The Irish House

the beginning of the end

Words can cut like a knife.

Not even a silver knife cutting across my arm, hurts like the past five years of hearing every sick opinion of the teachers and students at Vere Tas Ballet Institute.

I had my whole life planned out, my family rejected those plans, but I clung to the wings of angels and made the move.
I was doing something I loved, dance. My passion was developing and spreading to an audience. Within my first two years at Vere Tas, I was a background dancer in Swan Lake, competed in ballet competitions around Canada, and traveled to Northern Europe for a performance tour.

Then I became a legal adult, and left my aunties house in Oakville to share an old apartment with my ballet friends.
We split rent, so I had to find work. Bussing at restaurants, and tutoring. Working is one of the worst things about being an adult, but I needed to support myself.

All the hope, excitement, and hard work I had put into my journey, I kissed it goodbye once their words started to cut me. From praise, support, and helpful tips, to--

You're not light like you were before, be more graceful. This isn't Irish Dancing.

Why is she leading our troupe? She doesn't even belong here.

You ungrateful little brat. Out of my rehearsal!

Your braids...they might become a problem.

Eat one more thing and your leotard will split in half.

I think you're actions were... selfish. But let's try and keep it between us. It might bring bad press to the school.

My life has become one melancholy nightmare. Instead of me being young, and having fun in the city with my ballet peers, I just want to die in a dark hole.

And ballet can kiss my black a*s. I'm a fu*king Irish Dancer.

But dance was my life. Now I am an empty shell washed up on a lonely beach. Blocking any thoughts of my future in dance, and in life.

I lean over the white sink of the small bathroom, gripping the porcelain, with remnants of vomit around my dry mouth. I look at my reflection, and it shows a woman who has been bludgeoned by life. Nobody wants me because I am a nobody. No prestigious ballet teacher, director, agent, restaurant, student, peer, or family member.

You should get help, or something. Don't you have family around?

The voices of my roommate's ring in my head, but I try to shut them out.

I don't know how I feel about you staying here, stealing my pills, and constantly making us have to call the ambulance for you! You don't even show up for class anymore, you lost your job, and you just got cut from the Spring show. I think you should...leave.

Leaving. The hardest, easiest, best, and worst decision I made. But I'm not good at choosing what I should leave? Family? Friends? Dance?

Life.

As I'm rinsing my dry mouth, a voice enters my head. A voice that brings me comfort, "God promises to make something good out of the storms that bring devastation to your life."

I can't help but hold on to the words. From a book I haven't read since Sunday school. From a person who stood by me and my family every step of the way. The golden rings on my fingers rattle against the sink.

'Should I do this? Should I actually listen to what they've been saying? I don't want to wake up in another emergency room. And God knows I am not attending therapy, I don't care what the doctors say. But, I don't even think I can step foot in Vere Tas again, either.'

I reach into my grey tracksuit pockets, and pull out my black smartphone. I dial a foreign number, owned by a familiar person.

"Adora," my voice shakes, "it's me. Noreen. I--".

Before I can even say the next words, I let out a violent wail, and my tears burst out like a dam.