Ballerina

A child is dancing.  She is at the beach -- alone, uninhibited, barefoot; she is twirling.  She laughs at her dizziness, stumbles and picks herself up, dances once more.  Her music is the waves crashing on the sand, the wind whipping through her hair; her song is one she creates, different every time, yet always her own, her voice sweet and clear and innocent.  There is no choreography and therefore there are no missteps; she is light and free and belongs only to herself.

And then one day, somebody sees her.  Watches her quietly for a while -- then entices her.  Whispers.  Come with me.  I will make you better.  I will make you stronger.  I will make you delicate, fragile, enchanting, precise, ethereal.  I will make you perfect.  Take my hand.  Come with me.

She goes willingly, trusting.  She does not yet realize the magnitude of that which she leaves behind.  At first, they work together.  They are a team.  She still loves to dance, she still sings her own song, but now he whispers to her from the wings.  Point your toes, arch your back, faster now; sing softer, softer.  Suddenly, she is aware of herself; corporal, flawed.  She no longer dances at the beach, under the stars, but rather on stage, under the spotlight.  Her movements are precise, practiced, routine; her music is an orchestra, her voice silenced.  She looks to Him for direction.  There is an audience now and they watch her, eyes wide, applaud her, give her flowers and kisses and admiration.

Sometimes she wishes she could go back to dancing on the beach.  But He reminds her:  You were nothing then.  You were nothing without me.

Slowly, steadily, without really even noticing, she begins to grow hollow.  She is voiceless and wooden; her dance, once a feeling in her soul, becomes nothing more to her than a progression of steps.  Waiting in the wings, He calls to her, reprimands her, demands perfection, reminds her that He is in charge, that she will never be enough.  And at the end of her dance each night, she no longer allows herself to enjoy the applause, because she knows that they do not belong to her, that they never will.

In time, His voice becomes intertwined with her own.  She can no longer determine where he ends and she begins.  The music from the orchestra grows louder, louder, louder, until it is deafening.  She spins and spins and spins, faster, numb to her dizziness, her breathlessness, her inability to stop.  The world around her becomes a blur.  She cannot see the faces of the audience, eyes full of concern.  She cannot hear them call to her, shouting to stop, please stop, you're hurting yourself, we are scared, you have to stop.  Some people leave, unwilling or unable to watch her self-destruct.  Others try to grab her by the wrist, slow her down, but she pulls away; all she can hear is His voice, seductive: Dance, dance, soon you will be enough; delicate, fragile, enchanting, precise, ethereal, perfect, dance, keep dancing, you were nothing without me, you will never be enough, dance.

The more she dances, the louder He screams; a deafening crescendo, a deadly duet.  She keeps dancing because she is too afraid to stop.  She dances until her feet are blistered and bloody.  She dances until her heart flutters and her legs cramp, she dances until her body is broken and battered, she dances until she is blinded by the spotlight and her tears.  She dances until she collapses, until she has nothing left to give, until she submits to exhaustion.  She dances until she is nothing more than a shell of a girl lying down on a darkened stage in an empty auditorium.

He is gone.

At first she is too afraid to pick herself up.  She waits for Him to tell her what to do next.  She waits for His direction.  But He is gone.  Yet His presence lingers, and like the eerie pain of a phantom limb, the hurt resonates.  She longs for Him, she longs for His comfort, His presence.  She longs for the girl she was when she was with Him, because she is afraid of the girl she might become without Him.  She longs for the audience, for the adoration, the accomplishment, the perfection.  But, in her own time, she lets herself remember; they never belonged to her.

A child is dancing.  She is not the same child she was before; her dance is no longer innocent, carefree.  After years of being controlled, her feet are reluctant to take risks; after years of being silenced, her voice resists being heard.  Her steps are tentative at first, her voice silent, then shaky -- broken, unsure.  Her stage is the sand beneath her feet, her audience the stars.  There is a vulnerability to her now, and also a strength in having survived.  A grace in overcoming.  A relinquishing of control that leads not to perfection, but to authenticity.  Her dance is not perfect, but it is her own.  And it is beautiful.

*****

So many of you, dear family and friends, have been by my side as I have battled this monster of an eating disorder.  You have laughed with me, cried with me, pushed me, held me up, forgiven me, supported me, cared for me, loved me.  I want to share my real self with you.  Not the Kara stolen by anorexia, but the Kara who used to play soccer on Saturday mornings.  The Kara who loved spaghetti and meatballs and hated spinach.  The Kara who laughed like her mother.  

I hope that you will join me as I reclaim my dance.  

Love,

Kara