One of the reasons I love writing at Teen Skepchick is the community of contributors, and the way we keep track of and care for each other. (For the record, Mindy is the best blogmum in the business.)
So, when we started talking about eating disorders a few weeks back, and discovered just how prevalent they were in our community, we decided to write a series. I offered to write a personal reflection of something or other, and promised to post it on Oct. 20th. I assumed I’d just write some sort of general overview, or a little anecdote, remind everyone that my story wasn’t indicative of everyone’s, and hit publish.
On October 19th, talking to friends in the wee hours of the morning, I told I story I hadn’t shared before–why I rarely talk about dancing, despite training for the majority of my life. It’s not a fun story, it’s not a pleasant story, but it’s the story I ended up writing for Teen Skepchick. I spent that night typing it, sent it to a friend for editing, and posted it.
It’s raw and painful and I’m damn proud of writing it:
I don’t call myself a dancer anymore. I talk about how I used to dance. I cut my hair short–I no longer needed it long enough to put up for a performance. Sometimes it overwhelms me. I can’t hear music without seeing choreography, and that’s been true for as long as I remember. But I no longer see myself performing the pieces.