Saturday, April 21, 2012

Step Ninety-Four: Its Not My Secret Anymore.

Dear Readers, 


I've kept these words to myself. I've kept this secret for a really long time. Through a very long process I've finally realized - this is not my secret anymore! I proclaim freedom! 


And as a warning, it's very graphic.


*~*~*


It started when I was six. Quiet, tempting words. Words that reached into the depths of my heart and asked me the question I was begging to be asked, “Will you dance for me sweetheart?” How long had I waited for someone to ask! 

I danced frequently. Turning to and fro, twirling around in socked feet, dancing like a princess. Music wasn’t necessary. Dance simply bubbled out of me, soft and flowing. It became my flavor, my essence of life. I loved it. 

And finally someone saw me! Someone appreciated my dance! I was so eager to perform for him! I wanted to dance before the world, to show them all the beauty that I simply could not contain inside of me! 

I would dance for him, proudly, hopping back and forth from foot to foot. I’d twirl whimsically and flap my arms. He’d laugh and gasp, just like a perfect audience member, in all my climatic moments. In the end, he would clap. The sound of his applause would fill my ears. I would beam up at him with adoring eyes. My heart was so fond of this man who asked me to dance. 

My entire six years had been spent waiting to hear affirmation from someone. My father had been disappointed that I had not been a son. He had  not encouraged my participation in “girly” activities. Dancing, especially. I often wonder what could have been if my father had simply whispered “good job” in my ears, even once. 

It began as just dancing. Nothing more. I danced, he watched. It was a dream come true. He told me that dancing was our secret. I loved sharing a secret with him. I was special. I had something neither of my siblings did. In time, I wanted to always be near him. I would sit by him at dinner. He would tickle my toes. When we watched TV together, he would pull me onto his lap. When I brushed my hair, he would massage my back. I loved being wanted, being special, being... loved. 

I didn’t know then that he would be the one to end my dancing. 

Friendliness grew into trust, fondness blossomed into love. This is the way the grooming process works. It is slow. It is manipulative. It is intentional. It is aimed for the heart of the child. Dance encapsulated my heart and so dance was his weapon. 

I was wearing a night gown the first time he touched me. He asked me to dance for him... he said he wanted to see me twirl. The gown flowed out around my feet, raising in the air as I spun. It rippled around me, beautifully free. 

Suddenly, mid-routine, he moaned. I stopped to look at him. 

“What’s wrong?” I asked him, afraid I’d done something wrong.

“Come here sweetie,” he murmured, “you’ve got something on your leg.” 

I walked over to him. He lifted my dress slowly. His hands began touching my knees, moving up towards my inner thighs. My cheeks reddened as his fingers pulled at my underwear. I closed my eyes as his fingers began caressing me, trying to fight off the tears. 
At long last, he stopped. He let my dress fall. Then he whispered, “This is our secret, right?” How could I tell anyone what I had done? Looking at my feet, I nodded. This was our secret. 

Soon, the poison of his groping fingers spread its toxic tendrils into the depths of my dancing. No longer did it bubble out of me, in fact, I began to hate dancing. I hated being near him. I hated when he touched me. I hated my body for responding to him. I hated the attention he gave me. But most of all, I hated our secret. I had no defense, no way of stopping him. I could only stop my dancing. 

I stopped dancing completely after the first time he raped me. I stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Stopped living. I became a quiet shell in a useless body. I kept our secret for thirteen years. Hidden in the depths of my soul, there abided all the shame and fear. 
I am a grown woman now and I am breathing again. I am living again. And I am dancing again. 

*~*~*

Straightening I look at myself in the mirror. Some are tricked by this plain black leotard and simple pink tights, they are fooled by the softness of the fabric. They believe it to be sweet. I know better. This is my well worn and hard fought battle gear. 

We start with bar work. I can't count to save my life... and let's not even mention rhythm. I frequently apologize to the girls following me. Yet, somehow, half-way through the first set something clicks.  I'm hardly aware of the other girls. They are nothing more than feet moving in synchronous order. It is only me and the memories. My body, hard at work performing, finally allows itself to process. 
A warm hand is moving up my inner thigh. Pressure forces my legs apart. 

I sousou bringing my thighs together tightly, elevating my heels and balancing on my toes. My hands come together somewhat haphazardly into second position. Hold it. I remind myself that I am safe as slowly, deliberately, I detournee. 

The hand creeps further up, coaxing. My cheeks redden as it strokes my inner parts. I clinch my muscles tight... I try so very hard not to move. 

Swing your leg. Higher. Always higher. Always pushing. It is constant deliberate motion, shortened or extended to meet the beat. There isn't time or reason to stop. Right to left, left to right. Move. 

The hand leaves my legs. It pushes at my shirt. It wants it off. Fingers begin massaging my chest, pushing hard. It hurts. I bite my lip, refusing to cry out. Shame fills my heart. Why is this happening? Had I been a naughty girl?

Arching backwards, the curve of my body is on display for the world to see. Arms to chest, chest to hips, hips to feet. The lightness of the pose reminds me that this is grace, beauty and power. I am a ballerina. I am a woman. 

The hand is pulling my pants off. There is a sense of urgency to it now. A sense of need. There won't be hope of it stopping tonight. A mouth begins kissing my naked body, working its way down. The feeling of hair tickling my stomach makes me want to vomit. A tongue works its way between my legs. Tears slip down my pale cheeks as my body responds. How could I respond? How could I like this? 
Changemont. Changemont. Changemont. Harder, I tell myself. My feet scissor forwards and backwards, switching as I jump. Jump. Jump. Jump. My body will comply. My body is done but I am not. I negotiate with myself to find more strength. I feed every ounce of energy into my leg muscles, pushing myself. Changemont. Changemont. Changemont. 

In the dark beside me, there is a quiet zip followed by the rustle of clothes. The hands take my hands, they wrap my hands around the thing. A grunt escapes the lips as the hands begin jerking: up, down, up, down. I wait. Wait for it to be over. 

Saute. A blush rises to my cheeks as I mess up this simple jump, yet again. I am the last dancer to cross the floor. I am certain every eye is watching me. I feel completely humiliated.

Grunting, he climbs on top of me. He presses my wrists into the floor. This is my internal cue to let go. It’s time to disappear. Pain erupts in the core of my body as I slip out through my internal door. Conscious awareness of my body fades, I am no more. 

A tear slips down my cheek as I berate myself for messing up yet another sissonne. Furious I try again. My feet aren’t working. They’re large and clumsy. I feel so little control over them, as though, they are not mine. 

The sounds of him leaving bring me back. I lay alone and naked. Tenderly, I roll over and find my clothes. I pull them on, desperate to cover my body. Laying back down, I bury my face in my teddy bear. I let the tears swell over me and remind myself that it is over. 

We stretch forward. Gently and sweetly framing each pose. Relaxing muscles, releasing tension. We are embodying beauty and grace. Twisting softly, we courtesy. This is all for the night. I breath out a sigh of relief and smile. 


*~*~*

Dancing doesn’t bubble out of me like it did when I was six. It isn’t born of the same innocent joy. It is work now. It comes with all the memories, wanted or not. However, at the end of each courtesy, I have claimed my body back. Ballet reminds me of this truth: I am beautiful.