vulnerABILITY
My mother is Jewish,
my father is Catholic,
and I probably need therapy.
Retrospectively, I'm rather certain I needed it,
regardless of not wanting it.
Always struggled with striving for perfection
and naturally, I failed.
Fear of failure has dictated
my actions, happiness, and self-esteem
molding me into a prisoner of fear.
Eventually, I recognized neither failure nor success
determines inferiority of superiority;
inferiority and superiority are reverse sides of the same coin. Accomplishments, satisfaction, greatness...
it all comes when you realize that the coin itself is spurious.
We have all experienced failure.
You have.
I have.
Your hero has.
You may not know it,
you may not see it,
but I have been a failure.
Not a small, little failure either, but rather a massive one
that cost me the respect of others and got my role model card revoked.
Some define failure as a poor test grade,
while others would claim failure is there sports team losing
or not getting enough likes on their selfie.
Personally, I listened.
I listened to all the negative chatter that I could possibly have heard about myself.
I listened to friends, dance teachers, even family insult me creating within me an epicenter of insecurity.
Compounding upon my flaws,
was the extreme pressure within the realm of dance to remain thin,
plus a harsh stigma associated with anything less than perfectly proportioned dancers.
I wish I could proudly assert that I could not be categorized as the cliché ballerina with anorexia, but much to my frustration and regret,
I cannot.
In middle school, I had once failed letting all the negative chatter drown me completely.
I let my peers down, I let my family down,
and I let myself down.
I acquiesced to the pressures placed on me from everyone -
including myself. My pursuit of perfection could have killed me, literally.
My perspective was warped because I equated skinniness with success
and I had absolutely no love, pride, or hope for myself or my body.
I had figured that being skinny would conclude the matter, but I never became skinny enough.
I was a slave to the opinions of others.
I even got to choose my master,
but that didn't make me any less of a slave.
I got "help".
I didn't want it.
I lied constantly to them.
I decided that perfect people didn't need therapy so I kept lying and my parents' worry stopped.
I was released and all was well until last year.
The first time can count as a mistake, but relapsing was truly a failure.
People looked up to me, I was involved in mentor programs at dance and church,
but I wasn't good enough. I
had a leading role in the big dance performance and I was a junior in high school.
I had big shoes to fill and a lot to be perfect at.
I was dancing until ten at night, doing homework until three in the morning, and then waking up before school to run and to swim.
I couldn't manage it. Help from friends saved me this time.
It appears, again, I am no more than a mere cliché, preaching that hindsight is 20/20.
If I had to articulate the encapsulating statement of growth
I have gained from my disorder and the related experiences I would claim that
hating yourself is absolutely the most inhumane thing you can do.
I've revealed this to my parents, select friends, and many therapists, but most importantly,
I have shared it as encouragement for a few others -
either to get help or dismiss thoughts of inadequacy.
I now view everyday as a new opportunity to break negative cycles.
I know love is louder than my dreams of perfection.
Mere words cannot describe how freeing forgiveness is.
Hurt people hurt people.
Healed people heal peopled.
Changed people change people.