I'm sorry

For the many times I have stood in front of a class reading, here is to you. For every knuckle I cracked, the insane amount of words lost from my brain to my tongue. And For every missed meal, the pick at yourself in the mirror trick, where the cards are pounds, and the only real trick is for me- on how I can get them to disappear.

4th grade the bomb shelters were built in my mind because of the wars in my ears on others opinions and my fleeting confidence I thought my pink backpack could restore. I packed insecurity to lunch because that's what the other girls did. After a while I brought humor to the party instead of an appetizer. The funniest girl in the room some might say, I love to laugh. And laughter sometimes replaced the next however many hours of food. If I were to go into detail it would the same story as the statistics would say. Do not think this is an invite to the most low place I have ever been- when we share these with people they think they need to take a piece- I'm begging you not to- to not touch this mentality of broken glass no matter how shiny.

As a dancer my body is a tool, not for my own will- but for the next 8 count. My favorite thing, and my worst enemy. Brought up on your toes in mirrors is just as dangerous as a circus act. Because when your mind warps how you look. You aren't in a house of mirrors.You’re juggling words not knives, but just as sharp. I am recovered- so then why do I keep an emotional suitcase under my bed in my heart, of all the wounds from loud drunk uncles or so called friends only asking why I wasn't wearing a bikini to embarrass  me. It's fabric on my body? When did I learn that eating small amounts was polite, or boring narcissistic conversation was enjoyable? When did I start to care about what others wanted me to be- then who I am? Clique- yes, but not given enough thought- yes.

I counted calories like ticking time bombs waiting for the New Year's ball to drop full of compliments like, you look so thin, to which all I could do was smile for them, with a heart so weak like toothpicks. Oh - and don't forget your tooth picks. Your smile is what needs to stay perfect- brush, floss, smile, repeat. This is not morbid- there is no pity. There may be a hotline, but the smartest person I ever called was my self. And god knows there were a lot of missed calls. The day when I called and finally answered and said I'm tired of no sunrises- when I said if I could just breathe and not have to feel the weight on my chest anymore of all this.

Not the physical weight.

I am recovered. So body I'm sorry for abusing you I'm sorry that even though there is a hotline for domestic abuse- how do you call it when it's yourself.

I am recovered,I love to teach young girls to dance, I have dreams of opening my own studio and having an all acceptance policy written and stamped not only on the door but on these girls crowns they wear. Individual, stunning, celebrated crowns. No, not crowns, armor, I will teach these girls not the armor of the fleeting outside, - lipstick and small bites- but on the inside- confidence and a fierce reality of the power they possess- sometimes only to fight yourself.

I am not recovered, I am recovering. And if in some way you can relate to this- or if you can not I ask that you would pay more attention to yourself. To the gold specks in your eyes, your ringing laughter, the way loud music makes you feel. The taste of now, the smell of hope, and the warmth of knowing you’re enough. because for a reason so spectacular- you are your Battle scars and all. I may have some of mine in a drawer somewhere- to stumble upon in the future, like old elementary photos, but I also keep others of them with me- to let other people know they can stop hating what is fighting for them- and can laugh in the face of tomorrow- because even at your lowest, you're powerful enough to destroy it. whatever it is.

So I'm sorry.

I'm sorry but it's not prideful to love yourself.