sounding title of "Teenaged girl underwater."

As my niece told me about her school play and swimming practice, it got me thinking about what I was doing when I was her age. I was filming a seriously intense movie with John Malkovich called Eleni. (And since my entire life seems to be on YouTube, you can see my somewhat terrifying scene at about 23:15.)

These clips remind me why it's challenging to explain to my young friends what I used to do. Because the movies still exist, and while the experience of working was formative for me, the finished product - the actual movie - was not.  It's kind of like having your yearbook pop up unexpectedly.  It seems totally dated and you can't believe your hair really looked like that. It's an inadequate representation of something that is simultaneously important and irrelevant.

Those movies have nothing to do with her relationship with Aunt Lisa, and yet, when my niece stumbled into the TV room post-nap that one time - there Mrs. Doubtfire was, pretending to be something that she needed to care about, just because it was right in front of her.

In the end, while the dolphin swimming was sufficiently interesting for a few moments, the Junie B Jones books I got her had a more lasting impact. I also taught her some yoga postures that seem to have solidified my position in her heart.

Together, the two of us can really rock out a Tree Pose.

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The Doubtfire girls

 

When I first met Mara Wilson, I was 14 and she was 5 and I decided she was mine.

We met at the screen test for Mrs. Doubtfire and for some reason, she, Matt Lawrence and I bonded instantly. Even though there were other kids auditioning, we felt like we were the pre-pubescent trio that were going to be Robin and Sally's kids. We were right.

Mara was tiny and spunky and had impossibly small fingernails. I was very shy, introverted and a little lonely. I lived a pretty transient life as a young actor. I was an only child and worked more often than I went to school. Most of my time was spent with adults and I was much more comfortable with them than I was with other kids.  But somehow, soon after we met, I decided Mara was mine.

It's the most maternal I've ever been to anyone who is not a dog.

After the film wrapped, we stayed close. There were five kids in her family and her house was this constantly churning, fun, adventurous mess. I became an honorary member of the household. When I was 15, her older brother and I held hands at the Travel Town theme park. It was the most action I'd ever gotten, aside from an on-screen kiss in Matinee a couple of years earlier, so I decided that it would be a good idea to marry Mara's brother. He was a nice guy and I could keep my pseudo-siblings forever.

Then stuff happened. Life happened. Work happened. Mara and I both traveled a lot for shoots and we lost touch.

When I went to New York recently, I contacted her. We hadn't seen each other in 15 years. Mara met me in the lobby of my hotel, we leapt into each others arms and didn't let go. The doorman stared at us. We didn't care.

I still think she's mine and I have to take care of her - even though she is a completely grown up, lovely woman. Even though she wears stylish shoes with heels and makes me feel like a teenage boy because all I ever wear are Chuck Taylor's. Even though she was the one who protected us from the crazy guy who approached us in the park, because I've never figured out the difference between being assertive and rude. Even though she is a phenomenal storyteller who she gets up on stage and owns it in a way that make me break into a flop sweat just thinking about.

You don't always stay in touch with the people you work with, even though you create these intense relationships with them. I adored Matt Lawrence, who played my brother in Doubtfire. During filming, he and I had a ridiculously good time playing fetch with his Golden Retriever in the ballroom of the fancy hotel where we lived. We just didn't manage to stay in touch.

And that's how it usually goes. The end of the movie is often the end of that momentary connection. Everyone moves on to the next show, the next location, the next hotel room.

But there are these rare times on film shoots when you think you are there to do a job and really you are there to meet your family. And with family, you can lose track of them for a while, but they are never really gone.

Mara will always be my little sister.

Even if I didn't marry Danny.

--------

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