I’ve been sick for quite a while now.
Bodies are amazing things, both in the way they can perform such incredible feats and in the way they can be their own weapon of mass destruction.
As I’m slowly making a recovery, I can see that I’ve lost weight. Not a huge amount, perhaps 10 pounds. It shows in the loss of my cheeks and breasts mostly. I don’t like the thinness of my face, It makes me look old I think. I am feeling a somewhat perverse pleasure at seeing the reemergence of my hipbones and being able to fasten my bra one hook tighter.
I was a ballerina when I was younger.
I suffered from anorexia, or if the truth be told, I had a love affair with anorexia. It is after all, that bar to pass for so many dancers. The less of me there was, the more ethereal I felt. Every cigarette, every cup of black coffee brought me closer to my ideal and I loved that pas de deux with my twisted perception. Many things helped me to recover eventually. Love, maturity, injury that meant teaching and not The Corps, a wish for children.
I must admit a truth though.
As the pounds fall away, it feels like my body had become its own archaeologist. Working from the inside out, using tools with Latin names. Delicately chipping, digging, brushing away… the accumulated layers of me. I like seeing the long-buried bones of the ballerina emerge and the feeling that…
I’m finally getting to the core of me.
11 December 2013