Category Archives: health
Quick Update
Visit with Dr. B went well.
So while I still have some fluid rattling around in my left lung and may, in fact, have had a mild, early-stage pneumonia rather than just plain bronchitis (Denis is convinced of this), I’m mending well.
We decided against further antibiotics unless things look to be taking a turn for the worse again, since I’ve had a great response to the antibiotic I finish today.
I got a steroid shot, which really made me appreciate those “ballet muscles” in my hips 😀
Dr. B also prescribed a different cough medication, since after the first night the original one didn’t help. The new one is the standard codeine-based uber cough suppressant, and I imagine it will do the job.
Since it was time for a re-up, I also picked up my Adderall script.
Part of me was amazed that I was able to walk out of the pharmacy with not one, but two controlled substances from two different substance groups. It took a couple hours to get the scripts filled, but that was because the cough medicine was out of stock but had just arrived with a new shipment.
We had a good dinner at a local Mexican restaurant while we were waiting, so it all worked out.
I also bought more facial tissues. For some strange reason, we’re going through them at a frightening clip of late.
So now we’re on our way down to Nashville to complete our Porchlight Express cargo run for 2015. Woot!
Tomorrow I need to finally purchase or ballet subscription for this season. One of the spring productions will involve a world-premiere piece set to music composed by our Orchestra’s wunderkind director, Teddy Abrams.
I’ve been really impressed with what he’s been doing for LSO. Likewise, Robert Curran’s influence on Louisville Ballet has been nothing but positive, so I’m really excited about the spring production.
That’s it for now. The steroid shot is helping, so assuming that I sheep this weekend, I’ll probably back to class on Monday, but I’ll be taking it easy. A little at a time.
Danseur Ignoble: Back to the Doctor
…Sadly, there’s no DeLorean involved.
I’ll have to preface this with an, “I’m not dead yet! … I’m feeling much better.” (Apologies to the Python.)
That said, I still have the world’s most annoying cough and (as a result) can’t sleep for more than a couple hours at a stretch, both of which are interfering quite seriously with my ability to dance.
Denis, of course, can’t sleep either: it is hard to sleep next to someone who sounds like a robotic sea lion. I offered to sleep in the guest room until this blows over, but he told me that he would rather have me right next to him so he knows what’s going on with me.
He has been incredibly sweet and forebearing every time my cough has awakened him. Instead of being all GRAAAAAR GO SLEEP IN THE GARAGE OR SOMETHING FFS, he’s like, “I’m so sorry, baby, that sounds like it hurts.” (He described the sound of my cough as “mechanical” and, at one point, “like glass breaking,” which suggests that it sounds much worse than it feels.)
Meanwhile, I am more worried by the precipitous drop in my weight — 2+ pounds since Wednesday in addition to the 2 pounds in the previous few days.
This wouldn’t worry me if it had been preceded by an uptick; my weight fluctuates like that all the time. In fact, it has been known to fluctuate by as much as six pounds after century rides as I regain equilibrium — but always in an up-then-down pattern.
The fact that I’ve dropped four pounds below my previous “floor” is the worrisome part. The last time I lost weight this fast, it turned out that I had pneumonia. I also felt a thousand times worse than I do now, though, so I don’t think I actually do have pneumonia. It just makes me nervous.
Denis told me this morning to call our doc and get them to fit me in, and since he rarely gives me a direct order, I gathered that he was quite worried.
Needless to say, I am going to see our regular doc today at 2:30. (Ironically, Denis called them for me because I finally feel asleep around 8:15 AM and turned off my alarm at 9:00 AM without properly waking up. ._.)
In other news, I came up with two dances for the audition, one of which is a serious ballet and one of which pokes fun at the seriousness of ballet.
I asked Denis if he’d like to do the second piece with me (it requires one fairly skilled dancer and one dancer who’s willing to camp it up and clown around, but doesn’t have to be all that great at actual ballet), and though I assumed he’d say no, he agreed rather enthusiastically. Have I mentioned that I adore this man?
I can’t wait to get a video of the dance in question; I think it’s going to be pretty great. The music for the piece is the second movement to Beethoven’s Piano Sonota Number 8 in C minor — that is to say, the adagio cantabile from the “Pathétique.”
Go listen to it and then try to tell me there isn’t a built-in Charlie Chaplain Does Ballet thing going on! (Here’s a link: https://youtu.be/yyelz5Q0Z9w)
Denis is going to wear his fabulous tutu costume; for the performance, I’ll have to come up with a Serious Ballet Is Serious costume. I haven’t decided whether to go with the traditional “Ballet Prince ” look or an Austere Contemporary Ballet ensemble.
Perhaps I should take a poll! (HINT, HINT.)
So that’s a go, and we’ll be rehearsing the choreography starting next week, provided that I do not, in fact, have pneumonia (which I’m quite sure that I don’t) and can get some sleep between now and then.
In still other news, this post was supposed to be short. Ha! Will I never learn?
Danseur Ignoble: The Playa Plague Continues, Audition-y Anxiety
Since my cough was still keeping me up all night, I went to the doc-in-the-box on Monday afternoon. She listened to my lungs and said, “Ah-hah!”
o.O
It turns out I’ve got acute bacterial bronchitis. I’ve been running around assuming that this was some kind of sinus-drainage-induced-annoying-cough-thing that would clear up on its own. So … um, oops?
I was initially rather annoyed that I’d developed bronchitis, but then I realized it’s actually been quite a while (by my standards) since I’ve had it, or at least since I’ve had a case that warranted medical intervention. I feel like I still get sick more easily than most people, but my overall health is improving. I spend more time being reasonably well than I used to. Thanks, ballet!
So now I’m on an antibiotic and a prescription cough syrup. That should, I hope, get this shifted, though at this particular moment I’m still pretty uncomfortable.
I was able to sleep four about four hours tonight before the prescribed cough syrup wore off and I started coughing again, so I’ve taken my second dose for the night.
Since the cough has been at its worst when I’m lying down (convenient, right?), I decided to get up and give the medicine time to work its magic so Denis can sleep. He deserves a good night’s sleep for many reasons, not least because he’s been so great about looking after me while I’ve been useless and miserable.
The downside to the timing of this whole thing is that I’ve been invited to audition for a dance performance, and I’m iffy about whether or not I’ll be entirely back on my feet by the first weekend in October. (Or, rather, whether I’ll both be back on my feet and adequately rehearsed.)
The upside is that if I make it through the audition (that sounds so dire: there probably won’t be a shark pit waiting for those whose works don’t quite cut it), the performance isn’t until February, so I’ll have plenty of time to arrange my waterfowls in a linear array.
![Swan Lake. By Paata Vardanashvili from Tbilisi, Georgia (Nino Ananiashvili "Swan Lake") [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons](https://danseurignoble.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/arrange-your-waterfowls.png)
Original photo by Paata Vardanashvili from Tbilisi, Georgia (Nino Ananiashvili “Swan Lake”) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons
Part of me says that I’m just being a big ol’ chicken (duck! :V). There’s some merit to that argument. I talk a good game, but my confidence about my ability as a performer and choreographer is, shall we say, still embryonic — you know, as yet unhatched.
Still, I must not let it ruffle my feathers.
…Okay, I’ll stop with the, ahem, poultry attempts at humor.
At any rate, I’ve bitten the bullet and signed up for an audition slot. After all my whinging about the challenge of finding performance opportunities, I can’t very well pass one up when it’s handed directly to me!
I have a piece in mind, though it’s a little on the short side (~4 mins; audition pieces need to be between 5 and 12 mins long). I’ll have to see if I can expand it a bit. If not, I may have to whip up something fresh — I do have some ideas, though, so that should be doable. I hope.
Being who I am, I feel a great deal of anxiety about the audition and essentially none about the concept of performing before (GASP!) an actual audience comprised of people who have actually paid actual money to actually sit down and watch. In short, I figure if the folks putting this performance together think I’m good enough, then I probably am*.
Here’s hoping I’ll be back in class this week. I’m going to need it. It seems unlikely that I’ll be up for Brienne’s class on Wednesday, but I might be able to handle Margie’s class. I’m optimistic about Friday, at any rate.
In other news, it looks like my primary employment this year will be with Porchlight Express, refitting the website and getting the other communications stuff sorted. That will take up a significant portion of my free time, so it’s useful to know that I probably won’t also need to pick up another part-time job.
I also still need to sign up for the GRE (OMG, WTF, BBQ) and submit my grad school applications. Oh, and take the driver’s exam at some point, hopefully before the 4th, in case Denis doesn’t feel like driving to Cincy for the audition. (But, seriously, there’s an IKEA there — why wouldn’t he want to go to Cincy?)
On my life-anxieties scale, by the way, this audition thing is right at the top. I feel pretty confident about getting accepted into one or more DMT programs and quite confident indeed about being able to really polish the PLX website now that I have time. That really rather puts things in perspective for me!
Anyway, I’ve stopped coughing up furballs for now, so I shall try to go back to bed.
Wish me luck?
Danseur Ignoble: Returning the Last Books
Yesterday, I went to Margie’s class, where we had 3 new dancers (one complete newbie, another with a dance-team background, and a third with extensive ballet experience who hadn’t danced in a long time. Margiesuggested that I do Tawnee’s class, but my calf is still regaining strength, so I opted for a “rehab” day.
l think intermediate-class-plus-bike-commuting probably calls for light exercise (maybe a walk?) on the following day to reduce soreness. l should, come to think of it, treat myself like I’d treat a horse on the mend – follow an over-fences or dressage day with light walk-trot hacking, probably on trails, possibly in-hand (that means leading, rather than riding, the horse). I probably wouldn’t turn me out in a field with my buddies yet on days off – too much risk of horseplay (they call it that for a reason) and re-injury.
So while I need the workout l get in Brienne’s class, I should be smarter about days off, so I won’t be sore as long. l should also probably wear a compression sleeve.
After class I purchased the last of Denis’ anniversary gifts (the only one that cost more than $7) and returned ny last lUS library books – my first visit to campus as a graduate, but also final undergrad business. That felt weird.
Margie and Taunee keep gently nudging me towards Tawnee’s class, so it looks like
Essentials Forevar! plan night, in fact, not happen. I do think my calf could use another week or two, though.
That’s it for now. It’s raining at last.
A Few Things I Try Not To Say To My Friend Who Has Cancer
There are a lot of things that people say all the time to people who are fighting life-threatening illnesses.
They’re how we express our empathy as fellow humans; how we try to express our solidarity, our support, our “being-there-for-you-ness.”
Most of them are great — but some of them, when I really think about it, seem a little problematic.
Not that I’m judging you if you use them: frankly, in the heat of the moment, we tend to say whatever we can, and it’s really hard to come up with something to say that’s supportive. Worse, a lot of the phrases in question are basically the major elements in our cultural tool-kit of go-to things to say to people when they’re struggling.
Still, I think it might be useful if I write about what I try not to say and why. Of course, feel free to disagree with me (or agree with me, that’s cool, too!) in the comments.
Here we go:
What I Try Not To Say:
I know you’re going to beat this!
Why I Try Not To Say It:
In short, I don’t know that.
A couple years back, a long-time friend of Denis’ was diagnosed with what looked, at first, like a pretty uncomplicated lung cancer. His prognosis was very good. After the usual course of radiation and chemo, he went in for surgery to remove the tumors … and that’s where everything fell apart.
It turned out that his body was riddled with cancerous tumors; tumors that hadn’t shown up on the various imaging studies that had been done up to that point. The tumors in question happened to be of the same density as the organs they had invaded. They were stealth tumors.
Those stealth tumors killed Denis’ friend.
With cancer, as with so many things, nothing is certain — and if I tell someone I know they’re going to beat it, and they discover that, actually, they aren’t, it can leave them feeling like they’re letting me down. They don’t need that.
I never want my friend who has cancer to feel like he’s letting me down. He’s not. He didn’t ask for cancer, and even if he had some kind of habit (like smoking) that amounts to asking for it … well, people do stupid things all the time. That doesn’t mean they deserve cancer. Cancer sucks.
What I Try Not To Say:
Stay strong!
Why I Try Not To Say It:
It’s okay to be weak. Sometimes, it’s even necessary.
I’ve noticed that the hardest thing for people who are seriously ill to do is to just put everything down for a little while and take a breather.
People who are seriously ill often feel like they owe it to everyone around them to hold it together.
I’m not advocating turning into a navel-gazing blubfest — though I’d actually say that it’s fine and healthy to do that at times! — but when you’re battling cancer, or heart disease, or severe major depression, or whatever, you’ve already got a lot on your plate.
Sometimes, the best thing you can do for yourself is the sort of thing we perceive as weak.
Sometimes, you need to stop being responsible for a while and literally lie down in bed so your body and/or your mind can do their thing and try to heal as best they can.
Sometimes, it’s even good for the people around you to step up and take over some of the stuff you would normally do. It lets them feel like they’re doing something to help, even though they can’t wave their magic wands and make your cancer go away.
We live in a culture that devalues weakness. What we don’t always realize that it’s when others are weak that we have an opportunity to lift them up — and any good personal trainer can tell you that lifting makes you stronger.
So by lifting others in their times of weakness, we strengthen ourselves: so we should try to be less afraid of others’ weakness … and less afraid of our own. When we let someone lift us up, we’re doing them a favor, too.
What I Try Not To Say:
Everything’s going to be okay!
Why I Try Not To Say It:
Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.
It could be that everything will turn out fine, and that the experience of living with and/or through cancer becomes a kind of emotional touchstone.
It could be that everything won’t turn out fine. A struggle with cancer, even when cancer loses, can leave scars and tear families apart. A struggle with cancer that ends in death is hard for everyone who loves the person who dies, and while some of those people will come out just fine, others might not. We don’t really understand a lot about the underpinnings of human resilience, yet.
So maybe everything will be okay, and maybe it won’t — and, either way, I want my friend who has cancer to know that I’m going to be there. That I’m not going to judge him or anyone else if everything doesn’t turn out just fine. That I’m going to love him either way as a brother-of-the-road, a fellow fitness fanatic, another human being, and a general all-around funny and awesome guy who was dealt a crappy hand.
I’m sure there are other problematic phrases out there in our cultural lexicon. I can’t seem to think of them right now.
Sometimes, though, when I need to find something to say to someone who’s hurting, I find one of these phrases slipping from my tongue (or my fingertips).
In the end, that’s okay, too: once again, as humans, we make mistakes and we do stupid things.
So, yeah. If you’re that guy from time to time who says stuff like this, don’t be too hard on yourself.
And if you’re that guy who has cancer, don’t be too hard on yourself.
At the end of the day, we’re all in this together.
And that, in fact, might be something worth saying to your friend who has cancer.
“We’re here. We’re in this with you. Together.”
Bluh
Just a quick hallo.
Class Friday morning was lovely, though for some reason (probably a bicycular one), my right hamstring was way tight (by my standards, anyway). On the way home, though, I retrieved my bike from the spot near Family Dollar where I’d locked it, rolled for maybe ten minutes, then went down so hard and fast that I was reflexively getting back up before I really figured out I’d crashed (aside: You can pick out horse people by how fast we pop back onto our feet after a bike crash, and the fact that we tend to instinctively keep one hand on the “reins” — I haven’t had a bike bolt on me yet :D).
This particular spill happened so fast that my tuck-and-roll reflex was useless … though, the fact that the bike went over flat on its left side didn’t help, either. You guys, mountain bikes may not be as fast as road bikes in general, but they sure do fall just as fast.
At the time, the crash seemed inexplicable, which is to say I couldn’t remember how it happened, which really freaked me out for much of the day — though, to be fair, I had a mild concussion, which can do weird things to all the feels. I at least had the presence of mind to call Denis instead of trying to ride home. Which is good, because today I went out to check on the bike and realized that the rear tire was pancake flat. I suspect that’s actually what caused the crash — I must have picked up a puncture and rolled the tire. I haven’t yet had it off the rim to see what flattened it, though.
Anyway, I’m mostly fine, if a bit bruised here and there. My helmet died an honorable death protecting my skull (and also keeping me face road-rash free). I have a replacement en route. I was able to mow the lawn today; should be fine to dance tomorrow.
So this is all by way of explaining this weekend’s radio silence. Saturday, we went to the final Met Live in HD broadcast for the season; today, we just relaxed at home.
I should point out that Denis was wonderful all day on Friday: he came and picked me up right away, and then he kept me comfy and hydrated and stuff so I could vegetate on the couch and let my brain rest (and stop crying eventually — oy vey, did this ever kick off the mother of all crying jags, which should’ve been my first clue that it rattled my brain; tears are basically never my first response to physical danger, crisis, or harm). He bought sundae cones for me on the way home. He took me out for dinner so I wouldn’t have to cook. He brought me blankets because I said I was cold, though really I just wanted to hide.
So it turns out that it can actually be kind of nice to let someone else take care of you once in a while.
So that was nice.
Anyway, tomorrow is the official Last Day of Class. The last hurdle between me and my bachelor’s of science (I kid you not, autocorrupt suggested “seive,” which is roughly how my brain feels at the end of any given semester) degree in Psychology is my final paper in Buddhism, which is adjust written, bar any minor changes.
Soooooooo, yeah. It looks like I’m doing this graduation thing for reals.
That’s it for now. More soon, probably with amusing pix of my multi-colored knee.
This Is Why I Can’t Have Free Time
Today I took my usual “Hey, it’s my day off!” morning soak in the tub and read for a while, and in the middle of that process realized that in putting together a little presentation on Dance-Movement Therapy for Psychology Club at IUS, I’ve overlooked the fact that one of my co-presenters is blind and that the opening exercise I chose might not work for her.
So, like any good child of the internet age, I hopped on the Innertubes to look for an answer.
Predictably, this meant rolling over to facebook to query the wonderful ADTA community … and an hour later I’m like, “WHY???”
Not, mind you, because of anything the ADTA folks have said or done, but because the internet is full of sand-traps crafted from adorable cat videos and their ilk, and facebook is the pinnacle (or should I say nadir?) of those sand-traps, and I’m now scrabbling on the walls of the slippery slope1.
D’oh. Best laid plans.
That said, I was immensely productive over the majority of Spring Break. Basically, between last Tuesday and now, I’ve installed and configured two iterations of WordPress on third-party web servers and banged out an enormous amount of work on two web projects. One is a fundraiser thing for our Burning Man camp; the other is for a newly formalizing do-gooding arm of the Bike Commuter Cabal.
I’m pretty proud of both of them, and pretty pleased with myself for managing to keep my waterfowls sufficiently linear-arrayed to accomplish a not-insignificant amount of work in a fairly-insignificant amount of time.
Original photo by Paata Vardanashvili from Tbilisi, Georgia (Nino Ananiashvili “Swan Lake”) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons
I’m definitely feeling more positive about the idea of, you know, like, getting a job and being a productive member of society in the intervening year between my terrifyingly-close graduation and the beginning of grad school (I should totally add a countdown timer plugin to my blog, here, so I can terrify myself even more every time I look at it).
Tomorrow I go to see my dentist, Dr. Shay, to have a crown put in (I broke a molar >.<), so I'm not sure whether I'm going to Wednesday evening class or not. Depends on how functional I am. The root canal portion of this exercise, which took place on Friday, was painless but actually rather exhausting, and Dr. Norton's assistant ruled out any ballet for Friday (which was an easy call, since the root canal procedure was scheduled for the same time as class).
If Dr. Shay says no to Wednesday class, I will behave myself (even though LBS has its spring break next week). The antibiotic I'm taking (for the tooth) is an iffy proposition with ballet anyway — it's one of the ones that comes with the rare but still frightening possibility of tendon rupture which is significantly heightened by the use of corticosteroids.
Since I take fluticasone (a corticosteroid) every day in order to be able to breathe through my nose, part of me worries about that (probably more so than necessary, but I don't want another mandatory 6-week-or-longer break from jumps, or worse, from ballet in entirety!).
You know what they say:
"Good things come to those who don't asplode their tendons."
Anyway, just in case you weren't sufficiently distracted, here's a great video to get you started!
Danseur Ignoble: Intermediate Class, Now With More Fiber
I finally bit the bullet and returned to intermediate class today.
But first I failed to eat breakfast, so I bought some protein bars (mainly because they were fairly low in sugar). I had plenty of time before class, so I wolfed one down.
Then I noticed a message on the side of the box: “Increase fiber intake gradually to avoid gastric distress.”
Huh.
I did not proceed to check out the fiber content (update: I did check it after I got home — 20% of your daily diet intake per Bar! No wonder. I mean, that’s great, but maybe better after class, here).
I didn’t want to know. Sometimes — particularly on the way into I(ntermediate) C(lass), Brienne’s IC especially — ignorance is bliss, or at least survival.
Barre went well. As a body, Brienne’s students adore her because she works us like a bunch of cart-horses while providing great guidance and corrections. We suffer under her tutelage and emerge better dancers.
Oh, and her barre is often a full hour long. Spin class got nothin’ on Brienne’s barre.
It turns out that I haven’t lost my ability to learn long combinations and execute them, though I am somewhat out of shape physically.
I suffered like a bike racer through the final fondu adagio (we did, like, three separate slow fondu combos; mine got ugly towards the end) and then somewhat half-assed the frappés, even though that combination was fun (frappe x4, grand battement x2, all the way around and then avant with the inside leg).
At center, it turned out (no pun intended!) that all the work I’ve been doing on balances has greatly improved my turns. They’re now solid in combinations, as long as I don’t psych myself out.
We did a little warm-up thing with tendus and pirouettes from fifth, then some really nice adagio that I freaking well did right (including a double from fourth, Bwahaha!) on the first try…
And then, like a voice from beyond, my stomach spoke.
It spoke inaudibly, but its message was clear: Danseur Ignoble, you are just about done for the day. It was quite firm about that.
I made it through the second side of the adagio combination, but by the end of the first-side repeat my guts were in knots and I was starting to think I might vomit. My leg was also quietly suggesting that it was close to done –and I still needed to haul groceries home on the bike. For that matter, even my brain wasn’t so hot by then: it was busy trying to keep my guts in line, and I soon forgot the combination I’d just done so successfully a moment before.
My leg, my guts, my brain, and I limped through the rest of the adagio. We skipped the allegro: the guts weren’t having it, and the leg felt sufficiently fatigued to suggest a good stopping point anyway.
Needless to say, I followed up my class with an unexpected pit stop. Oy vey.
At any rate, all’s well that ends well. I’m feeling much better now.
And I have learned a valuable lesson: when choosing a pre-class breakfast bar, fiber content is probably as important as sugar and protein content.
Today’s corrections:
1. An effective one for keeping the supporting leg really turned out while in a relevé balance (can’t remember how she said it, but it worked and I’ve got it in my body now).
2. A deeply useful one for hitting the accents and a good line in frappé. Somehow, I haven’t been thinking of where the “picture” is in frappé,perhaps because I keep thinking of it as a passing step, which is a silly thing to think anyway in ballet. In ballet, there’s always a “picture.”
3. An excellent one for being musical and expressive in adagio without squinching up too much in the “small” moments. This one you really had to see. Maybe I’ll make a video?
Even though graduating is, like, terrifying in its own way (I used to kvetch about never finishing anything; now I’m kvetching about how scary finishing is!), I can’t wait to be done with this semester so I can get back to doing Brienne’s class on a regular basis. Also Brian’s Monday class.
Between the two of them and Margie’s and/or Claire’s Saturday classes, I think I’ll be in very good shape when it comes time to do the audition component for various DMT programs. I’m gaining a confidence in my body that I really never expected to achieve (learning to loooooove yourself, it is the greaaaaaatest loooooove o-of all, amirite?).
So that’s it for today. Stay on the ball, dancers!
Ballet Squid Chronicles: On Poor Choices and Owning Them
A while ago, I wrote about returning to class after my extended winter break (link to come). Among other things, I said that I felt like a pudgy dancer.
I realized at the time that “pudgy” was the wrong word for a number of reasons.
First, it wasn’t the word I wanted, and didn’t actually convey the concept I hoped to express, but I wracked my brain and couldn’t come up with the word I knew I was looking for. Like autocorrupt on crack, my brain kept suggesting “pudgy.” Finally, I gave up and used it. Twice.
Second, it’s a loaded word. Like “chubby,” it’s one of those words that means “adorably chunky” when we’re describing puppies or baby elephants or cartoon orcas or toddlers or what have you, but something else entirely when applied to human adults (never mind that some of us, myself included, like how “pudgy” looks on other people; I married a slim guy, but I’ve always preferred big guys — pudgy guys, in fact). So it’s a word that implies a kind of judgment I try not to make, and also reveals the double standard by which I judge myself. “Pudgy,” in short, is a word that can hurt.
Third, the dance world is full of implicit (and, sometimes, explicit) judgments about body size. I’ve written about this a couple of times (again, links to follow). I try not to participate in this particular hegemony: I think dancers of all sizes can be beautiful. That doesn’t mean I’m not affected by it, though. I am both human enough to admit that I do experience reflexive moments of size-ist thinking, and to say that those moments are often concurrent with their opposites: one part of my mind will be thinking, “Wow, that one dude in the corps is pretty hefty,” while another part of thinks, “He looks really great up there.”
The difference is that the first of these thoughts is a conditioned reflex; the second is a feeling. So while my conditioned thoughts — the ones influenced by cultural dictates — are busy being jerks, my actual gut feelings are appreciating what I’m seeing. It’s weird, uncomfortable, and cognitively dissonant.
And when I use words like “pudgy” in contexts where they mean something bad (in this case, the word I really wanted was “clumsy”), I reinforce the cultural dictate that says dancers need to be shaped a certain way — even if that’s not what I believe, feel, or mean to convey.
Even if I really genuinely believe (and I do) that dancers actually need to be shaped all kinds of ways, my intentions don’t matter in a static context that doesn’t convey them. What matters is what I actually write.
Lastly, there’s a part of me that still genuinely believes that everyone else can be great and look great at whatever size but I need to be, in a word, skinny. That voice is always there. It was there when my BMI was 14.5. It was there when my BMI was 30. It is still there now, when my BMI is 24.
Every time I make a disparaging remark about my own weight, I reinforce that voice. Yes, I need to talk about that voice, and to acknowledge what it says (ignoring it sure as heck doesn’t make it go away) — but I need to do so in a way that reduces, rather than increases, its power.
I need to do that for me, and I need to do that for everyone else who has that voice (which, to a greater or lesser degree, is everyone).
~~~
I thought long and hard about whether to write this at all. I’m just going to go ahead and admit that, in short, I was debating whether or not to stick my head in the sand and hope nobody noticed my apparent act of woeful hypocrisy.
I was being a coward, but I guess I was also thinking about what I said (“pudgy”) and why (because my language co-processor was on the fritz, but also probably because I was having a exceptionally poor body image day) and what to write about it (this, it turns out).
I’m glad I did: that is to say, glad I tool some time to think about it, and also glad I took some time to write about it.
If my choice of words hurt you, please know that I’m sorry. Nobody deserves to be hurt (except maybe masochists who have been really good and done all their chores ;)). And I guess I should apologize to myself as well, because I am a dick to myself way too often.
For what it’s worth, I really do mean what I say: there’s room in dance for all kinds of bodies, all colors and sizes and shapes and abilities. All of those different bodies are valid and valuable — and just as painters have expanded their palettes as new media have emerged, it behooves those of us with choreographic ambitions to expand our palettes to include all kinds of bodies (“Oh, brave new world that has such creatures in it!”).
I’m hoping that, having written this, I’ll think of more to say on the topic. For now, this is it.
Go forth and be pudgy and proud, or svelte and sublime, or medium and miraculous: no matter your shape, dancers of the world, the things your bodies can do are amazing.
Then There Are Days Like Today
It’s 10 AM, and although I’ve been awake for a while, I’m still in bed, reading.
There are things I need to do: dishes to wash, bills to pay, homework. But I am still in bed, still reading, still trying to pull myself together.
I cannot explain the sensation that follows the thought, “I need to get up and write some checks.” It is difficult to admit that, at moments like this one, small anxieties are crushing. When I’m on the upswing, of course, anxiety does not exist.
~
I brought this on myself.
For whatever reason, alcohol seriously destabilizes my mood. It brings on precipitous depressions, even when I’m trending towards the hypomanic side of up. It knocks me out of my tree.
This isn’t to say that I can’t have a beer or a cocktail or a glass of wine. I can usually handle that. It’s anything more that’s too much: I don’t get hangovers, but the chemistry of my brain just jumps the track. It can take a good, long time to get it back on target.
~
On Saturday, after the opera, we had dinner at a new local place that has fantastic subs, amazing pizza, and an extensive beer selection. Kelly and I shared a pitcher of pilsner that was bought for us by some folks with whom we traded tables so they could all sit together as a group.
I had a couple of pints, maybe three. Way more than I normally drink (when I drink at all). It was perfect with the pizza, crisp and delicious, and yet even as I forged bravely towards the bottom of my glass, part of me realized that I was Making A Big Mistake.
Sunday, I woke up feeling hollow, as if all that was good had been sucked out of creation, leaving only the “meh” of survival.
Monday, I fought my way through a morass, trying to keep a brave face on it.
Last night, having finished my class notes from Saturday, I admitted to Denis that I was not well.
Today … well, here I am.
~
It’s easy to understand how drinking can snowball for someone like me.
If I had less insight – if I hadn’t grown up with a father who was a recovering alcoholic; if I hadn’t received the powerful prophylaxis that comes with being hospitalized for the first time at age fourteen and then spending three years in intensive in- and outpatient treatment; if I hadn’t been given a lot of very conscious education about all this – I would probably think, “Well, I felt pretty good when I was quaffing that pils, and I feel like crap now. I know! I’ll have more beer! That’ll help!”
It turns out that I’m not the only person with bipolar for whom alcohol is like an “Activate Depression Mode” switch.
I guess it makes sense: antidepressants and stimulants can kick off mania; alcohol is a depressant. Of course it can kick off a depression. The whole point of bipolar disorder is that the brain’s ability to regulate its own chemistry is, to a greater or lesser degree, broken.
This, however, is a hard lesson to actualize.
It’s easy enough to know rationally: “My brain has trouble regulating its own chemistry, so my moods get out of whack.”
It’s harder to grok the applications: “My brain has trouble regulating its own chemistry, so alcohol can make me really depressed for a while. Caffeine can make me manic.”
It’s hard to accept those realities and to keep a super-tight check rein on myself all the time (to be fair, I do schedule times in my life when I can take the check rein off; now is not one of them). Those of us with bipolar disorder often crave stimulation and spontaneity, even when it’s the worst possible idea.
~
I’m not sure how to approach today. I think I’m going to budget a little caffeine in hopes of nudging the meter back towards the positive.
I guess I’ll also have to get back on the fish oil, which I’ve been neglecting to take (for no rational reason … yet another malfunction I can’t even explain to myself).
Tomorrow, I’ll have work, school, therapy, and ballet.
With a little luck, maybe all of those things will crack this depression and I’ll be able to tend back towards the midline instead of languishing for weeks because I made one poor decision.
~
In the end, this is part of the difficulty in dealing with bipolar disorder.
What might be no big deal for someone with typical neurochemistry is a potential game-changer for us.
It is not hyperbole to say that 1.5 extra pints of lager can become a question of life or death: the little blip is there in the back of my head that says, “It would be so much easier just to die.”
If I was in the position of too many of my sisters and brothers who wrestle with bipolar — if I didn’t have a privileged background that afforded early treatment that taught me important coping skills; if I didn’t have a spouse who loves and supports me even in my darkest hours; if I had to worry about a stressful job and whether or not the bills would be paid and I’d be able to eat, let alone keep a roof over my head; if I didn’t have a gifted, effective therapist…
Without all the things that I did nothing to earn that help keep me afloat, it would be statistically pretty likely that my weekend’s minor excess could snowball into suicide.
That’s the reality for too many of us. Other people drink a little too much and get hangovers; we drink a very, very little too much and get tragedy.
For those of us with bipolar disorder, the repercussions of some decisions are amplified beyond all reason.
And we, who are not always so great at staying rational in the first place, must somehow cope with these repercussions.
~
I’m not sure where I’m going with all this. It began as a kind of confession: Okay, yes, I’m struggling a little and I’m hiding it as usual.
It’s grown into some weird sociopolitical treatise: here is a reality that people with bipolar know that maybe “typical” people don’t see. Here is why your bestie really means it when she says, no, she can’t have a second drink.
Here is why maybe he does anyway and then drops off the planet for two weeks afterwards: because sometimes, when it’s been a while, we forget just how fast and hard that extra drink can drop us through the bedrock, or how explosively that extra cappuccino can launch us into the sun.
danseur ignoble 