I sat in the middle of the room. I could see dainty bits of white powder scattered around me. My arms were limp and numb, as if high voltage had snazzed through my nervous system. My buttocks stuck to the cold tiles like dried up glue; the weight of my corps felt heavier than I had ever known. My legs were sprawled to the side and however much will I had attempted to channel from my mind to my toes, they would not pick up. Perhaps because there was not much will left inside of me.
I glanced around, everyone else was busy with their attempts and stretches. The fluorescent lightening in this dance studio was overbearing, and glared at me like those hospital lights I looked into some 10 years ago when rushed to Emergency Room after a suicide attempt. I wanted to cry then and there. I felt the despair. I could not get up. I could not do the spin on the pole like the teacher had shown us however many times I had tried. I wanted to break down in the middle of pole dance class.
The failure I felt, of course, was not just about dance class. I felt the despair as if every door for Bearapy was ajar but could not fully swing open. I see the opportunities but could not grasp them. I feel the possibilities but they disappear into fog and mist.
It was like pole dancing, something I started picking up this year. Or rather, pole dancing was like the resilience cycle that contained this despair.
