The Dancing Ghost

Pirouetting through my heart

It was mid November, 2013, in Hawaii. Middle of the night. When my little sanctuary came crashing down in one, unplanned, sentence.

“Amy’s gonna have to quit dance. I can’t afford it anymore.”

It was said louder than you’d expect, emotional, angry. Completely out of nowhere.

I kept it together. I understood. I kind of accepted. I didn’t hear anything after that. To me, the room went silent and all eyes darted towards me. I’m not so sure that’s the truth of the scene. In an instant, my mind stopped navigating, my heart beat grew louder and all ballerinas, the ones trapped in snow globes, stopped turning.

I often get flashbacks. To any random time, memory, place, sentence, feeling. Dance dominates my subconscious mind. In my dreams, I am still on stage. I am still with my team mates. I am still that little girl with a face full of heavy makeup. Any time I smell hairspray, my heart crumbles. Like a piece of me is missing without nylon tights on and a bun that’s way too tight.

My dreams often feel so real. I’m on stage front and center, but forget the dance. Shame, I feel.

Shame. It’s been almost 10 years now. It’s only going to get further and further away. When will I move on? Why am I still so attached to an experience that only exists in my imagination now?

I remember my last Recital.

I’m backstage. Burgundy lipstick on, which is probably bleeding out of the lines. Big, chunky diamond earrings hang and sparkle from my ears. They hurt. A simple grey t-shirt and black booty shorts. My comfiest costume yet. We’re performing “Read All About It”. It’s an emotional piece, with newspapers as props. The dance and song is meant to express all of the awful things happening in our world. We must be serious, solemn. We have to feel it.

I expected this to be my last Recital. I didn’t tell anyone. My family and I never really talked about it again. I tried not thinking about it. Living in denial comes naturally to me. I’m good at faking a smile.

My friend Danielle is in front of me in line. The draping, stage curtain is to our left. Usually backstage we’d try to hype each other up. Mark last minute parts. Breathe. Hold hands.

For this Dance, we had to get sad. I remember Danielle vividly saying “I know what I’m gonna think about”. She looked down, all sad, anxious, and breathed out of her mouth. I don’t know why, but I felt like she was referring to this being her last recital too. If not her last recital, then someone’s. That this was going to be the last time we all dance together. That this group of six girls, who have danced together for years, in a variety of routines, who have seen all of the ups and downs, the cries, the falls, the losses and the wins, the late nights and early mornings, who have travelled together and had sleepovers and inside jokes and who felt like family. Who were family. Would never be the same again. I decided that’s what I’m thinking about too.

It wasn’t hers. But it was mine.

I didn’t leave everything out on the stage. I couldn’t bear to.

But I left fragments of my heart and soul. Blood, sweat and tears.

I see it often. I feel it. I miss it. Everyday.

I’m now 22 and still revert back ages in my camera roll to watch my old competition dances.

I know I need to let go and move on. I know its part embarrassing and part weird to still ache for such a silly thing. It’s comparable to the middle aged man who is still living out his high school football star, asshole era. No one enjoys that.

I never tried going back into dance, even when I had the option. It felt like the ship has sailed. Two years ago I worked for a dance competition company, backstage. I traveled from state to state, weekend to weekend setting up the stage and watching other dancers live out their dream. I’d think to myself “they don’t even know how much they’ll miss this”. The smell of hairspray again was like a warm, fuzzy blanket. This year I tried teaching tap and ballet to young kids. I never did tap. I haven’t danced in years. I felt like an imposter. The classical music sounded like my favorite, comforting bedtime story.

I’ve had a decade in between, but still no closure. Maybe this will help. I felt like I really needed to pay tribute to this part of me. The squandering, pre-teen. The girl whose main identity was dance. The one who spent her summers with her toes bent under neath the couch with the hopes of having a better pointe. The little girl who started out in dance really shy, really quiet and sweet. And the one who ended up being goofy, more confident in what she says and does, and whose team felt like a family to her.

But that teeny, tiny ballerina, the one who lives in the snow globe, turned and turned and turned… until she left a hole.

Right in between my heart and soul.

The classical music still plays on, but I’m no longer dancing to it. Only ever in my dreams.

- An empty feeling.