In The Eyes of a Dancer
I was about five when it happened. Everything went black one day. I lost connection with everything and everybody. All I heard that dreadful day were negative things. Mama crying. The doctor saying I was sick; saying I was blind. I think Mama cried all day. Never did she stop. But I didn't cry. I didn't know what was going on. I thought perhaps someone turned off the lights. Heck, I didn't even know what blind meant! I was only five! All I knew what that everything was dark. Everything I ever wanted to do, I couldn't. Except dance. I had been to my first ballet class when I was three. It wasn't like a real ballet school, it was more like playing around. But I loved it. Dance consumed my preschool years. Jazz, Tap, HipHop, Ballet. I did everything my little body could manage. But how could I dance now if I was blind? When Papa was in his worst mood, he'd come home after work and tell me I'd never dance again. Ever. And then I felt all my hopes, all my dreams be crushed. But I didn't say anything. I just stood there staring at him, his eyes glistening with tears. Then Mama would would barge in crying, screaming at him of being so cruel to his child. "She's only five!" She'd scream and he'd scream back, "But she's blind!" I think they would often forget I was even there, listening to there screaming and swearing. I stand at the doorway, needing someone to my room, because I was unseeing and unknowing. When I was seven, and I could actually understand these conversations of screams, I would let small, cold, bitter tears roll down my cheeks. But I didn't wail or sob, because I knew if I did, I would just make everything worse than it already was. So I cried silently. Despite what Papa said, Mama still tried to find dance lessons for me. Dance lessons I could participate in. I needed someone who could help me, the poor little blind girl. I needed someone who would teach me how to dance even though I was blind. I just needed someone. But soon, I started to notice Mama changing. She got frustrated more easily. She screamed and cried for no reason. And I couldn't help feeling it was all my fault. Probably because it was all my fault. By the time I was eight, Mama was hospitalized. Why? She went absolutely nuts. She was slowly losing her mind. And even though I couldn't see her, I could hear her and I could tell she was losing it. Papa told me to forget her, saying I'd probably never see her, well hear her, again. That was the first time I sobbed. It was so different to my usual silent crying. Silent crying had become such a habit that I never did sob. Papa quit his job to stay home and care for me. Of course he didn't actually care for me. He went out with his friends to drink. He called me a burden. I probably was a burden. Who wanted to care for there eight year old blind kid? No one. Sure Mama was going crazy, but at least she pretended to care for me. Pap would often leave me all by myself, locked up in my room bumping in to things. Then, one day he was caught coming home from a bar, drunk driving. He was arrested and I was sent off to leave with my English Aunt Caroline in Ontario. And the great thing was, I don't think she pretended to care for me. I think she did truly, genuinely did care for me! We'd go to parks and she pushed me on the swing and was my aid so I didn't bump in to things.
I thought I had finally found my happiness; someone who actually loved me.
But maybe I was wrong.
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