Stupid Brain Chemistry

We’re back in class this week. I’m three classes in and hating, hating, hating everything about myself (except for the fact that I’m no longer dancing with moobs) in class and out.

I recognize that it’s deeply irrational, but that doesn’t seem to make me stop hating myself.

Maybe it’s time to break out the Stare-Into-The-Sun therapy lamp. Maybe it’s time to accept that it’s winter and this always happens to me in the winter.

I’ve found myself on a kind of unintentional and intermittent social media fast, and I think that’s okay. None of my social media streams are terribly stressful, I’m just running on zero alone time, since D is home recuperating from rotator cuff surgery.

Regardless, this is where the ritual of class means the most. I get up; I go to class; I put my hand to the barre and don’t look back (looking back at barre is a good way to fall over and need your own rotators cuffed).

On the upside, I finally installed the heated mattress pad, which probably wasn’t invented to coddle winter-weary dancers but does a reasonable job of it nonetheless.

Next month I’ve got an endocrinology appointment. I’m going to give hormone replacement therapy a try, since my tanking endogenous sex hormone levels are almost certainly not helping. Also going to get my thyroid levels checked, since hypothyroidism runs in both sides of my family and can contribute to depression (and feeling cold and tired all the time).

Even in the midst of this, I’m forced to admit that my petit allegro is improving. When I relax into it, it no longer feels (or looks) like a bunch of ham-fisted hopping.

I keep saying I need to get serious about conditioning, but thus far I haven’t. I’m as afraid of training the wrong things as I am of being unfit. It’s a legacy of childhood gymnastics training—the idea that we must never, never so much as glance at the gym unless a qualified trainer was present to help us not feck up our bodies has lingered long past its expiry date.

BG is a personal trainer in his spare time, so I might do a few sessions with him to get a sense of what I can do without overdeveloping my quads (among other things).

So that’s it. No advanced class today; it’s open house, though, so I’m taking 1:00 class, which is free (though we now have an unlimited tuition plan that has halved my monthly ballet expenses).

Edit: PS—Killer Class is back to being nominally intermediate. It’s still Killer Class.

About asher

Me in a nutshell: Standard uptight ballet boy. Trapeze junkie. Half-baked choreographer. Budding researcher. Transit cyclist. Terrible homemaker. Getting along pretty well with bipolar disorder. Fabulous. Married to a very patient man. Bachelor of Science in Psychology (2015). Proto-foodie, but lazy about it. Cat owner ... or, should I say, cat own-ee? ... dog lover. Equestrian.

Posted on 2018/01/06, in balllet, body image, dances with moobs, depression, healing, health and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. This year’s discovery so far: a bunch of Central School people think my name is Justin and I was a student there 10 years ago.

    I wonder if the cold, tired thing might be low T > low oestrogen pass-through? Steroid users who overdo the aromatase inhibitors and crash their E2 levels get those symptoms.

    • It could definitely be. The last time I was on HRT, the doc I had at the time couldn’t stop overdosing me. Basically fried the bits of my endocrine system that were producing testosterone; my levels now fluctuate between “lower than your grandma’s” and “are we sure this guy isn’t dead?”
      To be fair, I’m sort of a difficult case, and I should’ve seen a proper endo in the first place.
      About you being pegged as Justin … That’s so weirdly mysterious. I wonder if this Justin character is ever mistaken for you in his present life…

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