Mirror Twin

I’ve taken to running before breakfast. Dance class isn’t enough. You look healthy, she says. You look so much stronger. And normally I’d feel happy, reassured, maybe even proud, but today is different. I feel anything but strong. I’m tired, easily triggered. Absentminded, like I’m barely present in the room. In my head healthy equals fat. Perfectly fine means overweight. Fit or in shape, is a polite way of saying you could stand to lose a few. Everything feels too tight. The scales lie. I tug at the elastic band. My dance belt and shorts leave pink lines on my skin. I’m growing into my body, becoming more muscular. This is a good thing, something positive. It’s exactly how it should be. But it’s not okay, it disgusts me. I see fat where there is muscle. She talks about healthy eating habits and I stare at my mirror twin. Exercise moderately, not excessively. Practice, then rest. Let your body recover. Everything in moderation. Yes. We nod, but everyone knows it’s bullshit, fat isn’t tolerated here. We’re all perfectionists, chasing the ideal dancer’s build. I’ve never understood the difference between self image and body image, it all blurs together. Maybe I don’t want to understand. She’s so much tougher on the girls. It’s painful to watch, the way she stands behind the “heavy” girl and stares at the two of them in the mirror, comparing bodies. Grown woman versus teenage girl. Thin versus what ought to be normal. The girl looks composed, she even manages to smile. But on her way to the changing rooms she starts crying and the other girls rally around her. She cries like a boy, quiet angry tears. You’re not fat, don’t listen to her. She’s a bitch. I want to tell her about it. Casually, like it’s no big deal. I’m not the only one, I know that. Not in this place where you can’t hide from the mirrors and glances. Spoken casually, it’s less dangerous. Less real. Even to me.

Backsliding

Violence makes me uncomfortable. I feel every blow like it’s my own body getting hit. I feel nauseous, sick. And something else too, naked. Vulnerable. I can’t talk about it. The other boys watch the movie without flinching, their mouths slightly open. I have to remind myself that their background has nothing to do with it. They’re just being normal teen guys, and guys like violence, it gets their adrenaline pumping and their ---- ----. I’m the weird one. Can we watch something else? My house parent smiles, ruffles my hair. Next time we’ll rent a comedy. I want to ask, who gave you permission to touch me? But I don’t, because I’m overreacting again. It’s make-believe, fantasy. I don’t have to watch this movie, I don’t have to feed the darkness. If something triggers you, simply walk away. It’s all behind me now, isn’t it? I can watch something on TV without getting bent out of shape. I can have someone touch me without getting upset. I’m not 12 anymore. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not. My new dance class is all about aggression, sexuality rather than sensuality. It’s “raw” and “dirty” and it makes my heart race. I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts. My dance teacher tells me to open up, to loosen up, but I can’t. I don’t go near those feelings. That side of myself is closed off, a no-go area. I forget to have fun. I forget why I love to dance. Everything becomes mechanical, rigid. She looks disappointed. I tell her it’s different. Not like ballet or jazz. It won’t kill you to smile once in awhile. Gritting your teeth doesn’t count. It won’t kill you to be like everyone else. Normal.

Choices

I wonder if it’s possible to ”unlearn” everything? Erase myself without any smudges or crinkles, just a blank smooth surface. Next time I’ll choose to be brave, I’ll be the kid jumping off swings in the dark. You won’t recognize me. I’ll say "no" without hesitation, my voice confident and strong. A leader instead of a follower, certain that I belong. I deserve this. I’ll excel at sports and games, I’ll be masculine and tough without even trying. A real guy’s guy. Broad shouldered and handsome, someone you can be proud of. Next time I’ll choose to be straight. I’ll be the perfect cookie cutter son. We won’t know any different.

Intimacy

I want the words to come gushing out from the pages of my notebook. A giant wave, angry and deafening, destroying everything in its path. I want the same relief I get from self-harm or alcohol, but without the telltale signs. If I could dance like you I’d let my body tell the story of every pink raised scar, every mark he left on me. My naked skin glowing, radiating determination, all strength and pride, no demons hiding in the darkness behind me. I’d ask you to be gentle and patient with me, and to hold your tongue every time you feel like lashing out. I’d ask you to draw an invisible boundary around my body with your fingertips, and to be the one who says no, please stop when my mouth says yes, go ahead. I’d ask you to listen with your eyes. But I don’t ask, I don’t talk about my wants and needs, I’m too afraid.

Tough Love

The Somali boys love soccer more than anything, I watch them play until it gets so dark they can’t make out the ball anymore. They talk loud and fast. Their tall gangly bodies full of nervous energy, as if being constantly on the move is what keeps them together. Sane. When I first arrived I thought we had nothing in common but our history of violence, but that’s not entirely true. They look grown to me, so much older than their real age. Their maturity intimidates me, but out there on the soccer field they’re just kids playing. Experiencing childhood, the way it could or should’ve been. It’s strange living in an all-male environment, being around all these guys, cocky and self-assured, certain of their part, their significance, their place in the world. It’s all an act, but they act their part so well, and I can feel myself withdrawing into my shell. Becoming the quiet, invisible kid I was certain I had left behind. I apologize for being alive, for taking up space, for breathing their air, that’s me. “Could it have anything to do with the fact that you don’t want to settle in?” my friend asks. There’s no special treatment, no being an ”only child”. There’s no L spoiling me, letting me do whatever I want whenever I want, but I wonder if they know how much I crave rules. How much I crave parenting, boundaries, structure. I understand why prison is not such a bad thing for some people. They wouldn’t survive in a different environment, they wouldn’t know how. I feel like I had more common sense at 9 than I do now. I knew my place, my responsibilities. I had a role, a part to play in keeping my family together. Now I’m just scared. I don’t know what’s expected of me. I’ll stay out late, I’ll get drunk just to get a reaction. I want consequences, I need tough love. I’m not that fragile, I won’t break if you punish me, but you might get through to me, the person inside the shell. Maybe I’ll never be able to understand any language other than violence. The way my dad ”spoke” to me. He’d know how to get my attention. Everything seemed crystal clear then.