Dance of Death

Dance of Death

The air was cold and suffocating. I felt it breaking into my lungs and chilling my entire body. I lurched forward, convulsively shivering. The starchy paper underneath me crunched horribly and echoed in the white, sterile room.
“Hello Allie; I’m Doctor Levin. I just need to get your temperature.”
I can’t imagine it being any over freezing, I thought to myself. But this was how it was these days. Warmth was an unattainable luxury.
Doctor Levin had the short, curly red hair that seemed to be popular among the middle-aged professionals and teachers with kids in their early twenties. She looked frazzled as she rushed out with my temperature and medical records. Feeling suddenly weak and apathetic, I laid down on the less-than-comfortable plush with paper table/bed and waited for her return. It wasn’t but two minutes later she came back; and this time with a handful of white chalky pills and a small Styrofoam cup of water. I took the pills and drank the tepid water without questioning what the pills were or what their effect might be. It was too late to care.
Down the hallway; I shook violently. I wanted to take my shoes off, why didn’t she ask me to? I wouldn’t get an accurate reading. I stood as still as I could on the hard hospital scale.
Dr. Levin asked me questions. How was I feeling? Wasn’t that obvious? When did this start? What are you talking about? This: about a year and a half ago, or this: just Saturday. She took my blood pressure.
“Have you eaten yet today?”
“Yes.”
I lied.
“When was your last menstrual cycle?”
“Early November.”
Another lie. It had been at least a year. Why was I making these things up? I wanted this ordeal to be over. If an early morning trip to the doctor wasn’t proof enough that I needed help, then what was? It’s my secret though. I can’t live without it. But recently I was starting to feel I wasn’t going to live with it.
I didn’t want her to know. I didn’t want anyone to know what I had been putting myself through. Could I let it continue? Was that even the matter of importance anymore? If I was diagnosed as one of the statistics of the disease that plagued young girls and ballet dancers, would it all be over and I am okay? How the hell did this happen to me? I didn’t fit in to the stereotype. But then again, here I was.
I was taken downstairs at the hospital. A different nurse took my blood. I sat on the chair, scrunched the sleeve of my sweatshirt to reveal my pale left arm. I looked away. The blonde and bubbly nurse didn’t look as if she wanted to take any blood from me. It wouldn’t be hard, I thought. The mint green shade of my vein was vibrant against translucent skin. 4 seconds. 5 seconds. 6, 7. Wait. Relax. Stand. Blink. Focus. I’m okay.
They wanted to X-Ray my lungs. The weight of the X-Ray bib almost made me fall flat on my face. I felt bad for not telling them why I was so sick. I mean, obviously I had something, but possibly only because my entire body was running on nothing. This immune system has no fuel. But I’m too far gone to tell them. I’ll have to fix it myself. If I can get myself into this, I can get myself out…. right? Where did it all start?

April 19th, 2003; I’m sitting out here on the warmish pavement in front of the school. My very first high school musical audition is finally over with. I’m not expecting a huge part, and in actuality, I would like a behind the scenes role anyway. Not to be cocky, but I’m the only freshman that has a chance at any part from the looks of it. I’m still too shy to ask for a ride, so here I am waiting on my mom.
“Do you have a ride?” Tracy, as she wants to be referred to, (the theatre arts commissioner at my school) asks.
“Yeah, my mom should be here any moment.”
“Okay, great. Maybe you could look at this first though.”
She handed me a thick magazine, “The Stage and the Performer.”
“You have great potential for a fifteen-year-old, you know? I’m pretty sure you’ll be happy with the role I assigned for you in the show. I just wanted you to look through here and tell me your thoughts on props and wardrobe, that is, if you’ll be here a little while.”
The truth was I could expect to be sitting outside the school on that concrete for about 15 or so more minutes. I knew it, and I was pretty sure Tracy did as well. My parents did not support my love of the stage at all. I was to jolt myself out of this artistic adolescence and blossom into structured normality. I was in high school now. My path in my parents’ eyes was to complete college near home, work towards a respectable career, get married, and go from there. It was crucial that I do something drastic to avoid these plans of future.
I can’t say it started that day because I was aware of this little voice that would creep up into my thoughts since I was about seven or eight, I just never acted upon it. It may sound like insanity, but it’s far from it. The epitome of control. I wish I was like those other girls, the ones who refer to that voice as “Ana,” like a best friend or companion and maybe it was. But now, out of disillusionment, “Ana” is the enemy; the flaw that made me perfect.
I looked through the magazine. The costumes were beautiful. My eyes were drawn to a sickly looking girl. She was elevated with her head thrown back and her right foot placed firmly in passé. Her hipbones jutted out from the thin silk dress. I found it beautiful. She wasn’t like everyone else; she wasn’t destined for the same doom like all other girls. She had everything I wanted and I knew it all permeated from one little word, self control. I could have it too. That’s the day I listened to Ana.
It was 5:20 and still dark when I woke up; April 2, 2003; the last day of individual rehearsal. The show was scheduled for the 18th of May. After today and until then, we would be working more on a full rehearsal-type scale. I stretched every inch of my body, put makeup on and got dressed, trying to avoid the mirror as much as possible. I loved the way my legs no longer touched each other. It was worth the bruised knees. I was in phase one of what I liked to call, The Allie Project. No one else can know about it. To the outside world, I have to pretend I was born this way, it’s a natural gift. Make my audience believe what I want them to; I was an actress all right.
5:45. I was in the kitchen. Tall glass of water, Plain oatmeal, made with water, not milk, fake sugar. I left enough in the bowl for it to fully cover the bottom. It was time to work out. I pushed my body hard. Unintentionally, I got sick. Splitting my exercising time with a trip to the bathroom frustrated me. It was all about order and control. My feet tingled. I imagined it as the feeling when everything excess leaves your body because that’s what it was. I finished working out and realized I felt even better than normal. My body pumped extra adrenaline and that’s what I ran on. It was like natural drugs.
I was high in a blur of colors. Feet carrying me to places I know I didn’t want to go. Rehearsals turned to daydreams of a flame of fame and glory. Then a thought would come and smash all the previous. I would detach myself and seem as an onlooker. I watched Cara and Lucas and Nina and Ethan. Ethan was a natural performer, not shy or ashamed. And he understood people, most of all; he understood his characters he played. I would never forgive myself for embarrassing myself so badly. I had about 45 seconds of shining glory in the production. It was a dance number and like everything else I did, I perfected it. I worked meticulously and insanely. I never marked anything at rehearsal. Everything was done as if it would have been on opening night. Not only was I getting better and better, I was burning precious calories. I knew I was thin. That’s what separated me from the other teenage girls with eating disorders. I still thought I had this element of control. After all, I was very intelligent. I knew my disorder backwards and forwards. When my hair became oily and thin, I knew why. When tiny, pretty much invisible hairs started sprouting out on my body, I knew it was a natural defense to keep my body insulated. But I kept going. I kept going out of fear. What was this fear? I wasn’t even clear or certain.
Cara sang. If I could sing that well, I wouldn’t have to worry about having other perfections. And Nina danced. She had danced since she was two, maybe before. I was only an attempt; not mature, graceful, beautiful. I relied on ‘ana’ to give me those things. And I prayed at night, “Give me something no one else has. Let me stand out for all the reasons I want to. Let the others be envious because I have something they don’t have.”
My prayers were answered. It was all me though; I was praying to myself. Motivation, I guess.
At that day in rehearsal my body felt so uncharacteristically heavy and sluggish. I panicked, thinking of how disgusting I felt and why I felt this way. Suddenly the lights blurred as they hit my eyes with painful precision. I stumbled and saw black dots. They tripled and multiplied until my entire vision was black. The air felt as if it had left my entire body, starting with my feet until it finally reached my head. I imagined falling without a sound. Graceful and fragile, my body would descend and then blend. I would be free.
That’s not real life. I awoke to feel the cold sweat I hadn’t felt in so long. The lights were still burning and Ethan’s impressionistic form stood near my broken body.
“Are you okay?” He looked puzzled.
I guess it isn’t everyday a fifteen-year-old girl’s malnutritioned body gives out. I guess I’ll have to find a way to hide that; I hide everything else.
“Oh, I’m fine. I must have tripped or something. You know, as a freshman, I’m not used to this lighting and everything.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He took my hand and I stood on still-shaky legs. He turned away, brushed his dirty blond hair out of his eyes, and then turned back towards me.
Shit. He’s going to be concerned.
“Look, are you sure everything is alright? You look kind of pale.”
Who are you, my father?
“You know, it’s not nearly as bad as it might seem. I mean, just pretend you’re really there during the show. You won’t even know you’re on stage or that hundreds are watching you.”
Oh is that what he thinks this is about? Stage fright? I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. Why do people have to be so caring? Oh well, if I had to pretend I was scared of the stage to not get caught, I’d do it.
“Yeah, thanks for the advice. I don’t know what got into me anyway.”
“I think you’re doing great by the way; you’re dance number is spectacular, you look like a professional.”
Okay now, I could take that as a compliment on many levels. He walked away for the second time and turned back.
“If you need a ride you know, you can just ask. You don’t have to sit out there until it gets dark.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”
Down the hall, into the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes looked sunken in, dark circles were visible through my makeup. I turned the hot water on and let it run. The sound of a toilet flushing was added to the rushing water in the sink.
“Hey, Allie, you did really well today. What happened at the end? I thought maybe you tripped over our mess backstage. Don’t forget about those boundary lines.”
It was Ms. “Tracy,” the very last person I wanted to talk to now.
“Yeah, I think my foot got tangled on the cord or something. I was trying not to watch my feet, you know.”
“Well at least it happened tonight and not during the performance.”
“Yeah, ha-ha...” I giggled nervously, imagining my flawless performance utterly ruined. She left and I soaked my exhausted face in near-scolding water. My slippery hands could barely pull back the heavy door. I was met by Ethan (what was he, a stalker?) waiting for me outside in the hall.
“How about that ride, I already started my car; I’m sure your parents wouldn’t mind. I’m very responsible and eighteen if I must say.”
“It’s no big deal. I mean, but first thanks for even offering.”
“Like you said, no problem; you’ll have to show me how to get there though.”
“Sure.”
……………………………
“There! That split-level brick.” I called. “By the way, thanks so much.”
“It’s fine; I quite enjoyed the short trip with you.”
“Why thank you. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.
“See you.”
Was it just me or did he seem to be somewhat interested in me? It was that extra little something in his eyes. But yes, it’s just me and my over-suppressed female emotions trying to make an appearance. No room for that though. I have a greater power consuming my life.
“Allie, I’ve have been waiting with our dinner. Did practice go overtime?”
A surging of anger welled up inside. “It’s getting closer to the debut; we’re going to practice a little longer. By the way, Ethan will take me home now since you don’t seem too interested. He’s a senior who has a theatre scholarship to Carnegie. He sings baritone, dances ballet and jazz, and actually cares, since I know you won’t ask.”
“Oh don’t make me out to be so bad, Allie. Can you be respectful for once, maybe think about someone besides yourself? You’re making it very hard to raise you as a single parent. I’m trying to make good decisions for you and your future.”
“That’s just it, mom! You’re making these decisions. I can’t control anything, can I?”
“There’s no need to be so dramatic, and I do care. We are not having this argument now. You need to eat. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but it’s not smart, you look awful. So come over here, have some soup, and forget why you’re making such a big deal out of these little things.”
I didn’t say anything. I was too angry. She misunderstood everything about me, even down to “my problem.” Was it all in my hands like she believed? I was starting to think it took on a character of its own.
I ate the soup and worked out for two and a half hours afterwards. Later of which I spent until 1:00 am reading and practicing. Sleeping wasn’t doing me any good, now was it?
I awoke the next day with the worst sore throat imaginable. It came from no where. I froze and burned. I stayed at home. Mom gave me pill after pill for my various symptoms. I couldn’t move. Giant spiders attacked me in dreams, in nightmares I was locked in tall, piercing lighthouses. I would fall and more nightmares came. In these I was forced to eat raw meat and vomited blood and shook until I lost all energy. In reality, I kicked my blankets into tangled webs and lost all energy. I fell in and out of sleep. The next morning, Mom took me to the hospital. She finally knew something was serious.
So, here I sit on the cold examining board. Doctor Levin comes back in. I have bronchitis and a mild case of the flu. Sure I do. I know what’s wrong. I take it though, I don’t tell. Mom is satisfied. Doctor’s satisfied. I only have a three-day medical suspension, the show is next week. I get three days of excuses not to eat. I’m satisfied.
After three days of absolutely nothing, of fevers, blankets, and the backside of the couch, I went to school. It was if I was detached from the entire world. All I could think about was perfection and how I would plan my day to achieve this. Everyone else ignored me. I loved it, but there were these moments I wanted to shout out everything I was torturing myself through. If I did believe the world revolved around me, I would say I’ve never seen so much naivety, but I don’t think that way.
Same schedule, set pattern. Wednesday, Thursday. Friday: The show.
I stood behind the curtain of our school auditorium and wondered what goal I was achieving by the end of this dance; I definitely was not finished yet. I stood in a cream body suit and a wrap-around skirt pinned viciously and drooping more near my knees than before. 6 seconds. I thought about the way Mom hugged me before I went backstage. She had tears in her eyes but she smiled and said good luck. 4 seconds. I remember Ethan smiling at me and telling me how he liked to play pranks on the other cast members, and how lucky I should feel for not getting picked on.
This time, the lights felt warm and perfect on my skin. The charcoal colored stage felt almost plush against my jazz shoes. The feeling was unreal and I was enraptured by the music. The pain in my body became apparent. I gasped, trying to capture a painful wisp of air while I danced the dance of death.