"I'm not making judgments. I'm trying to get to the bottom of what drives you, and what is causing your maladaptive behavior."
This statement has me on my feet. "Maladaptive behavior? You don't even know me!" There's a good chance I'm yelling a bit.
"Leslie, it's okay, really. I know you have maladaptive behavior because you're here. People don't come to see me unless something's getting in the way."
He may have a point. Slowly, I sink back into my seat. "Yeah, but rugby has nothing to do with it. Ballet is the problem."
"Do you think that maybe, on some level, you're internalizing the feelings of inadequacy that stem not from ballet, but from not fulfilling your family legacy to be an all-star rugby player?"
I mull this over for a moment. "Like I'm a self-fulfilling prophecy of failure because by not playing rugby, I've already failed, so I don't let myself succeed at anything else?"
Malachi raises that eyebrow again.
Dammit. He may be onto something. "But I didn't sabotage myself. I leave it all out there, every single time. No matter what it costs me. I give it my all."
"I saw you in the show last weekend. You were very impressive."
"Thanks. The aerial stuff was new. They called me in because Jasmine got hurt. I'm sure she would have done it better."
"Right. She's the expert. Better than you. So you're not the best. How does that make you feel?"
I ponder that for a moment. I can honestly say I gave it my all. "Surprisingly good. I can only do my best. And considering that I'd never done any of the aerial stuff before I came here, I did pretty damn good." The statement sort of shocks me. I've never been that blasé about it. I add in a little shoulder shrug to show how okay I am with it.
And I truly am.
"Can you ever imagine feeling this way about ballet?"
That's an easy answer. I shake my head. "No."
"May I offer you something to consider?" Casually, Malachi crosses his ankle over his knee, leaning back in his leather swivel chair.
My stomach clenches. I'm not sure I'm ready to hear it. On the other hand, here I am, sitting in a therapist's office. I may not be ready, but it's time. I nod.
"Ballet is impossible for you to win at because you failed by picking it. Whether it's really what your father thinks, or just what you are projecting, you feel that you will always be a failure because you didn't follow in the family's footsteps."
It's the most ridiculous—yet most plausible—thing I've ever heard. "So no matter how good I could be …"
"You'd never be satisfied. You were dancing at an elite level. A level that most dancers never get to. Given your age," he looks down at the papers on his desk, "I would say that you must have been good to have been with a company as long as you were."
"But I never fully made it to the company. I mean, they called me up when there were several dancers injured, but they didn't renew my contract."
"It sounds to me like they called you up."
"Because of injuries." I fold my arms across my chest. It's an important distinction that he needs to understand. Otherwise, I don't see how he'll be able to help me.
"I'm sure there were other people they could have used. They didn't need you. Were there other ballerinas in the school? You weren't the only one."
"No, they used six of us."
"How many didn't they use?"
Mentally, I run through the class roster, counting off on my fingers. "Twelve."
Malachi tilts his head to the side.
"Fine. I see your point." I don't know if I do, but I'm not telling him that.
"Think about that until next time. Also, the other thing I want you to consider iswhydid you dance? It obviously caused a lot of distress for you. You did it for some reason, though. What is that reason?"
