The "New Girl" syndrome.

       It's been a long couple weeks, time for some ramblings.      


  

       It's your first day at a new studio. You walk into the room and it goes quiet. You put your stuff down on the side of the room, put your ballet shoes on, and leave to go to the locker room, the whole time, all eyes are on you.

       I call it the new girl syndrome, also known as competition sighted. Any ballet dancer will tell you that the ballet world is cut-throat. Whether you like it or not, you're always going to be looked at as another piece of meat for people to bite at. I've seen it at every studio I have ever been to. A new girl walks into the room and everyone stops and stares. "Is she good? Is she better than me? How old is she? Where is she from. She can't stand there, that's my spot. The teacher likes he more than me.", no one likes to be the new girl. It's scary and intimidating, especially when you don't know what you are up against. It's so hard, I know how it feels to be the "new girl" most ballerinas do, and its not fun. 

       So how do you overcome this? Some girls use it to their advantage, some crumble under the the pressure. You have to be able to get around the glares. There are certain things to help you break the ice, almost like an initiation. Sometimes all it takes is a simple joke, a statement about a teacher, about how your class went, and sometimes you may just earn respect because of your dancing. Soon enough you are part of the group, and another piece of fresh meat walks in and it starts all over again. Being the "new girl" many times before, it is interesting to watch from the sidelines, it's also pretty sad. People judge someone before they even know the persons name, granted they may get lucky and make an accurate assumption, but give the girl a chance… No, there is no room for chances, or second chances. Once an opinion is formed, it sticks, until that person proves otherwise, which, if they have basically been shunned from the group, doesn't happen very often. 

       Even after you've "made the cut" you are still being judged, whether by your peers, or superiors… There is so much stress to prove yourself, so much sleep lost thinking of what you can do better or fix tomorrow. So much time is spent worrying if you said the wrong thing yesterday to someone that could turn your life into a living hell, what if you said something that could be taken out of context, or that could mutate into something that could be very bad for you. You'd think that this kind of stuff wouldn't really matter because all we care about is the "ballet" part of this competitive world… We should just be concerned about ourselves and our dancing and how we can improve, not what other people think. Ha… no. That's impossible. In my opinion, if you don't care what other people think, then why are you in ballet? The whole entire focus of ballet is to perform for an audience, and when the audience leaves you want them to think, "Wow, that was great, those dancers were beautiful". When you take class you want the teacher to see you and praise you for your hard work, and if they don't you want them to correct your mistakes. When you are dancing, you want the people around you to like you, to like what they see and to be impressed by your skill. Dancers care about what other people think, there is no way around it. It doesn't matter under what circumstances, you want people to be impressed. Whenever a dancer says to you, "Oh I really don't care what she thinks about me" They are lying. I've said it, I would know. It's not true at all. 

       It's this constant need to feel wanted, to feel useful, to feel accepted, and to be successful. It's what drives us to do well. If someone goes to long without one or more of these things, there is a nagging sensation at the back of their brain, then it becomes something stronger, and soon they just go insane. It's not pretty. Though, once a person feels like a need is met, everything evens out again, and they improve, or they start to dance again, not just move with the music. It may be a short and painless process, it may be long and dragged out, it all depends on you and your performance. Don't give in when you feel like giving up. That is one of the hardest things to do, it's hard not to walk off the floor and think "That sucked but whatever, no one cares." Someone will always care, someone will always see you struggling, and there will always be someone to see you succeed, it's just patience that decides its gonna take a vacation on you. But if this is what makes you happy, don't just throw the hard work away when you walk into the room and immediately feel out of place, work your way to the top.

       

Haunted.

The title of this post is very dramatic…

     
 
       You know when something happens to you that will change your life forever, whether good or bad? Well, my something would be my surgery. You know when certain things remind you of that certain happening… And they either drive you mad, or they fill you with momentary bliss? Yea.
I've been noticing these things, the most recent was the most dramatic, but I will talk about that in a minute.  Smaller things, like smells, get to me, and I have a sudden flashback to the hospital bed, or the car ride home, or lying in bed, or my medical boots, or the scars (mostly the scars remind me of my scars…) but none of these things are enjoyable… Scents are the worst though, because they can either be really good, like the pancakes, or flowers, or soap… or they could be just terrible. I will see someone on the street and feel like I have seen them before, in the hospital maybe? I don't know, and quite frankly I could care less, if it wasn't always nagging my brain about who they are or where I saw them.

       Then there are things I see daily, in my room. My crutches, for instance, were in my room until maybe December of 2011… My medical boots… Still in my room! Sitting under my desk, right now, at this very moment… Creepy… Or, there will be a pair of socks I had to carefully take on and off while being in bed… And when I see those particular socks I feel like tossing them in the trash even though they are perfectly fine… Little things like that bring me back… and it scares me. Recently, I became paralyzed with the fear that I would have to relive that terrible experience over again… I found myself choking on the very breath I tried to inhale. Scared and frozen over the fact that I was in pain… A pain so familiar, so unkind and uncomfortable… So unwelcome. Pain that I thought I would be rid of forever.

       You know how, when a amputee patient has phantom feelings, like an itch on a limb that is no longer there? That is what this was like for me (though I in no way, compare myself to an amputee patient, because their suffering and strength is far greater than mine). I felt pain in my ankle, where that tiny little bone, that cause so many problems, had been… I felt the same tearing sensation I felt when I stretched my scar too far too soon… All these feelings threw me into uncontrollable sobs which crumpled me to the floor in the hallway at my ballet studio, the place I told myself I would do my best to control my emotions so that I didn't make a fool of myself. I was scared, scared to be hurting, scared to know exactly what this pain was, for it to be so "normal" something I know too well. Fear intensified the pain. Pain fueled the fear. I'm sure my classmates and teachers thought I was going insane, as well as my sister probably did too… She was there with me though, trying to help me get through the odd spasms of frustration, anger and dread… It's just something I can't explain though… I wasn't looking for sympathy, for pity looks, pouty faces or blown kisses… I wanted to escape. Leave the building, walk home… cry into my pillow… Just get out of the environment that causes stress…

       When you can feel your heart beating against your rib cage, attempting to break through. When you can feel an intense shakiness in your hands that won't subside. When you can feel your pulse in the temples of your skull… You body just feels like it is going to topple in on itself… These are feelings you don't want to experience… When you are in so much physical pain you clench your hands as hard as possible, only causing a momentary distraction from one pain to another. You learn what your form of control is, mine is taking both arms, clenched fists, and raising them above or across my face, hiding or at least shielding my pain from others, though it doesn't work very well. I've realized that when I am hurt this becomes my "go to" position… It's not ideal… maybe I should work on something else more… I don't know… more effective?

       Everyone has their own personal relapses… They aren't enjoyable, they aren't healthy. No one asks for just one more moment to remember pain and anguish. It happens to everyone. With some people it is unbearable, with others, it lasts only a matter of minutes… The scale tips one direction to another. No one likes a scale, but everyone is haunted with the weight that causes the shift… You can't avoid it, some things will never be far from our bodies grasp.

Decision Point.

       No sorry, I'm not writing about what it was like to be President of the United States of America… But I should probably do that sometime soon, before I forget.
 Kidding.

       So, hmm… What do I want to talk about… Since I haven't made any decisions I am not sure what prompted the title… Whatever it was must have been a stroke of genius though. Oh, that's it. I haven't made any decisions. Still in the process. It isn't fun, all the things that I have to think about, the pros and cons… It hurts my head. I have college to think about, and Ballet… and I still don't know what is going to happen with either of those. I am trying to get through it one day at a time, but with each passing day, nothing is getting done, and it is freaking me out.

       Ballet aside, my decisions are quite simple actually. I have three colleges I am choosing from…. But right now one is most prominent. My major? Mmm, history, or anthropology. My dream job, (remember, ballet aside) to work for National Geographic. Then I thought, maybe I could minor in international studies, or photography (random. so very random). I really, really, really want to be working on digs. Not dinosaur digs… I want to unearth history. Cultural history, connecting pieces of ancient cultures that haven't been put together yet, uncovering stories of people who we never knew about. Sounds pretty great to me… One day my sister said to me "Stacey! You could be a forensic anthropologist, that what Bones is.",  for those of you who don't know, Bones is a TV show… I could not be a forensic anthropologist, if it's anything like what they depict on that show, I don't have a strong enough stomach… That stuff is pretty gross.
     
       I am doing a research paper on the Incas and their culture, and i was reading in one of the books I got from the library, that there is a valley that and been virtually untouched by archaeologists because it has been continuously occupied, now that seems really frustrating, but I can't help but hope that someday, there will be teams in the field who get permission to dig around the outskirts of that valley, who uncover finds that are extremely valuable to history, and that I will be on one of those teams. Whenever I tell someone I want to become and archaeologist, most of the time the reaction I get is, "Oooo….Well I mean that's great if you want to be teaching in a classroom, or at a museum, and you don't mind the fact that you won't make much of a living.", oh thank you so much for your kind words. You get an award for encouragement. No. Maybe I won't mind teaching on something I am passionate about, and maybe money is not all that important to me, but whether or not those things matter, I have to try, because its my dream, if not anything else.

       Then, there is the question about ballet, which seems so extremely hard to answer right now because it is. I won't know until the end of the summer whether i will be dancing next year or not, and it's causing stomach ulsters (But not really). I just want to know… I want to have a solid plan now… That isn't going to change on a whim. I am sure everyone knows what it feels like, but it gets tiring explaining my "future plans" every single day… I just end up feeling silly and overly hopeful. I am "attending" a summer program to be "considered" for a job, and I am also auditioning for another spot at my home studio which would be great, either job would be great! Any job in dance right now, would be great, but it is so uncertain, unstable… shaky… like an opportunity could shatter with one breath. I put on this "It'll all work out somehow" face, even though that phrase punches me square in the chest every time I hear it. The other day I was talking to a friend and she asked me whether ballet was more work, or fun, for me… I'd never been asked this question… and I actually had to think hard about it. I mean, obviously there are times where I literally feel like the only reason why I'm dancing is to get done, but then there are times where I don't want to leave the studio because I haven't emptied my body of movement yet… In my head, I stuttered  the answer to her question.

       Am I dancing only so that i will have a job? Or am I dancing for myself, for the love of dance? For the enjoyment it brings me, and other people? I realize I spend more time worrying about what I will be doing in a year, than enjoying what I am doing now. Sometimes I feel upset with myself for this, and sometimes i believe its necessary if i want to make it… I want to find that perfect balance between the two. I love to dance, with all my heart… I am happiest when I forget my life, forget myself and lose Stacey Schuett to dance. It's a powerful feeling, to lose yourself in something so strong… That is another thing. Strength. People dance all their lives, only to retire at some thirty-odd? That makes me so sad. They used up all their strength to put so much joy and passion into something that would give them happiness, even if it was a short but fun career. I want that… I want to be happy that I followed my first and strongest dream.

I just hope the curtain isn't lowered too soon.
BB Over and Out.

     

Pain and Torture.

     The post turned out to be waaaaayyyy too long so I split them in half, I think it's better this way anyways. I didn't want to bore you.

       Now it is time for the worst. Physical Therapy. I am used to my physical therapist, Peter, already, so there is no anxiety about meeting and liking the person who is probably going to cause much pain, as well as an equal amount of relief. Even so, horror stories start in the Schuett house. My first day of PT, before I go in, my sister tells me that getting through the scarred tissue is the hardest and most painful thing that will happen to me during my physical therapy, she goes on to tell a story about an athlete who had a surgery on his knee, and during his therapy you could hear him screaming in pain from down the hall, "But don't worry," she said, "Knee surgeries are the hardest." oh yea, sure, no problem, thanks SHAYLA. So, with that reassuring bit of lovely information I get out of the car, stick my crutches under my armpits and hobble to the door, and then struggle a little bit until I finally have to give in and let my mom open it for me.

       I want to explain, that for a long time before my surgery, I had been going into to see this PT for my ankles, before we knew exactly what was wrong, so everyone who worked there (or most everyone) knew me, and when I walked in on my crutches they all stopped to ask me how I was doing and how the surgery went, and even though its not an ideal place, it felt like another part of my family and I felt right at home. I crutched over to the table where my PT was and he stood up and gave me a hug, we discussed everything that went on since I had seen him last, how the surgery went, and the fact that I had to take out my own sutures, and my PT, knowing my personality quite well, laughed for a good 10 minutes before he composed himself, and said very seriously, "Well that's no fun." and then laughed some more… This did NOT make me feel right at home and I wanted to hit him over the head with my crutch, but it is hard not to laugh with him.

       So, he gets to work on my ankle. It hurts like no ones business, but I try not to show any pain on my face, not only because my mom is sitting right there, but because if I make any indication that it hurts, he stops and moves on to another tactic that either hurts worse, or doesn't do anything at all, and I want this to get better as quickly as possible. Then, he says we need to break up some scarred tissue. Oh joy. He also says that there are some stitches still coming out. "Oh really? Hmm, I wonder why." I think to myself. Those need to be taken care of as well, he gets up… stares at me for a moment, (when this happens I never know what to do. Do I hold his gaze? Do I look away? Naturally, my instinct would be to make some hideous face, just because that's what I do in uncomfortable situations.). Then he says he knows what I need, he leaves for a couple minutes and I look over at my mom, who is reading her book, I think about telling her I am done and we need to leave as quickly as possible because I am "hungry"… But then I decide better of it. He comes back with a little yellow box and I can only think is that he is going to tell me that I need to hammer my ankle, myself.

       He sits down on his swivel stool and takes a weird looking tube that looks like a tire pump, out of the box. "Do you know what they use this for?" he asks me. "Oh yea, of course I do Peter, helloooo. No." I say, he laughs, "This is what they use to extract the venom from snake bites." he smiles. I stare at him. I can't help but think that I have the meanest PT on the entire planet. "Congratulations on your snake venom extractor," I think to myself, "but may we get on with my pain and torture?". He raises his eyebrows at me, and I raise my eyebrows right back, "Ok then." he says, then he proceeds to place the suction on the end of the tube onto my scar, and starts pumping. I stare in shock as the pump tugs at my scar. I am so very unprepared for this pain, because it's not the sort of bruised pain you feel when rubbing an injury, it is indescribable. He twists, jiggles and shakes the pump around until the suction pops off. My skin is left puffy and red, he continues this down the scar, and onto my other ankle. When he finishes, he rubs my scars a bit with some lotion, puts my socks on, get an ice pack, and says, "Have a good day! See you on Thursday." Speechless, I manage to stammer a shaky, "Uhmm, yea. Uh huh, ok." he laughs, and leaves.

       This kind of PT (Pain and Torture) continues on for a few months. Of course, there is strengthening and other things, and a good amount of progress is made. I begin walking without my crutches, start driving again, got my license. Went on a trip to Florida, which was probably the highlight of my year, seeing dolphins, basking in the sun, all that good stuff, even though I came back a sun dried tomato, from head to… ankle. (Apparently when a body part is swollen it neither tans, nor burns, this gave my PT more reason to laugh at my expense). I think one of the scariest things that I happened to me early on in my rehab was, one day I was walking to my room and all of the sudden I got the worst cramp in my calf, since it was maybe only a couple days after I was allowed to walk around without crutches, I didn't know what to do. I was afraid to stretch my calf out because of my scar, (I could barely bend my ankle anyways) so I just stood there, then sat there. Then laid there, until it went away.

        Physical Therapy started getting more challenging with the level of exercises given. I will never forget the day when my PT instructed me to balance on one foot standing on a pillow… The exercises were long, and tedious and I couldn't help but think that they were too simple for me, but I soon learned how wrong I was. There would be some days where, after doing my exercises, I could barely move my foot. Being who I am, I hate icing, and taking pain killers, even though those are supposed to be a dancers best friend. I cannot stand sitting around with ice on some injury, for some reason it just makes me annoyed. Of course, this is not ok with my mom, my sister, and especially my PT, but even I never told him that I didn't ice as much as I should, he knew anyways. My very first ballet class back, I took with a very beginner level, and I felt like I was embarrassing myself even then. The teacher was one of my first teachers, and she was so kind to me, but I couldn't help but feel like I had let her down. I could barely stand at the barre without falling over. I left the class halfway through, thanking the teacher and the pianist, walked out to my car, got in, and just sat there staring into space, trying to hold back my tears. Eventually, I couldn't hold them in any longer, and they came streaming down my face. "What am I doing?" I thought to myself, "I can't do this, I'm not strong enough to get myself back. I don't have the patience.". I called my parents to tell them I was on my way home.

       The next day I went into PT and told my therapist that I should probably just quit because I didn't have the patience and I would just make a fool of myself. He asked me if that is really what I wanted to do, and said "Before getting your surgery, had you known you would just quit, would you have gotten the surgery? And if you hadn't gotten the surgery, would you have said 'I quit'? What was the point of getting the surgery if you were just going to quit, I thought this is what you got it for, so you could continue dancing." he left me speechless, I hadn't thought about it like that. I started crying, much like our many other "Physical/mental therapy sessions" he left and came back with a box of tissues, and laughed, "You're a mess Stacey Schuett, what am I going to do with you.", "Cut off my feet and then tell me to continue" I said, frustrated that he beat me again.

       I owe a lot to a lot of people, my PT is one of them. Physical Therapy, as painful as it is, helped me regain my strength and I was back to full ballet classes, with some exceptions, by the end of may. :)

     

I hope that concludes my surgery story. 


BB over and out.

The Recovery.

OK, so this post, and the one before it, are just a continuation and a wrap up of my surgery, since I didn't write them when I intended, I was hoping that i could place them right after "Waking Up" but that's not going to happen, so please, bear with me.

       Now, the recovery. There is nothing easy about any recovery. There are always setbacks, ups and downs, and moments where you think its not worth it. There is never a scenario where recovering will be easy. (Unless you get a paper cut… And well, if that's not easy for you then… I don't know what to tell ya). Recovering from surgeries can be extremely difficult, or they can progress faster than expected. I have no clue which category mine fits in, only that it sucked. No way around it, getting that out there. It was torture.

       Looking back at this step of the process, I laugh a little at some of the things I remember, but of course, at the time I was terrified. One of the things I laugh about, among others, is the very first instruction my doctors assistant gave my mother in our last meeting before the surgery, which was "Because of the morphine, for 24 hours after your surgery, eat as though you just had the stomach flu, so that's, rice, cereal, oatmeal, things that won't upset your stomach. Every one's body reacts differently to the medication", and what do my parents feed me that same day?? PANCAKES! Yayyyyy. Haha, who eats pancakes and bacon after having the stomach flu? I do apparently. It's ok though, I don't hold it against them because my body accepted the food even with the medicine and it was a very yummy breakfast, they're very lucky I don't have a weak stomach. So, that's one thing I laugh at. Another thing that will never cease to terrify me, is the fact that I had to take out my own stitches…

       So, here's how this went. My follow up appointment with my doctor went well and he was pleased with what he saw, his assistant, who I now appreciate very much, was out of town due to a family emergency, so my doctor had an Attending with him.  He looked over my incisions and said it was time to take the sutures out he gave instructions to the Attending, wished me luck with the rest of my recovery and left the room. The Attending left, and came back with a little plastic package, "Ok," she said "here's the suture removal kit, take the scissors and cut the knots, and then you should be able to pull out the threads with the tweezers. You can do this at home, it usually works best if the area is wet." and with that she left the room. Uhhhh what? So, here I am, sitting on the sanitary paper covered table, mouth gaping eyes wide. I turn to my parents… "I…. Have to take them out myself?" I say, I pretend to laugh it off, but in my head I am screaming. I can barely look at my ankles, let alone take out sutures. On the ride home I tell myself to suck it up, because there is no way I'd let anyone else do it, so if I don't it will never get done.

       We get home, and i head straight for the bathroom. I fill the bathtub up about ankle deep, with lukewarm water. Sticking my feet in, I realize, it's is the first time in 2 1/2 weeks that my feet have felt water. It's weird to think that something like that could make some one happy, but believe me. When you are a dancer, and your feet have been constricted for 2 weeks… Everyone is happy. Trust me. So, after I decide my feet have soaked long enough, I dab them with a towel so that they aren't soaking wet. I gather up my courage and take a few deep breaths. I rest on ankle on my knee "Lucky for that Attending I'm flexible. Good thing I don't have to see her again, I'd like to take out HER sutures…" I don't know why. I just really didn't like her, maybe its because she came in right before the surgery and asked me what ankle we were operating on… How about both? But anyways! While I thought angry thoughts and examined my ankles, determining where to start, my mom walks in. Startled, I just about stab myself with the scissors. She apologizes and asks "How are you doing? Do you need help?" trying to hide the look on her face that says she really does not want to help, she is just being kind. I tell her I'll be alright, but I need to concentrate so I don't cut my foot off. Besides, I would never ask my family to help me with something like this in a million years, it seems like way to much to ask.

       Here it goes, I start snipping away at the threads, hoping to get it over with as quickly as possible, now that all the threads are gone, I pick up the tweezers… "Ew" I think to myself, "I can't believe I am doing this.", I start, lightly tugging on the first knot, I stop when I see and feel, my skin bob up and down with the thread, "Uhmm, Mommmm?", she comes in, "Do you think that doctor was right about these being ready to come out?", she shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders, "I don't know, try another knot and see what happens, if it doesn't work maybe just leave it?" helpful. I don't blame her though, if it was me, not only would I want to get out of that bathroom as soon as possible, but I seriously would have no clue whether or not they were ready to come out… So I continue tugging. Finally one makes its way out from my skin. "Okkkkiiiiiiii, I think that's enough for today!" I say out loud, but in my head, "There is no way I am doing that again, they can just come out when they feel ready."

       During my immobile days, when my dad would spend evenings in my room with me, we would schedule and reschedule my road test, and he also helped me pick out and order, an entirely new outfit for Easter. I began regularly attending church again. One thing I forgot to mention, is that on my first outing, while still on crutches and still in boots, was to the mall with my best friend Renee, probably one of the dumber things I did during this time. We got to the mall, and everybody stared, which I hated, but I don't know what I thought was going to happen. My ankles started hurting and then I felt like I was going to throw up, so my sister picked me up and I went home. Easter Sunday came along, and I had asked my PT if I was ready to wear heels and I actually don't remember what he said but I am pretty sure he said no. So I obeyed. But then, it came time for me to see my friends from ballet in their spring showcase, Snow White. Some of my best friends were graduating that year and I had to see them. I picked out my outfit, including a new pair of heels that I had not been given permission to wear, and my sister and I left for the show. 

       At the theatre I saw all of my friends and we talked and blah blah blah, and then one of my friends who was graduating asked the school director if I could hand out the graduates flowers at the end of the show. He said yes and I rushed back to tell my sister. She had some interesting things to tell me. Apparently, while I was talking to my friends, the ballet mistress had walked past, and knowing about my surgery was very very angry that I was wearing heels, and told this to my sister, so I borrowed some shoes from one of my friends, so I wouldn't get yelled at after handing out the flowers. When I went back stage, the ballet mistress told my sisters "I am glad Stacey took those GD heels off." Allrrightttttt. But she wasn't my main reason for taking off my heels. One of the girls in my class goes to the same PT as I do, and she told me he was in the audience, I had not gotten permission to wear heels, I was scared of his wrath, but the next day I confessed and he said it would probably be really good for my calves, because it would give them a rest. Wish I had known that before.

After Affects.

       It's funny how much we take walking for granted. Just a few days without being able to walk and you will see what I mean.

        If anyone were to say to me now,  how nice it must have been to have a whole week in bed with everyone waiting on you… Well, if looks could kill. Try lying in bed for a week, shouting your fathers name every time you had to go to the bathroom, calling your little brother every time you dropped something on the floor. Asking your mother to bring you a cup of water whenever you got thirsty. Lying in bed at 3 in the morning, thinking about how badly you have to pee but you can't because your dad is asleep and won't hear you. Not being able to shower and then receiving the nickname "Stinky Stacey" from your older brother. THEN say how nice it must have been. HA! (Unless you are a very very odd person and all of this makes you happy…But being waited on, hand and foot is not my cup of tea.)

       For 7 days I was forced to have my dad carry me from my bed to the bathroom… I couldn't walk into the kitchen to join my family for meals, I was cut off from my life… Showering, anyone who knows me well, knows that I take personal hygiene very seriously… A week without a shower basically killed me, and when I was finally allowed to take a shower, it was not a very ideal shower. Crutches were difficult because I had 2 boots instead of one, so I had to learn to balance my weight just enough to get from one foot to another without causing any pain. Sitting on my bed all day, not able to do school because of my medication, I had a lottttttt of extra time on my hands. I finished the first season of Friends in 2 days, it really puts time into perspective when I say it now… One good thing did come of this bed ridden-ness. My parents brought the TV into my room :)

        I am not sure when I started, but after a while of being on my feet I attempted walking without crutches, and the reaction I got was not what I had hoped for. Setting the crutches down I took, 1, 2, 3 steps and caught the railing of the stairs for balance. "Oh, I guess I have to make it BACK to my crutches… Whoops." I thought. Soooo, I kinda stood there for a while, waiting for someone to come see me looking helpless and grab my crutches for me. I was slightly embarrassed, and in a fair amount of pain. I think my mom was the first one to come around the corner and see me, and she was not very pleased with me, but I was so happy to walk again that she couldn't scold me. She handed me my crutches and helped me back to my room, and then I started to realize how much I missed my friends, of course I couldn't have them over when I hadn't showered. That would be unacceptable.

       It was my sister's spring break, so during that time she spent her days sitting in my room, talking to me, watching movies with me and all that good stuff. When she first showed up after my surgery, she burst into my room with balloons and a potted Orchid, it was the prettiest flower I had ever seen. I still have it, sitting on my window sill. My oldest and best friend, Maddy, was the first to visit me, and I couldn't help but be the happiest person alive, at that point. we talked watched a movie, played card games, and video games. She helped me forget that I hadn't been outside in nearly 2 weeks. Then when she left all I wanted to do was cry, but instead I went to sleep, because that was pretty much the only thing that occupied my time. Evenings that were usually spent at my ballet studio in class, were now spent watching movies with my parents, eating popcorn, or reading. Although I don't remember anything that I read… at all. I missed my ballet friends, the people I used to see everyday. I missed going to church, and seeing all the little kids run around laughing and playing with each other.

      One Sunday, my sister told me she was bringing some MBII's (dancers in Milwaukee Ballet's second company) over for a visit. I was so excited because I had gotten very close to them in just a few months, and hearing stories about how they were doing, from my sister, wasn't enough. So, that morning, when my family left for church and to pick the dancers up, I decided I was going to be very productive, but I regretted taking a shower 2 days before instead of one, (I was told not to shower often because it would effect my bandages). I set myself to work, no one was there to stop me, no one had to know… Now, I had cleaned and rearranged my room the day before my surgery so that i wouldn't get claustrophobic, and i wouldn't get bored staring at things that hadn't changed for a while. But during my time immobile, with my family coming and going from my room, and the fact that I couldn't get up to fold my clothes, my room got a little messy, nothing, of course, compared to what it looks like right now… So I began cleaning. folding clothes, putting dirty clothes in the laundry, remaking my bed to make sure I got all the creases out of the sheets, not that anyone was going to judge the folds in my blanket...  -_- …. but it was something for me to do, to get my mind off the fact that I was home by myself. It made me so happy to clean.

       Now, with my room all tidy, I got in to bed, and then it hit me. Exhaustion. I had done way too much, and my ankles were now beginning to feel as though I had ripped the incisions open. I think to myself "Whoops, probably not so smart. Well, it was worth it," I tell myself, "I had to go to the bathroom anyways so why not kill 2 birds with one stone." ha ha, yea Stacey, sure. So anyways, I got myself ready to see my visitors and fell into a very light sleep, due to my anticipation. I heard the door from our garage slam and heard friendly familiar voices. But I COULD NOT open my eyes. I kept telling myself "Wake up! Your friends are here! Get out of bed and say hello!", then I heard my mom tell them she would go check on me, she came in and I sat up, looked around, and then I saw them, standing in the doorway, all smiley. I was so happy to see them. I got out of bed, my mom handed me my crutches, unaware of the fact that I hadn't used them all morning, and hobbled over to give them all hugs. We spent the day, playing games, watching movies, and eating really good food. Then it was time for them to go, and I really didn't want to let them. I wanted to run around and lock all the doors in the house, (not that that would have done anything. They all lock from the inside anyways.). So they left, I was glad to have spent time with them, and I was so grateful that they took time out of their weekend to come visit me :) But it hurt my heart to see them leave.

     Those are pretty much the only exciting social interactions I had during that time, but they meant the world to me.

     So, this is my post for the day, slightly boring, but I had so much to catch up on that, what started as one post turned into three, they will be posted on a daily basis now. I apologize if I bore you with my amazing stories :)

It Sucks to be a Number.

       I never really believed what I heard dancers say when they talked about how hard it is to find a job. I always thought it would be handed to me on some beautiful china plate "Miss Schuett we'd be delighted if you would join our company as a principal dancer". This is what I dreamed of as a child. Haha, nope.

       Probably the most trying time in a dancers life, aside from injuries, is audition season. No one said it was easy, and everyone was right. Stress, sweat, tears, pain, it all adds up. You walk into a building, register, and from that point on you are no longer called by your name, just your number. Mine was number 22. Now, this isn't meant, in any way, shape or form, to be demeaning. Unfortunately, this just happens to be the name of the game (no pun intended). You walk into the studio, find a spot at the barre, (if you have been fortunate enough to get there early enough) and from that point on, you are no longer a person, you are a piece of meat. Prodded, tested, pushed to the limit, and judged, by every single person in the room, including your fellow numbers. Picked apart on every level. Analyzed, until there is no more to analyze. Still, just a number.

       Class begins, the audition panel introduce themselves, one by one you forget who they are, and what they do, it's all you can do to keep from falling over. Adrenaline rushes through your veins for maybe the first 20 minutes… Then, nothing. Exhausted from all the effort and energy you have exerted and the measly portion of barre that you just skimmed the surface of, hoping it was enough to impress. The first cut is made, there is not a breath drawn as you, or should I say your number, is being called. Luckily, this was an easier audition. No cuts are made during barre. You pray that, either you were able to impress them during barre and they want to see more, or you just didn't get noticed during barre, but they want to give you a chance so they let you stay. The numbers are called. The people leave with what dignity they have left.

       Now that the first cut is made, you breathe a little easier. Trying to maintain control of your stability, keep your nerves down. You hope things get easier, that you will be able to carry out the combinations with more ease. The first combination at center is given, and your heart drops to your stomach. Not only does it seem completely impossible to keep your cool, you highly doubt you will get any further without breaking something or someone. The combinations are long and gruesome… and very, VERY random, but you force yourself to do the best you can, after all, you career is in the hands of the butchers. You get through the class thinking that you could do worse… knocking someone over isn't that big of a deal, right?

       Class ends. You wait for numbers to be called, this time, the numbers called will not be the ones leaving. You wait for your number, not fully knowing whether you want to hear it or not. The numbers were called twice… (No #22)… When you realize your number isn't called, you either leave the room in shock, or just happy to have your name back, and turn in the sweaty piece of paper that contained your identity for 2 1/2 hours. Now what… the whole point was to get a job right… What are they saying to the numbers they called? Did they all get jobs? Or just "Well done, we are considering you for… something…" dunno. You take in all the reactions around you, some people crying, others cursing the auditioners, saying that they are missing out on an amazing dancer, (but if you think that way… they aren't missing out much.). Seriously though, what now? You gather your things, use the restroom to freshen up, take out your hair (all of this in silence), and leave? That doesn't seem right, but that's how it is. You have your name back, you still don't have a job, and you still feel like crap.

       3 weeks later, you finally realize what happened… you take in a deep breath, and you make a choice. Cry about the failure, or take pride in the fact that you made it through.

Just a Jot of Thought.

Just a bit of thoughts here that I want to get out.


       There are many things we want in life, to be famous, to be rich, to be accomplished, to be able to support our families, to travel the world, to make our dreams come true, to meet the right one the list goes on and on. It could take days for the list to be complete. There are so many dreams out there that people pray for everyday. 


       If you could be granted 3, and only 3, wishes… which would you ask for? If you could grant  3 wishes, and only 3, well now, that's a hard one isn't it. Everyday we are faced with decision after decision. The decisions we make affect others, everyday. Every waking moment, someone is affecting someones life in someway that that person doesn't even realize. it's amazing. It makes you think, it makes me think. My family says I over think… But I am okay with that because, if you don't think something through, you may end up making the biggest mistake of your life.


       Not sure where I'm going with this one… I had a point in the beginning… but it left me because I tried to think about smart things to say. I guess, the realization that we may never get what we asked for, or what we think we need… that's a hard thing to swallow. Also, the realization that, if you were to make one choice, anything, and it was the wrong one, there could be a domino effect…. Acting on impulse is so beautiful, but so terribly dangerous. I say it's beautiful because I believe impulse is led by the heart, and the heart is led by emotions. Now, you may disagree, and that is totally fine, everyone is entitled to their own opinion. What I am trying to get at though, is that the heart is a beautiful thing, to me, it is where an eruption of different actions, words, feelings, tears, laughs, and many other things are fueled, causing our human emotion. Everyday, we act and react, think and rethink, speak and regret. Emotions led by the heart, to me, are the most pure and honest, human God-given characteristic we own. 


       We should never leave our dreams to rot, our hopes to burn and our decisions to deflate. We shouldn't let our emotions get the best of us, but we should never, ever ignore them, or ignore our feelings, if it's led by the heart, well… I choose to let my actions be guided by my heart, and of course what I believe, everyone has a different outlook on life and the way it works… I know one thing is for certain though, everyone has a burning desire for something, don't let the chance to have that something, slip through your fingers, and don't ever question whether you are strong enough to shoot for your dreams, because you are.


That wasn't really… a "jot" but whenever I plan for something short and sweet, it becomes the exact opposite. Take it as you will. By the way, I never know if what I am saying makes sense, or if it is all a jumbled mess, but I try. Sometimes I don't think I ever get my point across….

BB- Over and Out.

In the Midst of Confusion.

      I know I have really been a Debby Downer in my blog, and not much  of it has been… positive. I also know that I left a lot of empty slots about how recovery has been. I realized though, that more than anything, this blog has been an emotional crutch, sort of like a diary of my true thoughts. I find a certain peace and relief in writing that I don't find anywhere else, so before I write on my recovery, there is something that has been nagging at me lately and if i don't write it down I may go insane. 

P.S. After this post my blog is sure to get a lot less depressing :)    

       Can someone tell me what ballet is all about? Grace and beauty, or strength and stamina? Or both?

If you asked a studio of dancers why they are dancing, 3 out of 5 would, most likely, say "Because it's what I love". Honestly, this time last year, that would have been my answer, in a heartbeat I would have told you it's what I have always done, it's what I love… but now… if you asked… I would probably burst into tears and run in the opposite direction because I don't know anymore… I want to say I love it, but in reality, when I think of ballet, I hate everything about it. Now, I don't know, maybe its that I hate everything about ballet that has to do with myself, because I love to watch ballet, and it still amazes me how much effort is put into making something seem effortless, but in the past few months I've lost my passion, my drive, my heart, and my love for ballet, whether it was sucked out of me because of the stress or I just threw my hands in the air and gave up, I don't know, but the fire isn't there anymore. 

       Recently people have been saying how sad it would be for me to stop dancing now and that I can 'always" go to college, or how I have so much talent and to just waste it by quitting would be silly, but to me, it would be worse for me to continue dancing when it's not what I want anymore… I don't know what I want, I am so confused as to what I should do… Go to college? Stay home for a year? Audition for as many companies as I can and receive rejection after rejection…? What am I supposed to do? Sometimes I wish someone else could make the decision for me. 

       Ballet's standards have changed so much. Nowadays there is a demand for twig thin young women with feet that bend in half and go through 5 pairs of pointe shoes in 3 days. I will admit that not all companies look for this, but I swear to you, that in the back of their mind, every company director wishes his audition was full of this description. There is a level of mental and physical abuse that dancers put themselves through, and it doesn't come from the teachers, at least at my studio. It comes from the dancers themselves… Isn't that sad? I think it is, maybe it isn't to you, but to me, it makes me want to vomit. It is impossible for me to look at myself in the mirror and not feel anxiety about how I look, I'm starting to feel like I should be sticking my finger down my throat after every meal just to fit the persona of "Ballet Dancer", why? What mentally stable person would ever even dare to think of doing that!? 

       For years, I've drilled the idea into my head, that I would never make it as anything if I didn't become a dancer, and now I feel like I'm trying to prove myself wrong by making the one thing I used to feel safe doing into the one thing I never want to think about. The moment someone mentions ballet I want to run out of the room, I want to throw myself off a moving, high speed train. It has become that terrible to me that I could quit right now and not feel a thing. Thats just it though, it would probably rip my heart out… Not only that but to think of all the people I feel like I'd be letting down… My parents, my sister, my teachers, my friends, my grandparents, the people who have supported me all my life. What would they say, would they look at me differently? Should it matter what they think? I don't even know. I can't answer one single question about ballet. Yesterday I talked to someone who had no idea about anything that had to do with dance, so they asked me all kinds of questions… and I could barely answer any of them.

       Last March I had a surgery that would change my life for the better, or so I thought. In some ways it did, but in some ways it didn't. When I had that time off from ballet, it was probably the most fun I have ever had in my whole entire life, I got to see my friends almost everyday without worrying about whether I have to go get ready for ballet, or whether it was worth missing class for. My family and I took a road trip to Florida and I never wanted to come home, I got to meet new people I had never seen in my whole entire life and for once, not worry whether they would stab my back later on in the future, or steal my part from me, or whether or not they would be better than me. I got to go to sports events, and parties, and the movies, all without ballet tugging at the back of my brain. I long for those experiences again, I long to be free of pain, it seems that after every class I have some new twinge, I am starting to worry that people think I fake it and I don't! There are some amazing dancers out there, who are built just for ballet, who can take the beatings, the pulled muscles, the sprains, the tears, the sweat, they can take it all and still find the strength to keep at it. For years I have longed for that ability, I have wished for the opportunity to be a ballet role model, for little girls all over the world to look up to me and see someone who proves that its not as hopeless as it seems sometimes.

       I read a quote the other day that said " You don't have to know ballet to enjoy it, all you have to do is watch" or something along those lines, and I thought "Wow…That is so true." and it is! It really is true. But once you are immersed in that wondrous, beautiful world… it all just becomes so… so fleeting, as if every minute spent doing something else will ruin all the progress… It's funny, because I could go on and on and on about all the bad things ballet brings out in a person and all the wrong images it personifies… But I can go the other direction. I could gloat about the beauty, and the grace and the strength and the stamina, and the will and the emotion and the drive and on and on and on and on. Gosh, the list is endless! Really it is! This is the part of me that would die, if I ever gave it up. If I just quit… I am only telling myself and others, that I am weak. 

     There is so much more that I want to say, that I am sure will be said at some point in one of my next posts… But right now my brain is at a stand still of emotions… I have drained every last bit of heartache for the day… And I am ready to quit writing (for now) and suck it up. The feeling still remains the same though… I am only 17, but am already burnt out.