what i learned from a broken rib

Today was a tough one.

But then a seventeen year old boy told me that my hair was awesome and that made it better.

Okay. So not really better per se, but it did make me smile and that’s something.

And now it’s no secret that things have been hard for me lately. But what might be a secret is that I’m going through the most emotionally painful time I’ve ever experienced. But now you know, so it’s no longer a secret.

And one of the weirdest parts of this–not worst, mind you, but weirdest–is that I still go through life and respond to it accordingly. I still smile when somebody says something nice to me. I laugh when my parents’ dogs are bounding through the snow like they forget they are dogs and think they are gazelles for a second or two. I get hungry  and even feel the smallest bits of anticipation when I know the rolls from Texas Roadhouse are in my near future. I tell people I am okay because nobody in passing has the time to listen to the long and detailed story of how I am really doing; people have jobs, you know. They can’t just quit in order to listen to an answer given a little too honestly. I get happy when I see my nieces’ burgeoning fashion sense catch my eye: a pink sparkly glove here, a plaid tie or a fedora there–all of it indicating some fun shopping trips heading our way.

But then there’s this underlying part of me that catches at the beauty or innocence or freedom or whatever it is that is making me smile. It’s something that grieves, I guess. Something that says I need to stand a little bit apart from that right now; not forever, but for a while.

It’s all confusing.

A lot of it’s reactionary, and that makes me feel crazy.

And then the other day I thought about something that helped me make sense of some of it.

The thing is, it’s pain. I know pain, it’s not like we’ve never met before. I am a dancer, after all; pain is a given. Now I’ve never before met pain like this, and dear God , I hope we don’t stay close long, but there you go. It’s not altogether brand new.

And I thought about my broken rib when I was doing A Chorus Line. I thought about how A Chorus Line was my job, there was no option to not do it; not for me, anyway. And for a good long while, I went into each show expecting the pain. I learned which parts of the show made the pain more acute; I learned to breathe through these parts and anticipate the relief that was sure to come once that number was over.

Because it never lasted forever.

And I relied on that fact. I also, to be honest, changed when the pain was the worst. I reacted to it and pulled my dancing in. I didn’t do everything the same as before, didn’t try to pretend as if I was not in that pain. I acknowledged it, did what I could, and didn’t sweat it if my jumps weren’t as high or my movement wasn’t as sharp.

And I realized that all of that applies to my emotional pain too.

Right now, life is my job and it’s not an option to quit, much as I feel like it sometimes. But it’s okay if I limp a little, so to speak. It’s also important to at least try to realize that it’s not gonna last forever. Though, that is really difficult when I am in the throes of it. That is usually when someone comes on the scene to talk me down from the ledge, metaphorically speaking.

But these thoughts, they somehow made me feel better. They gave me some perspective.

Still, I’d trade this pain for that broken rib any day.