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My friend Bailey and her company @companythreesixty made this and I have no more words to add. It’s perfect. #Repost @catchingbreaths with @get_repost ・・・ Why didn’t I report? I didn’t report because I thought that if I’m in a relationship with someone, it meant it was equally my fault. I thought the years of unhealthy feelings towards myself which ensued, were still invalid since it could have been worse. I thought I shouldn’t tell my Momma until a couple of years later on a beautiful mountain walk together, and even then, I softened the story from shame for how I’d appear to the person I love the most. I didn’t report because we live in a world where men use sentences like “it can always be worse” as psychological shrapnel. A world that tells us we should have done more to stop it. A world that, even when I remember the attempts to push away as clearly as consciousness cinema, I was scared to push too hard because I didn’t want to make someone mad. A world that makes me worry at sharing, because I have young students and ‘should be a role-model’: with a role model being pure, respectable, elite, undamaged. Now, a mother, wife, champion, boss... I still worry to report as innocuously as through a #WhyIDidntReport hashtag, lest I somehow appear less for having shared. But as someone who’s survived a darkness far worse than that described, and Shawshanked her way to a life of light- save for second glances over shoulders- I can say that the hardest person to report to is actually... yourself. It’s the you that you had once hoped to be. The you that you’ll never be again. The you that you wish you could go back and protect. The you you wish you had been (louder, less in shock, less weak). The you that once was but was taken. To all the Yous you once were reading this (and the You in me who still feels cemented by shame)... this should never have happened. It doesn’t matter how loud, quiet, forceful... how well you knew them.... You didn’t deserve to lose You because your body wasn’t left as yours. None of us do. None of us ever will. There is no good way to end this bit of writing, because the truth is: it hasn’t ended. A perfect sentence will not wrap this up. Y
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Teaching on my birthday is my favorite thing. Hi, I’m 30, and I gave full sized cupcakes to three year olds and I’m sure their parents hate me
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It comes and goes in waves.

Today was the first class I’ve attempted to take since being in Kansas last month.

I was looking forward to it, grateful to know I still have some summer classes left to make it to before fall kicks in and they start too late for me to make.

I feel like every time I write these days, it’s after having a particularly difficult week. This week is no different. I’ve struggled with health stuff in ways I haven’t known in quite a long time, been dealt a new load of grief, and had to dig up some old emotions to let things heal. It’s been painful. All I could think about was just getting to class and being okay. Feeling the familiar rush that comes with flowing through Ballet and forgetting everything bothering me in the real world.

Except I forget that I don’t have that luxury like I used to. Don’t get me wrong, I’m truly grateful I can even step foot into a studio still. I don’t want to ever take that for granted. But today was another wave of the grief of adjusting to all this health crap that’s holding me back.

Those of you who don’t know me may not know I’ve known a lot of people to die in my life, and since I started dancing 6.5 years ago, the one thing to make me feel like something makes sense after the grief begins all over again is getting into a studio, recentering myself, and letting myself feel and express and lose myself to the music and movement. I lost someone else I love on Sunday, and not only am I learning how to actually let myself grieve, but I had the harsh reality that I can’t even make it through class right now slap me in the face. I went anyway, knowing I’ve felt terribly this week, knowing I wouldn’t be able to make it through the entire thing, knowing it might wear me out even more than I’ve already been fighting through this week, but I had to go–I had to try.

I was grateful. I was at the barre with some of my absolute favorite people, some I hadn’t seen in a while, some who are moving away, and some whom I’ve never actually danced with since they met me after I got too sick.

I had a few pretty rough waves of emotion during barre. Where I realized again that I’m not who I was even a year ago. That my body doesn’t let me do what I used to be able to do. That I can’t push through like I used to. That it’s not a matter of mind over matter. I hated knowing that his is probably as good as I’ll get now. I was angry at my heart for feeling like someone had a vice grip on it, at my back for the herniated disks hitting the nerves even in low arabesque, at my stomach for feeling so incredibly nauseous, at my muscles for screaming at me, at my hands for shaking, at my mind for not being able to hold focus long enough to retain the combinations I used to be so good at remembering.

I miss who I used to be. I miss being able to get through class with only my knees hurting. I miss the days when the only thing holding me back was my own determination

Then I look around me and see these wonderful friends Ballet has brought me. These kind people who love me exactly where I am, not for who I used to be. Friends who go deeper. I think of my friends in Kansas who I cherish. I think of all the wonderful things Ballet still gives me, even if I’m not who I used to be, even if I never will be that person again.

I miss Ballet as I used to know it. I miss the release it provided, I miss getting lost in it all. I’m a blubbering mess even writing this damn blog post. But that’s okay. It’s healthy, even. It’s something I need to learn to let myself be okay with.

A piece of me is missing, and I have to learn how to adjust to what life is like without it.

I’m hoping this will be easier once classes start up again and I’m teaching my babies. Just being around them makes me feel better, but also makes me feel like all isn’t lost. It’s a part of me I still have, and I’m grateful for that. I want to make the most of it while I still have it.

Okay, hopefully I have happier things to write soon. Thanks for coming along for the ride, even when it’s dark and not fun or whatever. There is a potential bright spot in the health field. I may have found a doctor that could actually hear me out and help me. We’ll see where it goes and of course I’ll keep you updated.

This entry was posted in dance.

2 comments on “It comes and goes in waves.

  1. vtgem24 says:

    That is exciting news to hear!! Praying for you, sweet friend. ❤ ❤ ❤

    Liked by 1 person

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