"Will our timing ever be right?" I ask. Of course, what I mean iswill I ever be healthy enough to do this? I'm not going to phrase it like that though.
Josh laughs tightly. "Right? First it's you and ballet. And now me and … oh!" It's like a lightbulb goes off in his head. "Oh, man. I've got to go. I've got so much to do. Sorry. Catch you later!"
Then he's gone, jogging off with a purpose.
Okay then.
It's probably a good thing I have another appointment with Malachi in an hour. I'm going to need to work all this out. I should probably look for a part-time job if only to pay for all the therapy I am going to need.
I can think of little besides Josh, and not in a friends-only sort of way. As I plop onto the sofa in Malachi's office, I launch right in. "I need you to fix me so I can have a relationship."
I say this as Malachi's taking a sip of his coffee, which he manages to then spit all over his desk. He apologizes, standing up to wipe off his desk with a tissue.
I'm not nearly as amused. "I didn't realize I was so funny."
"That was not my finest, most professional moment. I'm sorry. It's just not at all what I expected you to lead with today."
"Well, it's what I want to focus on. You already figured out that I'm a self-fulfilling prophecy of failure because I didn't pick rugby. That's one problem solved. Cross it off the list. Now all we have to do is figure out the eating thing, and then I should be good to go for a relationship." I think about the encounter with Josh and how jealous I got when he was on the phone with his sister. Quickly, I add, "Oh, and I should probably have a better relationship with my sister. She hates me."
Malachi has paused with his mug of coffee raised to his mouth. "You done?" he asks. I nod and then he proceeds to take a small sip. "Much better when it's not all over my desk. So, let's talk about the eating thing. But also you know that you are a work in progress, and simply identifying the problem doesn't mean it's solved. But back to food."
I shrug. "It's so clichéd, it's not even funny. Ballerina with an eating disorder. Like, I don't even have to explain it."
"But you do, because eating disorders are intensely personal, and almost never about food, which I'm sure you know. When was the first time you remember consciously restricting?"
Deep down, I do know it was never about the food. And when did it even start? I think back. "It was when I was at the Columbus Academy of Ballet. CAB. I was probably about fourteen. Maybe fifteen. I'd definitely hit puberty because the girls were there." I motion down to my ample chest. "It was bad enough that I already stood out. But I'd gotten my period, which most of my classmates hadn't. And my body changed."
"Did anyone comment about your weight?"
Another shrug. "Probably. But not in a 'you're fat' kind of way. It wasn't one of those ballet schools that encouraged girls to starve themselves so they didn't get their periods or anything." Sadly, those environments exist. "I actually think they were trying to be tactful." The comments float back through my brain as if someone in the room were saying them.
Body composition.
Puberty.
Thick frame.
Heavy muscles.
Stocky.
Developing.
She's got a black body.
"I think the worst one was when they said I had a black body. Up until that point, I really thought they saw me as the same as everyone else. But they were judging me based on the one thing I had no control over—my race."
"If you were fifteen and that was the first time that happened to you, you were probably lucky."
Malachi would know.
I continue, "Well, no, obviously people start forming opinions and making judgments the minute I walk into the room. Do you know what it's like to have to try and get all this hair into a tame bun?"
Malachi's lips form a tight line as the sun reflects off his polished head.
"Oops, sorry. But you know what I mean." I continue, "I'm not sure how old I was when I became aware of the surprised looks on people’s faces when I'd show up next to my mom. Or when my dad would walk in, his skin several shades darker than my own. Or my favorite, when I'd meet people in person that I'd only spoken to on the phone, and they told me they were surprised because I didn't 'sound black.' I always wanted to respond that they didn't sound like a moron, but I never had the courage. The black kids at school always called me 'light-skinned,' which made me different from them. My friends—who were mostly white—never even considered me part-white until they saw my mom. Again, I was different. Hell, the only reason I even think about my race is because of the reactions of other people. Man, it's exhausting. Soul crushing. Every single day, it would suck a little part of me away. But in the ballet studio, with our identical black leotards and pink tights, I'd always felt the same. It wasn't until I was a teen that I realizedtheyconsidered me different."
He nods. "And so …"
