It wouldn't be so bad to clean out my room if it wasn't full of so much FAIL.
I have always had trouble with strength because of this flexibility, but often both my teacher and myself had attributed my problems to the well-known fact that I was lazy. When my feet started popping out of my shoes in a perverse bow-shape, though, everyone agreed that it would probably be better for me if I quit, because I was a great ballerina, but if I couldn't go en pointe there was not much... point (haha).
So today I opened a drawer, and ten years' worth of worn leotards and tights full of runs spilled out, and in getting rid of them it felt as if someone was ripping pieces of me out. But I can't hold these things hoping to start back up again. I know I never will.
There were a lot of clothes in that drawer, but I found some other things, too. I found a whole fuckload of shame sitting in the corners and settling to the bottom, because I feel like I'm not woman enough to somehow get past what I know to be a congenital disorder in how my body works. I'm still looking at what I know to be an impossible goal, and thinking that if I could just stop being so fucking lazy I could get there.
But now I'm rid of it. I just don't have it sitting around my room, so it's not like I can pull out my old sports bras and sit on the floor and cry on them anymore (Not that I ever did that. What? Why are you looking at me?!)
Though I still have my pointe shoes. Years from now, some organizational expert or presumptuous therapist will pull them from a pile of dead cats and gum wrappers and look at me with an expression of pity.