When my psychologist Christoph suggested reporting my abusers to the police, it was laughable to me. I couldn’t imagine telling a police officer what had happened to me. Years of denial meant my body had gone to increasing lengths to get me to take notice of what I was actually feeling. A decade of stagnant rage and grief consumed me. My face and back erupted in painful acne, I was regularly debilitated by migraines, battled with endless digestive issues and lived in near constant agony as my sciatic nerve fired down my right leg. There was a period when I couldn’t leave my flat without having a panic attack. These symptoms, Christoph told me, indicated post traumatic stress disorder.
I came around to the idea of talking to the police. Conviction rates were low, so I didn’t hold out much hope for that. But if I didn’t report my abusers, I was letting them get away with it scot-free. If I did, they would at least be brought into police custody for questioning, confronted with the truth of what they had done. I felt a glimmer of hope, a whisper to let my voice be heard. In its glint, I saw I could let go of this heavy secret I’d been holding onto for far too long.
So I did it. I felt so light, so free. 'I’m walking around like I own these city streets!' I told Christoph with glee. The glimmer of hope kindled into something greater. My feet tapped joyfully on the bus. My mind presented me with images of my body twirling in pirouettes, launching into leaps. In therapy, I realised I didn’t have any hobbies. Now, unburdened, I had enough energy to take one up. As a kid, I’d tried everything: painting, singing, kickboxing, horse riding, kayaking, acting, swimming, putting on performances for family in the sitting room. My first hobby was dancing in a community centre class. Then I’d gone to stage school and learned jazz. But I’d always wanted to try ballet.
I was drawn by the poise, elegance, beautiful costumes and rich tradition in the royal courts of Italy and France. I’d long been fascinated by the Sun King, Louis XIV, a brilliant ballet dancer. I loved that ballet terminology was en français. I signed up for classes and bought ballet shoes, putting them on as soon as I got home. 'You’re so excited,' my boyfriend said, grinning.
My first class was in January. The night was cold and dark. Part of me was terrified to turn up alone. But another part rode roughshod right over her into the beautiful red brick studio. Inside, the peachy walls, barre and Royal Ballet posters soothed me. Our teacher, a small, dark haired man called Peter, brimming with mischievous energy, instructed newcomers not to look so terrified. He looked on at us with the impeccable posture of a dancer and told us we’d chosen the hardest kind of dance.
Going to ballet class was humbling. It was hard. Learning technique confronted me with the body I’d abandoned to go live in my head. Just standing still with proper posture requires you to fire every muscle in your legs, core and back. I felt how weak I'd become, especially in my right hip, the epicentre of my chronic pain. I’d wobble like jelly whenever we had to balance, which was pretty much every exercise. My feet had never known anything like it. For the first few months, my right foot felt like it was getting torn to shreds every class. I took a trigger release ball into the office and sat with my shoe off, massaging the pain all day. I’m grateful to my colleagues who never commented on this odd behaviour.
I slowly got better at balancing, even on my right leg. As we repeated pliés, tendus and glissés over and over, I rediscovered the joy of being present in my body as I moved with the gentle music. I’d push myself every class, leaving with a face like a tomato after finishing with 64 jumps. My confidence grew bit by tiny bit as I learned and improved. I found out I liked to turn en dedans, inwards. When Peter requested it in Scots accented French, I’d proudly stand in third position, right foot in front, ouvert, open.
Peter was kind, but firm. He would repeat mantras to us. 'I don’t ask for much,' he’d boom to the studio, referring to all the component parts of perfect posture, 'I ask for everything!' Once he told us to 'embrace the balletic pain.' The one I really took to heart as was, 'Tall people, be tall. Small people, be tall.' I learned to use every inch of my five foot frame.
Ballet posture showed me I’d been cowering: walking with shoulders slumped and head down, subconsciously making myself small, unnoticeable. I started strolling with my shoulders back, chest open, core engaged, head held high. When I wanted to stare at the ground, I’d hear Peter’s voice in my head, 'Chin up!', I looked people in the eye again.
I stopped thinking I was weak, or incapable, because here I was, showing up for myself every week, getting stronger and more graceful, making friends with the other dancers. Ballet showed me the folly of my perfectionist tendencies. When I received criticism, it felt like the world was ending. Even when it was constructive and kind, I would take it personally, ruminating obsessively. But in class, I was greedy for Peter’s critiques, realising they would make me a better dancer.
Taking up ballet was a gift to myself. It gave me confidence, strength, grace and community. Each class I creased with laughter at Peter’s jokes. I learned dedication and practice pay dividends. My hope there was joy to be found in my life again was kindled from a glimmer to a roaring flame. Dancing is an act of hope after all. A celebration of being alive.