Especially you, Ms. Cotta

Ok. So now I can freely speak. You have had SO many "career-enders." And I know that is part of the frustration and anger but it also shows that you get beyond them. You have talent, passion and persistence beyond anyone I know. This is your goal. This is your dream. Your dream just needs to remain fluid until you find where your body fits in. Just keep working at improving what is within your control and accepting what is not. Then you can find a way to make the "unacceptable" work. If anyone can do this, you can. Honey, all the great dancers have their struggle story...grow a very thick skin. Don't let anyone stand in the way of your dream. Your dream dies only when you choose to walk away. No one can take it from you unless you allow them.


I will never choose to walk away. I fear that the day when I am picked up and carried away is approaching, and I am nowhere near ready for it. 


The text that prompted all of those beautiful things my mother said - "Mom, I just want to be able to do what I'm supposed to do, but I can't because I have a crappy body that can't do a thing. At all. And it's career ending. And I'm sick and tired of fighting so damn hard and never doing it...my hips, my back, my shoulders, my butt. My silver lining is my pretty eyes but they don't help me dance."


Where that exploded from - and if you know anything about me, you have got to know that I mean business with this project from everything I'm about to say - about two weeks ago, my back started up again. Waking up stiff as a board with absolutely no movement capability in your spine is always fun, especially when your life is dancing. I kept pushing though. Then, that unexplainable pain in my lower right hand side of my back, right where that dimple is, suddenly becomes unbearable - and that's coming from someone who can handle a lot when it comes to pain. It hurts to walk, and there I am still attempting to manage huge leaps without grimacing so my professors won't catch on. "This is what it's going to be like. Even if this isn't the end, this is the beginning of it. This is how you're going to go down."


I freak myself out enough to want to get checked, but don't have the time, except maybe for a 1am hospital trip alone, in Philadelphia...no thanks. So I keep pushing. It's a little better now...mostly.


Then, I read this article. This infuriating, obnoxious, narrow-minded article that is primarily attacking Bill T. Jones. As if that wasn't bad enough, then she has the audacity to go after me. "I can deal with scoliotics." Excuse me? So that was actually a debate for you at some point. You actually thought that because my bones are screwed up, I shouldn't be put on stage. For a second, that was in your brain. Awesome. Well guess what lady, I have a whole lot to say about that which I am uncomfortable writing in this space. I sure hope we meet someday. How dare you.


Then rehearsal, and I get another, "You're trying too hard," correction on top of "You're all in your shoulders." 


HOIENAPWEOIH3298#@#%U(*#UAHORIHOIEH$(#*$523!!!!!!!


I know. I know. I know. I KNOW. 
What I don't know is how to fix it.


Here's the thing, I have had to fight my entire life, tooth and nail, flesh and blood, skin and bones for this ridiculous passion I was born with. It's absolutely cruel that I was born to love nothing more than dance but to be given such a damned vehicle of expression. Torture. So, I don't know how not to try too hard. The second I let go, something goes out of whack. My turnout turns in. My back does whatever the hell it wants. My ribcage protrudes out to California. My elbows hyperextend. I cannot not try. I don't understand how it's possible. My body doesn't get it.


And I don't feel this freaking shoulder thing.


Then I wake up this morning and my left hip is stuck. My right already cracks and pops like crazy. I'm positive I have arthritis in there, I just don't want the X-rayed confirmation. That'll be my 8th confirmed arthritic joint. Reminder - I'm only 21. But today, Christ Almighty that left hip would not move. It was so incredibly painful. If it would just pop, I might have a shot. But no matter how many awkward and vicious positions I contorted myself into, it refused to release. Doris Humphrey had to retire because of arthritis in her hip, but she was much older...


It actually affected my dancing today. I could not lift that leg right. It hurt way too much. So, my butt had to get in on the action and if you know anything about classical technique at all, it's that you never lift your leg with your ass. So of course I got called out on it. As if I wasn't miserable enough with this prison I've been doomed to. Let's make sure everyone in the class knows I'm a disaster. Awesome.


Relax your hip flexer. 
You should do pigeon more. It'll relax your hip flexer and loosen your butt. (Way to draw attention to my big butt...again. Awesome.)


At that point I was just relieved that the stretch I was in could hide my tears. I don't know how to make anyone understand and I am sick and tired of making excuses. I don't need to do more pigeons. It won't help. I do thousands of them every day. What I need is more time. I need a new body. One that isn't on its way out.


This isn't fair. And it isn't fair that I don't know how to feel about it. On the one hand, he's completely right because no matter what I've been given, I've got to figure out how to make it conform and look like what it's supposed to. But on the other hand, I'm dealing with a lot, every single day. I just want a few hours in a "normal" body to see if it hurts like mine. To compare the struggles. To see if I'm as abnormal as I've been trained to know I am. 


No dancing tonight. My hip is still stuck. So until that fixes itself...here I'll sit. Angry, scared and...well...scared.

Reflection

I feel a little bit like I'm fighting myself and I'm not winning. It's funny, my Grama always said I did that and that it made no sense. "If you're going to fight yourself, you might as well win."

If only I knew how.

It's to the point where I can't admit what's wrong. I am very nearly positive that I know what it is, but I can't really be that stupid so I can't say it. If I say it, it's real, and the "I told you so's," will be never ending.

Why can't I lose weight? I'm scared to death of going on stage in this belly shirt in two weeks. I have been at the gym almost every day. I'm not eating as much. I'm eating better. I just don't want to be the fat one on stage. So, until then, if I could walk around in a sports bra all day every day to get myself used to whatever I'm going to be, I would. I wish this isn't what I was going to be.

You know that scene in Black Swan, the night before her opening show when she's in the studio rehearsing and the pianist ditches her, saying, "I have a life." And then her reflection creepily looks at her when the lights go out. Aside from the insane, creepy reflection, I feel like that. I feel obsessed. I don't want to do papers anymore. I don't want to do busy work. I don't want to run shows. I want to be dancing, in the gym or reading about something pertaining to a piece I'm creating. I'm tired of work. I'm tired of school. I'm tired of laundry. I'm tired of the emails and text messages and phone calls. I'm tired of waiting for the only phone call I really want. I'm tired of anything but figuring out what's going on in my dance life.

Am I regressing?

I think I'm avoiding dealing with what's going on in my life outside of dance by attempting to disappear into dance. Not attempting, successfully disappearing. But, I can't find what's wrong about that. It's what I'm supposed to do, right?

I really don't know.

Off to class and two rehearsals...and work...

http://m.youtube.com/index?client=mv-google&desktop_uri=%2F&gl=US&rdm=4o0pyi0yi#/watch?v=ecIQ9e-bGB0

Not Mine

Loved it. Every word.


I read a few entries and had to put it down. I felt like, "Oh this is her journal. I shouldn't be reading this."


You are doing so wonderfully. I love reading the layers of your discovery. It seems like you feel worse and worse as you confront it more real and more real. You're finding a way out though. Love you. Forever impressed!


...when I watched a couple of your YouTube videos I couldn't get over a) how much your movement quality is different from what you do in class and you look completely different b) how it looked more like what I do emotionally c) I take videos of myself dancing the way you do - except the only difference is I'm afraid to show the world....your improv with the T-shirt is similar to what I do (feel myself emotionally in my own space...) except I'll be the only one to watch the video...made me think.


Ya, me too...

Moved

Sometimes, you just see something and you have no choice - you have to dance with it.


Or maybe that's not true for everyone. 


Maybe that's just me.


I have no words tonight. I don't need any. 


This says it all.


http://www.youtube.com/user/csqt10?feature=mhee

There's this picture of a little boy and a little girl kissing

and I really, really want to take my coffee and chuck it as hard as I can at it. They should know that isn't how it works.

It isn't real. Love. It can't happen. Those movies aren't real.

I know.

Finally got some feedback from class today -
Stop saying no. You need to learn how to play. There's this little voice inside your head that wants everything to be perfect. You need to turn that off. Throw it away and play.

Right. Perfectionist me, who was trained to know everything that is wrong and right and trained only to do everything exactly right or get screamed at for doing it wrong, I'm going to be able to let that go and play. And the worst part is - I really, really thought I was already. I have been letting go. I'm not pointing my feet. I'm rolling on the floor. I'm falling. I look like an idiot 90% of the time. For God's sake I did an entire improv based off of Superman, Spiderman, Peter Pan, Batman and the Karate Kid, and I'm still not playing enough?!

The real kicker is that I know she's absolutely right. I just have no idea how to get there. That same voice is what's stopping me in so many other areas of my life too. "No, don't put your nose on her, she might not like that." "No, don't throw your weight there. What if you can't catch it?" "Come on Cassandra, be realistic. There is no way in hell that your leg is going to go there." "You want to call and yell and scream? Probably shouldn't. What if something bad happens?" How do I let go and play? How do I just be me in the moment - whatever that is?

There is no wrong. If you want to shake your ass, then go on and shake your ass.

But I was taught to be something else. I had to be skinny. My foot had to point perfectly, always. Not being able to kick myself in the face was always going to be an issue. Better be able to do at least a triple or no one is going to want to work with you. And if you don't show people what you have, how in the world are they ever going to know you're a good dancer? Even the way I'm thinking about this is wrong, and I know that. But I don't know how to shut it off. My brain is going through it all and just trying to find its way out. "Okay, so on Thursday I'm going to go in there, and I won't move at all...that'll show her that I don't need to be perfect. Or maybe I'll just crawl on my hands and knees. Or what if I just ran up and down the stairs a billion times?" NO! None of that is going to work because that isn't what she's asking you to do! She's asking you to stop doing this, this right here. Quit being academic about it. Stop believing you can reason it all out, because you can't. That isn't what it's about...

Which is something profound about life that I think I need to work through too.

Ken sent me this beautiful quote about hope a few weeks back...I don't have it on hand at the moment but its message is perfect. It was basically saying that hope is a terrible thing because it makes you dwell in future plans. What we should recognize is that we can't control what's going to happen. It's going to happen whether we like it or not, so instead of hoping for something, how about we just live in this very moment as fully as we can? Seeing it and feeling it for what it is, with no expectations for a future version of it. I hated it when he first gave it to me, because hope was all I had, and it's all I wanted to have. I get it now. Not fully, I'm sure, but a little more at least. I'm never going to be all of those things I was "supposed" to be. Life isn't going to be what it was "meant" to be. Time to start dealing with what I am. Time to figure out how to play with what I've got.

I've nothing to prove. Not a thing.

19 Stars

My face is blotchy and my eyes are a bright turquoise. It's the first thing I noticed when I walked into the bathroom and you know what? I don't care. I'm owning up to it. Yup, that's right everyone, I was crying. I am a sad, broken little girl and I was crying just like a sad, broken little girl should be. Stupid, I know. Pathetic, definitely. But I am living this project now, and that's what I've got.

And you all think my eyes are pretty normally. You should see them when my face is bright red and full of tears. Seriously, they turn turquoise.

I felt it happening, the tears bubbling up from my toes. Here I am, walking on campus, crying once again. Seriously, there should be some kind of article written about me and the number of people who have seen me on the phone with my mom in tears walking down Liacouras Walk. It's absurd. Especially for someone who hates crying.

So I climbed the stairs of Anderson Hall, up to the roof deck where there's that pitiful square of grass that attempts to be a park or something. I laid down, looked up, and by God, there were stars. 19 of them. Ya, I counted. I laid there in that grass, in the quiet solitude, with nothing but the stars and my tears and realized, I have no idea what I'm doing. Sometimes I think you all know who I am more than I do. I think that's why I've been spending so much time alone lately. I've come to terms with the fact that when I'm associating myself with others, I know exactly who I am, how I act, what I think and what I feel. But if I'm ever left in a room with only myself for company, all of that disappears. It's weird, and I'm wondering if that's abnormal. It's got to be right? I've got to figure out how to be comfortable with myself in relation to myself.

Besides the very evident fact that I need to stop relying on others because finding reliable people these days has proven to be something of a very nearly impossible task.

Transience. I need that.


I'm overwhelmed with everything I've set in motion for myself. All of the tasks at hand, and the dreams and goals and people. But at the same time, I don't feel as though I'm doing enough. I don't know how that's possible. Literally, I wake up at 6 or 7 every morning, typically leave the house by 8 and definitely won't get back until about 9 or 10pm at the earliest. And almost every hour, I have something extremely specific to be doing. How do I think I can be doing more? I asked my mom if I was crazy and she told me yes. Joking of course, but still...

 I hate you. You're so honest and it's awesome. And I know you don't think it's awesome, but I really do. And you do it so easily. Not just with yourself, but with everybody.


You know why I love you? Because you don't let on. You're going to go into that rehearsal and no one is going to know that anything is wrong. 


One day, you'll think it's awesome too.

.danger.

Dangerous. That's what he told me to be. That's what he said this needed. Put it all out there. I thought I already was. So how far can I go before I break? Where is the edge and how close can I get?

I think I tapped it today. I may have gone over it. I feel. Broken.

Dangerous. The point of this was to live the dance and dance the life. So if the dance needs to do more, I need to do more. If it needs danger, I need danger.

Deep breath. Okay.

I started to try it. I was in the studio until 11 last night, thinking, writing and improvising. I danced to music, as usual, but this time I spoke the entire time, and I allowed my words to control and create the movement. It was different. Stripped down. Raw. I'm torn about posting it. Put my life on the line for the sake of my art and this quest for honesty or maintain what little security I have and break some rules? I think art should win because it is inevitable that what I said will surface, but I don't think that's how it should surface, for many people. We'll see how I feel by the end of writing this.

Put a dunce cap on me and stick me in a corner. I feel that kind of dumb. Today was stupid, and highlighted all the work I still have to do. Such a small miscommunication, blown up so hugely, and only in my head. All of the possibilities. All of the conclusions. All of the scenarios I created. And the validity I was given to be as outrageously upset as I was. It made zero sense to me, and it made complete and total sense to me, at the same time. Betrayal in its purest form and me attempting to navigate it once again. Do I let him have power and take my life away again? Do I get to stand up for myself? Would standing up for myself give him power? Why the hell does any of it matter?

And even though none of it happened, the truth of the matter remains. I was devastated. That says a lot. And that isn't okay.

Emotional battery. Emotional battery. Emotional battery.
Life goes in circles. Why can't I get out of this one?

It brought me to an interesting place. Through all of the horrific thoughts and revelations I was having, something else wouldn't leave me. That day, over a year ago now, you kept insisting something was wrong with me and I kept insisting I was fine, until you finally looked at me and said, "No. You aren't. You wear your heart on your sleeve. I know you aren't okay." I walked away and got coffee. I hated that you could see it. I hated that you cared. But today...all I wanted was for you to tell me I wasn't okay. Today, I wouldn't have told you, but I also wouldn't have had a choice. You wouldn't have liked it. But we could've had coffee together and re-caffeinated ourselves back to where we should be.

That's why I texted you. I'm sorry I did. Looking back, it wasn't for anything...you were simply next on the phone call list, and then I found out how stupid I am and had nothing good to say. I had no intentions of filling you in...I just wanted to...I don't even know. Mom, Michael...then you...

Ooof...that's probably not good.

The residual emotions, I don't doubt that there's love in there somewhere, unfortunately, but I honestly think most of it is lack of conclusion and comprehension. Any time we spoke after all of it happened, I would ultimately come back to saying, "I just need to understand." He never let me. I still don't understand. I doubt I ever will. And that is what kills me. I don't know why or how he could say what he did, and so I believe him because I have no choice but to. I have no reference to say, "No, that's not right."

No one makes you feel inferior without your consent. Emotional battery.

Knowing that I've given consent to inferiority infuriates me. It's the truth and I know it, but why am I so god damn weak?

So, dangerous. How do I do that? I believe you. That's a start. I believe what you say over what he said. I believe that I'll see you in the next few days. I believe that you don't mind me being me, and if you do that's your problem, not mine. I also probably post that video I took.

This is going to take serious work...