The Dancer

One night I sat on the bed eyes wide open in the dark. All I could hear was myself breathing, but I could not catch my breath. Minutes, hours, months of barely exhaling only suffocating in silence. This moment was one of the many moments I decided to end things, but I was paralyzed. We had a baby. We had a marriage. And he had me afraid.. .and that night I neither killed him or left him.

I was unstable. Wrapped between the unshakeable fear I couldn't live without him and the reality that he would most likely kill me. He was my husband. The man I had grown to think was my knight in shining armour. We played chess in iraq. We made each other laugh. We danced and talked about everything. He had strong arms, ocd, and an uncontrollable temper.

I had to save our marriage. I wanted to hold fast to the new public opinion he garnered me. I was no longer a baby mother. I was a wife. I had been chosen. Redeemed. And I traded the freedom from sexual morality for acceptability and I lost.

As a libra I crave balance. I love to live in the middle ground. In the peaceable area. He brought me high and slammed me back down so low that the only peace we had is when he would go days just ignoring me. The harsher his criticism the more I hated myself because I gave him the ammunition. I told him everything about me when he courted me. Told him my likes my dislikes. Told him how I hated my teeth and I hated to tell people I was a single parent. So when we would argue he'd scream no one's ever going to love you with three kids and all these baby fathers so you might as well just stay.

But when he would hold me at night and apologize. He would cry and open up. He would chronicle his ten year battle with anxiety… he would beg me to hate him or do whatever it took but just don't leave. It was so passionate. So sincere. The kisses would start from my red eyes down to my waist and I would feel my will power lift away as easily as he eased off my panties. How could I ever leave him he needed me.

In the morning, the true and steadfast love of my life...my best friend would have texted me a variety of emotions. She would be angry. She would be afraid and I would feel even more ashamed. I could not face her and with every fight we begin to grow apart.

Because I'm the strong one. And the strength kept me caged because I would repeat my mantra “ I could handle this… I'm okay” but my life was in shambles.

I couldn't leave. I couldn't be sure it was abuse. I couldn't tell anyone because no one would understand. I would start things. He wouldn't beat me, we would fight...and people fight. Right?

When he choked me hands wrapped around my throat my son ran out knocking on neighbors doors. Screaming that he was killing me. Hard to explain to a fragile 6 year old that he was .. But that everything was okay.

I wanted this to be poetic. I wanted to chronicle the transition between raw fear and shaky bravery. Wanted to show the dignity. But to be honest it wasn't that way. We fist fought in cars. He grabbed my arm in public. He bullied me into an abortion. He drug me down the porch by my ankles and threw me in the trunk. He beat me in front of my son and his own family.

Even though I'm sure he felt some type of love and affection for me. He didn't care if I lived or died as long as he was the one making that choice.

And I lost friends. I lost weight. Lost chunks of hair. Lost sleep. Lost a scrape of bone when he fractured my hand. Lost whatever bit of purity I had left when he raped me one year into our marriage. When it was all over I sat on my couch arms wrapped around myself willing myself not to take the only thing I escaped my marriage with….my life. I fought myself, that night and every night for months. I was broken and weak. I grabbed a hold of whatever piece of light was still inside me and willed myself to live just one more moment. Crying, rocking, begging myself to be stronger. Moments turned into minutes. Minutes turned into nights. And night turned into mornings. And even if for just one more night I made it.

I handled my pain like a ballet. Crushed toes in satin shoes. Muscle aches on beautiful lines. Rigid spine and an actors face and in the end the spectators say Brava. It was gritty but I chose to suffer in beauty.

When I wanted to scream out I was stopped by ego. Ego says no one will believe you and chooses the lesser shame. The metronome. Never letting me miss a beat. Smile in public. Wrap arms in pictures. Never. Ever let them see you sweat. Until one day you're far too old for the back breaking pace. And there's nothing worse then a dancer past her prime and she doesn't know it. Should have caught the subtle hints. Quiet conversations “are you okay”. Rehearsed words feel real but do not cover bruises. Stop dancing my brain said...be honest. But I kept spinning. Room spinning, mind spinning, lights over head blinded me but I smiled and kept spinning. Made excuses until the music stopped.

One day I stopped dancing because I didn't want to hurt anymore. Body can't take the discipline. Couldn't smile through the pain. Couldn't make myself pretend to be perfect so I wallowed in self pity. No brightness. No intensity. Just emptiness and silence.

I was alone for years after my divorce afraid to dance again. Afraid of losing control. Until one day pink garments on black bodies I stopped keeping time and readied for the down beat.