I have never been a big fan of counseling. I think it works tremendously well for a lot of people but it has never been my cup of tea. Perhaps, it's because my few experiences with it were somewhat forced upon me.
The first time, was when I was in 6th grade. My parents were separated at the time and were going to a counselor whose name rhymed with "walrus". (From here on out, he will be known as "Doctor Walrus", which is actually the name I have always used for him because I hated him from the get go. Hey. When you're a naive ten year old little girl, this is as nasty as the insults can get...and I felt bad for calling him that, not for his sake...but for all of the walruses out there that I insulted. I am so sorry. )
It was bad enough that my parents weren't together during that time and for some reason, they thought it would be a fantastic idea to have my brother Pat and I meet the counselor they had been going to for months. (Enter the Walrus.) I had no interest in lying on a couch, talking to a stranger about how their separation made me feel. I wanted to grab him by his big teeth-y tusks (I've always had a vivid imagination...) and scream "How do you think it makes me feel you big dummy?!?"
Poor guy. He never had a chance.
My second experience with a counselor was when I was in high school. Someone had seen me crying out in the hallway because I had just received my first (and only) "F" on a report card. I was in hysterics and my boyfriend at the time was trying to comfort me but getting absolutely nowhere. I couldn't even talk, I was so upset. I'm not even sure he understood why I was crying so hard in the first place.
The bell rang and I reluctantly let go of him and walked to my next class. A few minutes later, another student came in and handed a note to my teacher. She looked at it briefly, then called my name. I walked up to the front of the class and she handed me the note.
I was being summoned to the guidance counselor.
Seriously? A girl can't stand and cry hysterically in the hallway without having someone concerned she's going to commit suicide? I guess it's sweet that a complete stranger found it in her heart to be concerned about me, but it really only made matters worse.
I remember walking through the hallways, back and forth, not sure where I was going because I had never had to visit the guidance counselor before. When I finally made it she simply asked me why I had been so upset and I told her about my grade. She looked at me like I was an idiot and like "Don't you know there are students here with real problems?!?" I gave her a look back like "Hey lady. This wasn't my idea. Once I get the tears out, I'm good to go.Believe me. I didn't ask for this extra attention."
The third and final time I attempted going to a counselor was during my second semester at UNCW. I had decided that I wanted to drop out. I was miserable, unhappy and borderline anorexic. I couldn't sleep and my grades were starting to slip. I was a walking zombie girl, wearing pajama pants and frazzled hair to class, not caring what was going on around me.
I had mild thoughts about killing myself whenever I saw a sharp object lying in front of me. It could have been a razor or a knife, didn't matter. I somehow always imagined how it would feel to plunge it into my body...just to stop or at least numb the pain I was feeling. These thoughts only lasted a few seconds and were never really real. But, I'm guessing that's not a normal way to feel.
The head administrator of the college called me once he received my drop-out form , exclaiming that I couldn't just quit and blah blah blah. He was kind of an ass actually, which made me want to leave even more. He then suggested...you guessed it...that I go to a counselor.
I thought to myself, "Well self. Third time's a charm."
I went and all the guy had to say to me is "I see you have an engagement ring on. Does this decision have anything to do with that?"
I'm not exactly sure what the words were that came out of my mouth, but I can only imagine it wasn't a pleasant conversation from then on out. All I really remember of this event is that I got defensive and told him that I just wasn't happy there and that it didn't matter that my fiance' at the time wasn't there. I would have been unhappy in Wilmington regardless of the situation. It just wasn't for me and I felt like I needed to regroup and set new boundaries, create new dreams for myself. If I stayed, I would have been wasting my time.
I don't like to waste my time. I like to have a goal in mind. I might get side-tracked at times, but I always reach my destination eventually. I was tired of trying to prove myself to him and to anyone else who just didn't understand. I wasn't asking for understanding.
I was asking for support.
I walked out of his office, not caring whether or not he thought I was being selfish or just plain crazy. Maybe I was being a little of both. I have never been one to give up the chance to search for something better. I already knew that I didn't belong there...so why should I have stayed?
So alas, I decided on my walk back to my dorm room, that I would never go see a counselor again.
It's not that I think anything is wrong with it, I truly don't and as I said before, I know counseling has helped so many people in this cruel world. It's just not for me. Maybe it's because I set up a huge defense when I meet anyone new, not wanting to let my guard down completely, in fear that he might perceive me as being weak...or that he will take advantage of my obvious sensitivity.
There have been many chapters during my life in which the suggestion to talk to a "professional" has been brought to my attention. I just blow it off, knowing that I don't need it.
I'm comfortable enough in my own skin to accept that I am a stubborn individual who doesn't willingly seek out help...even when it's needed. I have to get my own thoughts together in order to understand myself...sometimes it takes awhile and sometimes it's a struggle. I've just always been of the mind, if I can't figure it out, how can a stranger?
I think we all have our different types of "therapy". I've always used my writing as a way to get through and understand all of the random thoughts and ideas that are hiding within my brain.
It's worked so far, so I guess I'm doing something right.
"And When I talk about therapy I know what people think. That it only makes you selfish and in love with your shrink. But oh how I loved everybody else, when I finally got to talk so much about myself."
Dar Williams
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Inspiration Via the Form of a Boosk.
After writing yesterday's post, I became very agitated. I kept reading it over and over again and I felt like I wasn't able to truly get across what I was trying to say. I asked Andrew to analyze it (because he's the best husband ever:), and he sort of got it but not quite to the extent I was aiming for.
I became more frustrated,
And, like he always does, he listened to me rant on and on about the way my brain works, jumping from one random thought to the other, protecting itself and my heart from the wall I put up years ago. I'm so scared to break down that wall because all of that pain is lingering there, awaiting my arrival and I'm not sure I'm ready for it.
I'm not sure I ever will be.
He then asked me if I ever considered trying to write from a fictional aspect, creating a character who is more or less me, but not labeling it as myself.
As he was asking me this, my thoughts went on a rampage as I tried to store and memorize each one for future chapters.
I of course, fought the idea at first. How am I supposed to write about a fictional character who is truly myself? How does that work? How is it any different from writing from a non-fiction angle?
He left the room and I stared at my computer screen.
And I began to type.
30 minutes later, I had the beginnings of a chapter. Two pages, single spaced that were completely raw and true...and about me. The words were all thoughts I must have tucked away at some point in my life and they came out so freely and so flowing. I had no idea that they were even there or why I wrote about that certain time in the first place. It just came out and I was happy by the product and felt better once I got it out on paper in the "open".
Funny thing is, I didn't feel defeated. I thought that if I went back there, I would break down and that old familiar pain would overcome me.
It didn't. It just made me feel more empowered, knowing I had lived the scene I had just panned out...and that I had survived it all.
Suddenly, the thoughts are pouring out and I can't get them written down fast enough.
I'm not sure how this worked, but I'm not complaining.
Thank you boosk for being my inspiration every day. And thank you for knowing me more than anyone else and for listening to all of the ramblings of my brain as I try to figure out my next "project" or "endeavor". Most importantly, thank you for loving me in spite of all of this.
You are my muse and I am forever grateful to you.
I became more frustrated,
And, like he always does, he listened to me rant on and on about the way my brain works, jumping from one random thought to the other, protecting itself and my heart from the wall I put up years ago. I'm so scared to break down that wall because all of that pain is lingering there, awaiting my arrival and I'm not sure I'm ready for it.
I'm not sure I ever will be.
He then asked me if I ever considered trying to write from a fictional aspect, creating a character who is more or less me, but not labeling it as myself.
As he was asking me this, my thoughts went on a rampage as I tried to store and memorize each one for future chapters.
I of course, fought the idea at first. How am I supposed to write about a fictional character who is truly myself? How does that work? How is it any different from writing from a non-fiction angle?
He left the room and I stared at my computer screen.
And I began to type.
30 minutes later, I had the beginnings of a chapter. Two pages, single spaced that were completely raw and true...and about me. The words were all thoughts I must have tucked away at some point in my life and they came out so freely and so flowing. I had no idea that they were even there or why I wrote about that certain time in the first place. It just came out and I was happy by the product and felt better once I got it out on paper in the "open".
Funny thing is, I didn't feel defeated. I thought that if I went back there, I would break down and that old familiar pain would overcome me.
It didn't. It just made me feel more empowered, knowing I had lived the scene I had just panned out...and that I had survived it all.
Suddenly, the thoughts are pouring out and I can't get them written down fast enough.
I'm not sure how this worked, but I'm not complaining.
Thank you boosk for being my inspiration every day. And thank you for knowing me more than anyone else and for listening to all of the ramblings of my brain as I try to figure out my next "project" or "endeavor". Most importantly, thank you for loving me in spite of all of this.
You are my muse and I am forever grateful to you.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Rediscovering Self Discovery
It's hard when you are so happy and your brain is trying to empower you to write about such sad events. This is not to say that my entire life has been sad. All in all, I've had a wonderful life thus far. Yes. There have been many rocks, twists and turns along the road, but it's these memories that have made me into a stronger person. It's these memories that make me so appreciative of what I have now.
But sometimes I let myself falter. Sometimes I cave and become that small, insecure being that somehow always felt invisible.
Sometimes it seems easier to be her when in all reality, I could never ever go back.
It's been two months since I have written anything real and it's the fear of what will come out that's holding me back. I've never disciplined myself to sit and think only about me and my life experiences. I always find myself going back and forth between one person to another, wanting to know more about them, too scared to open the closed door within myself to learn more of who I am; too scared to reveal the true person that lies within.
What if no one likes her?
What if I don't like her?
I've become so frustrated while reading old poetry by a girl who could only see the suffering in the world. Wars, famine and tears made her angry and powerless; keeping all of that pent up anxiety mostly inside until she burst out with random words on paper. Poetry of one failed relationship after the other.
The names always changed, but the poems remained the same.
None of this is interesting. It's simply annoying.
God. I was so annoying!
I mean, I am all about peace and love and am completely anti-war, but writing 300 some poems about this mere fact got me absolutely nowhere. It only lead to more bad poetry and less of me being able to understand that I couldn't save the whole entire world. It was exhausting and even now, it's exhausting to go back and read it all; to feel that old familiar pain that is always lingering somewhere within me.
In other words, rediscovering one's self is an absolute bitch.
It's no wonder that I often find myself half passed out on the couch in the evenings, asking myself over and over again, what did I do to make me so tired? The truth of it is that I spend a lot of my energy on a daily basis worrying about every little thing from if I forgot to say "Thank You" in the checkout line to "How in the world did Amendment One get passed?" Sometimes, in fact most times, I can't shut my brain off long enough to even get a decent night's sleep.
And yet I'm not unhappy. I'm the happiest I've ever been. I don't feel like I have ever been a negative person and yet so much of my writing has come out in negative thoughts. Perhaps "negative" isn't the correct word. Maybe "real" is more fitting. Everything I write about is about "real world issues". But it's hard being such a positive, happy, daisy picking person, constantly thinking about everything that's wrong in the world.
Why think about it then?
Because you have to if you want to be a part of fixing it.
I have always tried to see the silver lining in every situation I've encountered. I admit, there was a brief time when I wanted to give up and let myself drown in the current I was fighting so hard against. I wanted so badly to go back to the days of watching the newest Disney movie with my Dad, riding bikes out in the front yard with my brother and taking walks and picking flowers in the garden with my Mom.
I didn't realize that I never really had to stop doing these things. Society secretly took over without me even realizing and I got so caught up in what's right and wrong, appropriate and inappropriate. I got lost in the shuffle of everything.
It was no one's fault but my own.
At one point, I think I truly lost my favorite part of myself; the naivety of believing that everyone is truly good on the inside, it just sometimes comes out bad on the outside. I let this one personality trait take over completely and it nearly erased me into someone I no longer recognized. I became jaded and always hurt and suspicious, never trusting and always thinking everyone had a secret agenda. I went from one extreme to the other. There was no happy medium. I was "Little Girl Lost".
But I broke free, and though sometimes I still have days full of nothing but worry and regret, I look around me and am reminded how very far I have come. I refuse to be taken back in by the evils that threaten my happiness. It may catch me off guard from time to time, but I will always be just a little bit stronger.
I will always win in the end.
"I was born to laugh. I learned to laugh through my tears. I was born to love. I'm gonna learn to love, without fear."
Over the Rhine
But sometimes I let myself falter. Sometimes I cave and become that small, insecure being that somehow always felt invisible.
Sometimes it seems easier to be her when in all reality, I could never ever go back.
It's been two months since I have written anything real and it's the fear of what will come out that's holding me back. I've never disciplined myself to sit and think only about me and my life experiences. I always find myself going back and forth between one person to another, wanting to know more about them, too scared to open the closed door within myself to learn more of who I am; too scared to reveal the true person that lies within.
What if no one likes her?
What if I don't like her?
I've become so frustrated while reading old poetry by a girl who could only see the suffering in the world. Wars, famine and tears made her angry and powerless; keeping all of that pent up anxiety mostly inside until she burst out with random words on paper. Poetry of one failed relationship after the other.
The names always changed, but the poems remained the same.
None of this is interesting. It's simply annoying.
God. I was so annoying!
I mean, I am all about peace and love and am completely anti-war, but writing 300 some poems about this mere fact got me absolutely nowhere. It only lead to more bad poetry and less of me being able to understand that I couldn't save the whole entire world. It was exhausting and even now, it's exhausting to go back and read it all; to feel that old familiar pain that is always lingering somewhere within me.
In other words, rediscovering one's self is an absolute bitch.
It's no wonder that I often find myself half passed out on the couch in the evenings, asking myself over and over again, what did I do to make me so tired? The truth of it is that I spend a lot of my energy on a daily basis worrying about every little thing from if I forgot to say "Thank You" in the checkout line to "How in the world did Amendment One get passed?" Sometimes, in fact most times, I can't shut my brain off long enough to even get a decent night's sleep.
And yet I'm not unhappy. I'm the happiest I've ever been. I don't feel like I have ever been a negative person and yet so much of my writing has come out in negative thoughts. Perhaps "negative" isn't the correct word. Maybe "real" is more fitting. Everything I write about is about "real world issues". But it's hard being such a positive, happy, daisy picking person, constantly thinking about everything that's wrong in the world.
Why think about it then?
Because you have to if you want to be a part of fixing it.
I have always tried to see the silver lining in every situation I've encountered. I admit, there was a brief time when I wanted to give up and let myself drown in the current I was fighting so hard against. I wanted so badly to go back to the days of watching the newest Disney movie with my Dad, riding bikes out in the front yard with my brother and taking walks and picking flowers in the garden with my Mom.
I didn't realize that I never really had to stop doing these things. Society secretly took over without me even realizing and I got so caught up in what's right and wrong, appropriate and inappropriate. I got lost in the shuffle of everything.
It was no one's fault but my own.
At one point, I think I truly lost my favorite part of myself; the naivety of believing that everyone is truly good on the inside, it just sometimes comes out bad on the outside. I let this one personality trait take over completely and it nearly erased me into someone I no longer recognized. I became jaded and always hurt and suspicious, never trusting and always thinking everyone had a secret agenda. I went from one extreme to the other. There was no happy medium. I was "Little Girl Lost".
But I broke free, and though sometimes I still have days full of nothing but worry and regret, I look around me and am reminded how very far I have come. I refuse to be taken back in by the evils that threaten my happiness. It may catch me off guard from time to time, but I will always be just a little bit stronger.
I will always win in the end.
"I was born to laugh. I learned to laugh through my tears. I was born to love. I'm gonna learn to love, without fear."
Over the Rhine
Monday, May 28, 2012
Bucket List.
1. Attend a music festival for the entire week.
2. Travel all of Europe, one city at a time.
3. Actually finish this book and getting it published.
4. Visit every state in the U.S. (We're over halfway there!)
5. Read every single book I own.
6. Create a quilt design made entirely of all of my old "hippie" clothes.
7. Perform a gig in public...just once.
8. Sit in a small Paris Cafe' people watching.
9. Visit Audrey Hepburn's grave-site.
10. Meet (and possibly make out with) Christian Bale.
11. See all 7 Wonders of the World.
12. Work with Special Needs Children.
13. Teach a yoga class.
14. Attend a protest in Washington D.C.
15. Buy a house.
16. Plant and maintain an herb garden.
17. Make my own hand soaps and lotions.
18. Find my dream job.
19. Learn sign language.
20. Hike every trail on the Blue Ridge Parkway.
21. Meet the Muppets.
22. Write a play.
23. Interact one on one with a gorilla.
24. Swim with the dolphins.
25. Teach a child how to read.
26. Conquer my fear of the elderly.
27. Make history.
28. Learn how to play the banjo.
29. See all of the Rocky movies.
30. Become a professional photographer.
31. Visit where the original Woodstock took place.
32. Take Andrew to Disney World and Universal Studios.
33. Build something from scratch.
34. Create something wonderful.
35. Own a donkey...and name it "Moose".
36. Paint a picture.
37. See a play on Broadway.
38. Go to Strawberry Fields one year on December 8th.
39. Play and sing a song with my brother Pat.
40. Spend an entire day without worrying.
41. Watch all 8 Harry Potter movies in a day.
42. Complete a secret mission.
43. Put every picture we've taken in some kind of frame or photo album.
44. Pay off all of my bills.
45. Get all of the bird seed out of my car.
46. Attend the opera and ballet.
47. Dance in public without caring what other people think.
48. Sing karaoke.
49. Feed the hungry.
50. Live happily ever after.
2. Travel all of Europe, one city at a time.
3. Actually finish this book and getting it published.
4. Visit every state in the U.S. (We're over halfway there!)
5. Read every single book I own.
6. Create a quilt design made entirely of all of my old "hippie" clothes.
7. Perform a gig in public...just once.
8. Sit in a small Paris Cafe' people watching.
9. Visit Audrey Hepburn's grave-site.
10. Meet (and possibly make out with) Christian Bale.
11. See all 7 Wonders of the World.
12. Work with Special Needs Children.
13. Teach a yoga class.
14. Attend a protest in Washington D.C.
15. Buy a house.
16. Plant and maintain an herb garden.
17. Make my own hand soaps and lotions.
18. Find my dream job.
19. Learn sign language.
20. Hike every trail on the Blue Ridge Parkway.
21. Meet the Muppets.
22. Write a play.
23. Interact one on one with a gorilla.
24. Swim with the dolphins.
25. Teach a child how to read.
26. Conquer my fear of the elderly.
27. Make history.
28. Learn how to play the banjo.
29. See all of the Rocky movies.
30. Become a professional photographer.
31. Visit where the original Woodstock took place.
32. Take Andrew to Disney World and Universal Studios.
33. Build something from scratch.
34. Create something wonderful.
35. Own a donkey...and name it "Moose".
36. Paint a picture.
37. See a play on Broadway.
38. Go to Strawberry Fields one year on December 8th.
39. Play and sing a song with my brother Pat.
40. Spend an entire day without worrying.
41. Watch all 8 Harry Potter movies in a day.
42. Complete a secret mission.
43. Put every picture we've taken in some kind of frame or photo album.
44. Pay off all of my bills.
45. Get all of the bird seed out of my car.
46. Attend the opera and ballet.
47. Dance in public without caring what other people think.
48. Sing karaoke.
49. Feed the hungry.
50. Live happily ever after.
Let the Inspiration Commence!
I have a writer's nook!!! May the inspiration to write come forth and bring me mad story writing skills so that I can actually accomplish this feat!!
Isn't it beautiful? It's everything and more that I imagined it to be. I am sitting in it right now, drinking my morning cup of tea and awaiting all of the ideas to overflow in my ever so fading memory. Thank you writing nook gods....you have answered my prayers.
This is a close-up of the lamp. And yes. Those are daisies. AND it's a lamp from the early 60's...so it is vintage. My heart is swimming with happiness as I keep peering into it's beautiful soft light, listening to the birds chirping outside of my window. The light is blinding me from everything else that is going on around me...including the multiple times at least two of our five cats have tried to jump into my lap. Nothing can distract me from here on. This is a magical lamp and can steer me in no wrong direction.
The turtle sitting beside it is named "Monty"...if you were wondering.
Ready. Set. Go!
Isn't it beautiful? It's everything and more that I imagined it to be. I am sitting in it right now, drinking my morning cup of tea and awaiting all of the ideas to overflow in my ever so fading memory. Thank you writing nook gods....you have answered my prayers.
The turtle sitting beside it is named "Monty"...if you were wondering.
Ready. Set. Go!
Thursday, March 29, 2012
The Dance Recitals
There were many.
I took dance lessons from the ages of 5 to 11. I've never been much for being a part of a public display. During parties, I'm the quiet one in the corner or hiding behind the snack table. I'm more of an observer, never really wanting to be in the spotlight. I often feel invisible; not so much in a "I'm feeling sorry for myself because no one notices me" sort of way, but in a "Leave me alone, I'm preoccupied" sort of way.
But everyone likes to be applauded. And somehow when I was dressed from head to toe in tights, feathers and 80's sequins, I became what every little girl dreams of becoming...
A star.
My parents always made such a big deal out of attending every performance. They sat through hours and hours of practices. I was one of the lucky ones. I had many classmates who had the infamous "stage mom's", covering their entire faces with too bright blushes and lipsticks, making them watch how much or how little they ate. It was never anything as crazy as "Toddlers and Tiaras", but it was still foreign in my world. My parents wanted me to have fun and not get caught up in being the best or the prettiest.
Dancing was the only thing back then that made me feel like a girl. I was a tom boy who much preferred wearing holey jeans and planning the next mud pie attack on my older brother. I didn't mind getting dirty or playing basketball with the rest of the neighborhood boys. I felt weird and anything but pretty on Sunday mornings when my Mom would curl my hair and put me in a dress. I found myself counting the seconds until I would be able to put on regular clothes again....unless it was a leotard and then I wanted to shine and twirl and be just like any other little girl.
In retrospect, I was one of the best in my acrobatic class and I reveled in being good at something. I have a memory of switching dance teachers and having to audition for which class I was to be put in. Another one of my previous classmates was auditioning with me and we were both very nervous, not so much about which class we would be put in, but whether or not we would be placed together.
After the audition, Ms. Pam, one of the instructors, took me aside and simply told me that I was better than my friend but that I could have the option to stay in a lower ranking acrobatics class or move up to the next level. This was the first big decision I remember ever having to make without asking my parents to make the right choice for me. Believe me, I tried, but they declined and told me it was my call.
Well crap. How was I supposed to make such a HUGE decision as a 10 year old? Didn't they know that if I chose poorly, my life would be ruined? It was too much pressure and I hated that I would have to choose between my dance "career" and my friend.
In the end, I chose dance and took the opportunity to learn more in the higher level class. My friend and I became only acquaintances in passing after that and I never fully recovered from the aftermath. I felt guilty for not staying with her. In looking back, I think it was probably my own guilt that kept us apart. I had built up this whole big scenario about how she must have hated me after ditching her when in all reality, she probably never really knew the details behind the situation.
I continued to learn new tricks and soon became the best within even the higher level group. My mom would always drive me to practices and afterwards, we would stop at McDonald's for a chocolate milkshake...that is, if I felt I deserved one. This was based on how well I felt like I had done during practice. If I didn't feel like I had done my best, I would decline the milkshake. Though there were times when I caved and my Mom would talk me into needing a treat to make myself feel better.
That's what mom's are for right?
It was soon after that first year of the new dance class that I began to suffer with my body image. Perhaps it was the too tight, bright pink uni-tards that left nothing to the imagination, but I began to become ultra critical about how I looked in anything. Suddenly, I began to decline the chocolate milkshakes for a whole different reason.
There were other changes in my life too. It was during this time that I was starting to notice some tension between my parents and I was getting ready to start middle school as well. Many of my friends and I were separated once we went to sixth grade and I was suddenly reminded of the decision I had made between dance and my one friend I had left from my previous dance class. How could I be so selfish as to give that up for something I was already starting to lose interest in? What was I thinking?
My performances began to falter from all of the stress I was undergoing between school ,my parents, friends and the never ending fear that I was soon going to have to start wearing a bra. I think I was the only sixth grader in the history of middle schoolers who was diagnosed with a stomach ulcer just from worrying alone. I started to notice boys but never in a million years would I have had enough nerve to ask one of them out, let alone even say "hello". I chose to be oblivious of the fact that they were starting to notice me too. I was too naive back then to think for one second that any one of them might have been interested in me. I was the shy, short, still slightly under developed pre-teen, caught between wanting to run around barefoot and climbing trees in the backyard after school and discovering "Teen Beat" and make-up.
I remember learning a new trick called a "flop", which is like a front handspring, only instead of landing on your feet, you land on your heels then "flop" on your butt with legs stretched out. I was the first to get it right and secretly loved the attention in being so. I ignored the pain in my heels and ankles. I would sometimes be walking to class and just fall down. I often attributed this to my well known clumsiness. I didn't want to admit that I was really in pain. The other girls started to catch up with me in their progress and I was no longer the best.
My Mom began taking me to physical therapy to help my heels and my knees. I had to get special tennis shoes to help support the arches of my feet. (I've always kind of walked like a duck and wear shoes out quicker than any normal human being would.) I was awkward and felt like a foreigner in my own skin. Front handsprings and cartwheels soon got pushed to the back of my mind. I felt like a klutz no matter what I did and though I was almost a different little girl when given a ballet bar or a gymnastic matte, I somehow convinced myself I couldn't do it anymore. More so, I convinced myself that I didn't want to do it anymore.
So I quit.
I threw it all away because I no longer felt pretty and special in the spotlight, adorned in spandex and sequins. I wasn't a cute little girl anymore who shook her little tush in front of an audience. I was a freak and had no interest in flaunting it.
I think there will always be a part of me that regrets giving up on the dream of one day appearing on center stage just because of my lack of self-esteem. I wonder how much further I would have gotten should I had just shrugged it aside and accepted the fact that every little girl goes through such changes. I so badly wanted to hold onto my childhood. The next stage in my life crept up on me and I wasn't prepared. I wasn't ready to pack away my barbie house and cabbage patch dolls. I wasn't ready to have a "big girl" room or be worried about when I was going to start my period or staying up late, watching the phone, willing it to ring and hearing the boy I liked voice on the other end.
I wasn't ready to grow up. I'm not sure any of us ever are...
Sometimes, it's just nice to hold on to the memory of something good; the time when your parents could do no wrong, before you realize that they are only human too. A time when your worst fear was whether or not you saw your schools name flash across the t.v. screen, letting you know if you had the next day off for a snow day. A time of innocence and freedom that I think we all took for grated in some way or another. A time before things got complicated.
"I was a kid that you would like
Just a small boy on her bike
Riding topless, yeah
I never cared who saw
My neighbor come outside
To say, "Get your shirt,"
I said "No way, it's the last time
I'm not breaking any law"
Dar Williams
I took dance lessons from the ages of 5 to 11. I've never been much for being a part of a public display. During parties, I'm the quiet one in the corner or hiding behind the snack table. I'm more of an observer, never really wanting to be in the spotlight. I often feel invisible; not so much in a "I'm feeling sorry for myself because no one notices me" sort of way, but in a "Leave me alone, I'm preoccupied" sort of way.
But everyone likes to be applauded. And somehow when I was dressed from head to toe in tights, feathers and 80's sequins, I became what every little girl dreams of becoming...
A star.
My parents always made such a big deal out of attending every performance. They sat through hours and hours of practices. I was one of the lucky ones. I had many classmates who had the infamous "stage mom's", covering their entire faces with too bright blushes and lipsticks, making them watch how much or how little they ate. It was never anything as crazy as "Toddlers and Tiaras", but it was still foreign in my world. My parents wanted me to have fun and not get caught up in being the best or the prettiest.
Dancing was the only thing back then that made me feel like a girl. I was a tom boy who much preferred wearing holey jeans and planning the next mud pie attack on my older brother. I didn't mind getting dirty or playing basketball with the rest of the neighborhood boys. I felt weird and anything but pretty on Sunday mornings when my Mom would curl my hair and put me in a dress. I found myself counting the seconds until I would be able to put on regular clothes again....unless it was a leotard and then I wanted to shine and twirl and be just like any other little girl.
In retrospect, I was one of the best in my acrobatic class and I reveled in being good at something. I have a memory of switching dance teachers and having to audition for which class I was to be put in. Another one of my previous classmates was auditioning with me and we were both very nervous, not so much about which class we would be put in, but whether or not we would be placed together.
After the audition, Ms. Pam, one of the instructors, took me aside and simply told me that I was better than my friend but that I could have the option to stay in a lower ranking acrobatics class or move up to the next level. This was the first big decision I remember ever having to make without asking my parents to make the right choice for me. Believe me, I tried, but they declined and told me it was my call.
Well crap. How was I supposed to make such a HUGE decision as a 10 year old? Didn't they know that if I chose poorly, my life would be ruined? It was too much pressure and I hated that I would have to choose between my dance "career" and my friend.
In the end, I chose dance and took the opportunity to learn more in the higher level class. My friend and I became only acquaintances in passing after that and I never fully recovered from the aftermath. I felt guilty for not staying with her. In looking back, I think it was probably my own guilt that kept us apart. I had built up this whole big scenario about how she must have hated me after ditching her when in all reality, she probably never really knew the details behind the situation.
I continued to learn new tricks and soon became the best within even the higher level group. My mom would always drive me to practices and afterwards, we would stop at McDonald's for a chocolate milkshake...that is, if I felt I deserved one. This was based on how well I felt like I had done during practice. If I didn't feel like I had done my best, I would decline the milkshake. Though there were times when I caved and my Mom would talk me into needing a treat to make myself feel better.
That's what mom's are for right?
It was soon after that first year of the new dance class that I began to suffer with my body image. Perhaps it was the too tight, bright pink uni-tards that left nothing to the imagination, but I began to become ultra critical about how I looked in anything. Suddenly, I began to decline the chocolate milkshakes for a whole different reason.
There were other changes in my life too. It was during this time that I was starting to notice some tension between my parents and I was getting ready to start middle school as well. Many of my friends and I were separated once we went to sixth grade and I was suddenly reminded of the decision I had made between dance and my one friend I had left from my previous dance class. How could I be so selfish as to give that up for something I was already starting to lose interest in? What was I thinking?
My performances began to falter from all of the stress I was undergoing between school ,my parents, friends and the never ending fear that I was soon going to have to start wearing a bra. I think I was the only sixth grader in the history of middle schoolers who was diagnosed with a stomach ulcer just from worrying alone. I started to notice boys but never in a million years would I have had enough nerve to ask one of them out, let alone even say "hello". I chose to be oblivious of the fact that they were starting to notice me too. I was too naive back then to think for one second that any one of them might have been interested in me. I was the shy, short, still slightly under developed pre-teen, caught between wanting to run around barefoot and climbing trees in the backyard after school and discovering "Teen Beat" and make-up.
I remember learning a new trick called a "flop", which is like a front handspring, only instead of landing on your feet, you land on your heels then "flop" on your butt with legs stretched out. I was the first to get it right and secretly loved the attention in being so. I ignored the pain in my heels and ankles. I would sometimes be walking to class and just fall down. I often attributed this to my well known clumsiness. I didn't want to admit that I was really in pain. The other girls started to catch up with me in their progress and I was no longer the best.
My Mom began taking me to physical therapy to help my heels and my knees. I had to get special tennis shoes to help support the arches of my feet. (I've always kind of walked like a duck and wear shoes out quicker than any normal human being would.) I was awkward and felt like a foreigner in my own skin. Front handsprings and cartwheels soon got pushed to the back of my mind. I felt like a klutz no matter what I did and though I was almost a different little girl when given a ballet bar or a gymnastic matte, I somehow convinced myself I couldn't do it anymore. More so, I convinced myself that I didn't want to do it anymore.
So I quit.
I threw it all away because I no longer felt pretty and special in the spotlight, adorned in spandex and sequins. I wasn't a cute little girl anymore who shook her little tush in front of an audience. I was a freak and had no interest in flaunting it.
I think there will always be a part of me that regrets giving up on the dream of one day appearing on center stage just because of my lack of self-esteem. I wonder how much further I would have gotten should I had just shrugged it aside and accepted the fact that every little girl goes through such changes. I so badly wanted to hold onto my childhood. The next stage in my life crept up on me and I wasn't prepared. I wasn't ready to pack away my barbie house and cabbage patch dolls. I wasn't ready to have a "big girl" room or be worried about when I was going to start my period or staying up late, watching the phone, willing it to ring and hearing the boy I liked voice on the other end.
I wasn't ready to grow up. I'm not sure any of us ever are...
Sometimes, it's just nice to hold on to the memory of something good; the time when your parents could do no wrong, before you realize that they are only human too. A time when your worst fear was whether or not you saw your schools name flash across the t.v. screen, letting you know if you had the next day off for a snow day. A time of innocence and freedom that I think we all took for grated in some way or another. A time before things got complicated.
"I was a kid that you would like
Just a small boy on her bike
Riding topless, yeah
I never cared who saw
My neighbor come outside
To say, "Get your shirt,"
I said "No way, it's the last time
I'm not breaking any law"
Dar Williams
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