The tyranny of perfection

- “I quit. Yes, I stopped. At least I think I did. Or maybe not. At least that is how it felt.” after a short pause she adds, "At the time I mean."

She smiles shyly and shuffles nervously in her chair.

-"You say ´quit´ like it's an ugly word." I smile back at her.

"I found out soon enough that I couldn't dance at all, so I gave up on ballet," she says, shrugging.

-"Okay." I answer.

-"And yet not quite." she says shaking her head. "I am a mess of arms and legs. You can call me a confused despair: yes, that would sum up my description."

"That's quite a dark description, don't you think?" I ask her.

-That was the conclusion of my dance teacher anyway." she sighs almost desperately." What's more, she thought I was terminally indecent."

-"Anything else?" I ask dryly.

-"She was some witch from the Carpathians, and all she taught me or rather left me with is a totalitarian trauma." She made an ugly face. "Because of her, my inability to do anything became a matter of faith."

-"Let me interrupt you here." I stop her, "That's something you probably believe without a doubt, but..."

-"Ballet is not very generous towards people with idiosyncrasies." she interrupts me in turn.

- “In fact, I believe it’s fair to say it's a tyranny of perfection."

-"When I was little, I dreamed of becoming a knife thrower." she says.

-"Okay." I reply to this sudden turn of the subject.

"And I wanted a beautiful assistant, dressed in red leather. A Chippendale model, who would then twirl for me on a glittering wooden board, and upon whom I could throw my razor-sharp knives to land next to his entrails, with the grace of a dove banging against the window," she says casually.

"Does that ever happen here?" she asks, pointing her finger at the window.

-"What?" I ask, "That I throw knives at my patients or that a pigeon crashes against the window?" She raises her eyebrows and I answer her:

-"Yes, once or twice."

-"In therapy?" she continues.

I nod.

-"Strange, isn't it?" she asks further.

-"What's strange." I return her question.

-"With knife throwing; to do it right you have to miss your target." She fills me in.

-"One can only hope so, otherwise it would be a horror show instead of a circus act." I smile at her. “Did you really fantasize about Chippendales as a kid?”

She ignores my question and continues:

-"That's how I see my life."

-"How do you mean?" I want to know.

-"That I always overshoot my target and then pretend it's a victory." she lets out a deep sigh, "And then I pick up my losses like I pick nettles for daisies."

I look at her in silence, and then she continues:

-"I worry."

-"What's troubling you?"

-"My hairline." she says, stroking her forehead with her fingers.

-"Your hairline?" I ask in amazement as I admire her beautiful mahogany brown shiny hair. "What's wrong with your hairline?"

-"So much depends on my appearance." she replies with a deep sigh.

The expression on her face changes. She buries her face in her hands, then says very gravely:

-"I wish I was able to not think so much. Just stop thinking."

-" can teach you some meditation exercises for that." I try to reassure her.

-"I can't stop thinking." she says again.

-"Your brain can never stop thinking." I explain to her. "You mean worrying or are they intrusive thoughts?"

She shrugs and lets out another deep sigh:

-"I used to be able to shake off my fear of failure with humor." she laughs weakly. "But now I can't think of anything funny anymore."

-"Are you afraid you've lost your sense of humor?" I ask.

-"As a child, I liked to steal things." she says with a mischievous look in her eyes. "I once stole my mother's favorite scarf when I was about six."

I smile and she continues:

-"I wanted to run away from home, and I needed something to pack my meager things in. Especially snacks." her voice changes a bit when she mentions the snacks.

-"And did you run away?" I ask her. She shrugs and pouts:

-"In my head a thousand times. I wanted to run with the circus"

-"Hence your knife-throwing fantasy?" I informed

-"I would work as an acrobat, and tame wild beasts or something, but above all, I would be free."

-"And throwing knives." I try to be funny.

"Maybe yes, but I don't think I gave that a lot of thought," she says with a sad look.

-"What fascinated you about knife throwing or knife throwers?" I ask.

-"I actually wanted to learn not to shrink from anything." she says more to herself than to me.

-"So, you were more concerned with the one on that turntable?" I insist on the question.

-"I often dreamed that I used my father as a target with my knives - and did not miss my target."

-"Tell me about your childhood." I ask carefully. I see a tear roll down her cheek. She takes a deep breath and says:

-"When I think about my childhood," she pulls her nose and continues: "When I think about my childhood." she repeats as if to fish the memories from very deep:

-"Then I mainly see my father." she bites her nails and looks at me with a deep look: "My father." she begins again, "who hit me with a stick. And when he could not find his stick, he used his fists." she pauses again.

-"I believe that hurting people was the only reason for its existence."

-"Would you like a glass of water?" I ask.

 She shakes her head and rolls her eyes:

-"I am bored on the internet. Maybe that's why I think so much."

-"Are you sure you don't want to drink anything?" I ask again.

-"I miss the theatre. I miss excitement. Yes doctor: I would love to be able to wield a deadly force." I can clearly hear anger rising in her.

-"Tell me about your ballet education." I ask. She blows a big raspberry.

-"That was not a career but a survival strategy." she replies irritated.

-"A strategy?" I ask.

-"Yes, a body maintenance strategy. Bar, bar and more bar."

-Surely there was more to it than the bar?" I try to get her to continue talking about the subject.

-"I was terrified of fat. That bar protected me from that fat that lurked around every corner." she coughs and continues: "That bar helped me keep my pants size the same."

-"He had an eating disorder?" I ask concerned.

-"My previous therapist called it Body Dysmorphia. But do not worry," she tries to assure me; "I've recovered from it for five years."

-"Do you really believe that?" I interrupt her.

-"Naturally." she tries to appear confident. "I don't spend a lot of money on make-up and clothes anymore."

-"Makeup and clothes?" I ask.

-"It never brought much anyway." she says lightly. "There was a time when it was almost impossible for me to put on a leotard and stand in front of a mirror without being confronted with..." I see her searching for words.

-"To be confronted?" I ask.

-"To be confronted with my own image.”

 I look straight at her and hope she gives me some more explanation.

-"My very unpleasant image." she says almost in a whisper.

-"Tell me about your eating habits, please." I try carefully.

- "I don't weigh my food anymore and I learned to forget to count calories." Obviously, she doesn't like to talk about it.

-"Continue." I insist.

- "I started dieting when I was about ten years old." she begins boldly: "I was a big girl. I had a bit of a big belly and all the other kids around had bony flamingo legs. I was round and even a bit square."

-"Yes." I say when she stops talking.

-"Children can be so mean. Everyone always assumes that children are sweet and innocent. Bah! Assholes they are, especially if you have an extra curve. My mother was very mean to me as well. She always pointed out my defects and was disgusted when she saw my thighs or belly." She puts her fingernails on her thighs as she says this.

-"I was never allowed to go swimming. She said that I would only feel uncomfortable in a bathing suit, among all those slim girls.

-"How did you protect yourself from this shit?" I ask seriously.

-"I couldn't." she answers sadly. "I thought I was the shit."

-"And so, you developed self-hatred." I notice.

She shrugs and says in a relieved tone:

"But that's why I'm here now, isn't it doctor?" she looks at me with innocent puppy eyes, "To unravel all that."

I nod in agreement. "Sure!" 

-"Having an eating disorder is miserable." I point out to her.

She bites her lips and sits on her hands.

-"We're going to work together, to get you going in a good and healthy direction. It's going to be extremely hard work, but you're going to learn to love yourself."

She squeezes her eyes shut as if I have just said something embarrassing.

-"We are going to disconnect your thought processes. We are switching to wireless." I say in an attempt to be funny. But she does not smile:

-"I also hate chewing noises." she says, "I really struggle with that. I shut my ears and close my eyes when I have to eat with other people. Even watching actors eat on TV is an exercise in stamina for me. It's an abomination to me!" She inhales, "Really, Doctor," she continues sadly, "It makes me so nervous.

-"Do you need a break?" I ask her because she's starting to look tired, but she shakes her head.

-"I tried martial arts." she says.

-"Tell me about that." I invite her to continue.

-"I quit." she says dryly. I look at her questioningly: "Why?"

-"I don't feel like wrestling with people. I think I'll go back to the bar. It does me good, especially on days where I'm scared." she says frustrated.

-"What are you afraid of?" I ask.

She puffs her cheeks and blows all the air out of her lungs.

-"All those fickle people, assholes who are always looking for a fight. It makes me depressed. I feel good at the bar. I feel calm and secure there. And it doesn't make you fat."

God help me, I think to myself.

-"I just feel like I'm part of the music. I feel free and beautiful. And I don't have to climb stairs to burn calories."

-"I'm not so sure that the world of ballet and all the time you spend at that bar is a healthy environment for you. Ballet is as great as it is monstrous. Both in equal measure." I raise.

-"Oh, I also tried belly dancing." she says innocently. "But I gave up on that too."

-"Didn't you like it?" I ask.

-" Yes," she sighs, "It's almost the opposite of ballet. It's more sensual, but it frustrates me. Instead of concentrating on the beautiful music, I can only pay attention to my poor performance and crooked legs."

-"A little asymmetry makes the merely lovely transcendent." I say. She rolls her eyes at me.

-"Okay, it's not an idea that makes me very popular." I apologize.

-"I strive for perfection." she defends herself.

-"Perfect is boring Balanchine said." I remark.

-"Are you saying that because time is up?" she asks with a wave of relief. I sit smiling at her for a moment.

-"Do you really want to get better?" I ask her.

She nods firmly.

-"Good!" I say, taking my calendar to make another appointment.

-"You won't quit on me doctor?" she asks.

-"No, I won't quit!" I reassure her, " You are going to learn to feel comfortable in your body and to love yourself!"

-"You must give me honest feedback, Doctor." she sounds like a drowning girl who wants to be pulled to the surface.

-"Always!" I assure her. "As long as you don't quit on yourself and your beautiful body!"

-"You have a deal, Doc!"