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I was the prima ballerina of my class. I was the teacher’s prodigy. I was the favorite of all of the girls, and the favorite of the gymnastics class I took with a lot of these other girls. I was everyone’s favorite for the longest time.
I was the funny cheerful girl you could count on to be at your sleepover. The one you could share your secrets with. The one who would break into your mother’s make-up with you so that we could figure out how we would look in ballets we made up ourselves.
Most of it was real, but some of it was a facade. I was friends with these girls, but I was envious of their families. They had people there to support them. I was in gymnastics and ballet so that my parents could keep me out of the house. I was invested in my ballet and my gymnastics so that my mother could continue to sleep with our gardeners and neighbors without having to worry about my presence. I was sent off to ballet and gymnastic camps so that my father could have his secretary take pictures and videos of my performances and brag about them to his coworkers while he was busy working overtime so that he didn’t have to face the truth of my mother’s infidelity.
I knew all of this at the age of six. The very first time I caught my mother in the bedroom with someone other than my dad.
She bribed me with a new leotard, and begged for me to go play outside. At the age of six I now knew what sex was. Everything was now different in my life.
Suddenly my mom’s make-up was all so she could catch someone’s attention. Her clothes were all tools to lure someone to her bed.
The media only confirmed this. Every movie I watched showed me someone like my mom. It only served to once again confirm that I was valued for what I looked. My opinion, my brain, my personhood - none of that mattered. I was simply something for others to look at.
This took a heavy toll on my life. Suddenly ballet and gymnastics were nothing more than putting my body on display for others. I didn’t like this. I didn’t want people to look at me like they did my mother. I wanted people to ask me what I thought. I wanted people to ask me who I was; what I liked; what I wanted to do with my life.
I could no longer stand any questions about my ballet or gymnastics. I no longer went over to my friends’ houses. I could not stand to see them so in love with something that I felt had betrayed me. I took to spending time on my own wandering around the woods past my housing development until it was late enough that my mother’s guests would be gone.
These long walks ended up taking more and more of my time. I could hardly bring myself to go to school anymore. I still went to ballet and gymnastics - despite the feeling of degradation I got whenever I performed - because I really did like these sports. When I was dancing or tumbling with my headphones in the world seemed to disappear. None of my problems remained. It wasn’t until I opened my eyes and saw my blonde hair, hazel eyes, skintight leotard, and skin plastered in sweat that I wanted to hide my body. I wanted to hide from the mirrors covering the far wall. I wanted no one to see me.
It wasn’t until long after that that I developed my urban camouflage. I got the idea from some stupid mtv show - I can’t remember the name of it - where some girls were complaining about boys not noticing them because they looked “plain” or “normal”.
I was fit, and would continue to be that way - this was something I didn’t want to change. I knew that my body was one that boys were beginning to pay attention to; but they could only do that so long as I wore things where they could see my body through my clothes.
Suddenly my wardrobe changed. My clothes, while they fit me, no longer showed off my figure. My shoes changed into combat boots - nothing feminine in buckles and zippers compared to the heels and flats the other girls were wearing. I dyed my hair a dark brown so that I wasn’t given any attention based off of my blonde hair. I also cut it short, spiking it in a way so that you could still tell that I was a girl, but there was nothing classically feminine about me. There would be no assumptions made of me based off of my looks if I could help it. Baggy or band-related shirts. Cargo pants or looser jeans. Boots - never sneakers. Purses that looked more like messenger bags.
With my transformation complete I could now blend into the hallways at school. High school was simple to get through up until the day we performed swan lake.
I was the lead - like always. It was the night of the performance and it was almost to the second act. I was in the middle of a solo, dancing towards the transformation sequence when I lost myself in the music. This hadn’t happened in years. The music taking over my senses, everything disappearing until there was nothing but my body moving, and the sense of moving along with the crescendos and the decrescendos… until there was no more music.
I looked down at the pit to discover that I was no longer standing on the stage. Everyone was below me staring as I stood suspended above them all.
I screamed, and with that I toppled to the stage. I was unhurt, and mostly dazed. Other people were screaming, the other dancers weren’t coming near me, and all I could see was the camera of my father’s secretary pointed straight at me.
I ran. I ran until I could no longer breathe, until I was far away from the auditorium and hailed a cab. It didn’t matter that I was dressed for my performance, or that my combat boots were slung over my shoulder and smearing it with dirt. I had to get out of there. I had to leave, and I had to get to the only place that made sense anymore - and that was the woods.