Chapter 13: Leslie
Ialways thought being honest with someone about my issues would lead me down a dark—er—shame spiral. Yet in the days since my conversation with Josh, somehow, I feel lighter.
Talk about irony.
It's the closing night forKiss Me, Kate, which means most of the cast and crew are scrambling. It also means we're in the home stretch for the opening ofThe Greatest Showmanin four short days.
Gah.
While that's on my mind, I've got something else occupying more space. As the audience is piling into the theater, I text Gloria, asking if she can talk. A few minutes later, I'm sitting in the kitchen of Grayson's house. As a rule, the cast doesn't hang out at the Keene's house, but Gloria assured me this was okay.
She hands me a cup of tea and then curls up on the chair to my right, folding her petite little legs under her in an effortless way.
I look down at the thin brown liquid, working up the courage to say what I came here to say. Finally, I look back up. "I'm sorry, this is hard."
Gloria nods. "I get it. I'm here whenever you're ready."
I take a deep breath. It's now or never. "I think I need help. You said you moved here to work with a therapist. Do you think they can help me?" The wind rushes out of me as if I'd just moved a thousand-pound weight.
Gloria pulls out her phone. "I'll text Malachi right now, though there's a good chance he's at the show."
Relief crashes into me, the glimmer of hope on the horizon. "Do you think he can help me?"
"I think if you're ready, then yes." She smiles at me. "I've done a lot of therapy over the years with a lot of different therapists. Malachi specializes in Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing—EMDR—for PTSD, but I'm fairly confident he's a good cognitive behavior therapist as well." She reaches over, putting her hand on mine. "Congratulations on taking the first step."
I pull my mouth into a tight line. "Why do I have the feeling it's only step one of a marathon?"
"Because it is. But you'll never cross that finish line until you start. You're officially one step closer to the end now." Now it's Gloria's turn to take in a deep breath. "The one thing is that his sessions can be kind of pricey. I'm not sure if he accepts insurance. The EMDR is not covered, but regular therapy might be."
Crap. That's a layer I hadn't considered.
After leaving Gloria, I walk around the grounds at The Edison. The music floats out into the warm summer air, speckled with sounds of laughter and applause. This really is a special place to be.
Okay, I know what I have to do.
"Hi, Mom."
"Leslie! What's wrong? Are you hurt? You never call unless something's wrong. You only text."
I sit down on a bench. "Nothing's wrong. I'm fine." The lie flows from my mouth without any effort; a reflex so skillfully smooth at this point. "No, wait, that's not true. I'm not fine."
"Is it your Achilles again? Are you using the Tiger Balm?"
I live on Tiger Balm. And Biofreeze. And Ben Gay. Hell, my natural scent is old folk medication at this point.
"No, Mom, it's not my Achilles. I'm not dancing en pointe right now, so it's actually pretty good. Everything else is sore from the aerial work, but it's a good sore."
I realize how easy it is to slide into the conversations about tangible injuries that can be healed with balms and stretching. Maybe even a little surgery. But there's no quick fix for the rest of me, and it's time to open that wound so the healing can begin.
"Mom, I'm doing well at the theater here, but I'm not okay. I haven't been okay in a long time. I think you know that."
"But you said you were eating."
Again she resorts to the tangible. Food is easier to focus on than a messed-up mind and other deep-seated issues. Like my race.
"I'm trying to. But do you know why I restrict my food?"
"Because of those bitches in ballet class." My mom rarely swears. On the other hand, her assumption disappoints me. It's so much easier to blame someone else.
