I Moved Out at Fifteen and Got Stuck in a Cycle of Abuse

Imagine an angsty fifteen-year-old. She’s craving a sense of purpose. But public high school — well you might remember — is tedious and stupid.

The obvious solution? Move across the world to pursue a ballet career! It was a crazy unrealistic idea; involving visas, intense gym sessions, crowded auditions, and paying rent. Not to mention getting my parents to agree with this insane plan. But I made it happen. Unpacking in a foreign country felt surreal. The mundane -laundromats, groceries, and even crossing the street to avoid catcalls- was exciting.

My life abroad wasn’t as perfect as I once thought, but it taught me the bittersweet reality- hurt people hurt people.

Abuse warps your perspective of reality.

“You’ve eaten too much pasta lately,” An instructor would slap my ass and say. I trusted my teacher’s judgement. They were right. Critics were always right.

When I was shamed with “Alessia is too fat” being announced on speaker in front of the whole company, I believed my coach was helping me. How grateful I felt that they are trying to fix me! So involved in my career that they’d take the time to announce how unsatisfactory my body was! ‘I’m so lucky to have them’ I used to think.

I believed abuse could never happen to me. There was no way I could be manipulated. Becoming a victim seemed like a weakness I was too smart for. Instead of accepting abuse for what it was, I thought it was something I deserved.

Now, I question and re-evaluate my beliefs constantly. Your thoughts can be powerful tools or sneaky liars.

I am sure I will die still confused about the intricacies of life -why certain things happened, what they mean, why people act the way they do, why I feel and crave the things I do. But I think I will die less confused than the day I was born, and that’s worthwhile enough for me.

The value of your life is not related to productivity.

Your worth has no correlation to your productivity. If you told me this when I was fifteen, I would’ve scoffed at you.

How was I supposed to feel important without outcompeting everyone around me? I wanted to feel like I had purpose. Productivity seemed like the only way to do that.

My life abroad was intense. Ballet was sweaty, crampy, and competitive. In my mind, I was never good enough. Even though I still don’t know what ‘good enough’ means.

I thought if I pushed past my limits, one day I’ll get there. That magical spot of finally knowing that I was enough.

Mistaking self-hatred as productivity, I assumed I must be the problem. Why else would abusing myself feel so satisfying? This productivity made me feel okay. So I kept pushing myself through the pain. I started to become my own abuser- I purposefully suffered. Depriving myself of sleep, food, and joy seemed like a testament to my strength.

Filling the void will make it hungrier.

People need something to fill their mind- whether its fulfilment or intoxication. I believed I was pursuing fulfilment, but it was intoxication in a mask.

In me sat a deep void, craving purpose. I thought to satisfy it, I’d have to finally become ‘good enough’. My purpose-hungry void was satisfied by self-abuse, disguised as productivity. Hurting myself helped me feel strong, powerful, and in control. Especially when the world around me felt cold.

Surely, I was on my way to becoming enough. But filling the void this way just made me hungrier for more.

In a competitive artistic industry, the overly-critical-perfectionist-obsession is rewarded. There is a widespread myth in the arts that low self-esteem and hyper-perfectionism will make you great. It’s seductive to believe your suffering is useful.

I blamed myself because I’m a control freak.

Being in control is so much more comforting than the whim of reality’s twists and turns.

What if my path is like a whitewater rapid, aggressively ripping me around? What if free will is a sham? And my happiness a molecular roll of a dice? These ideas are terrifying.

To feel in control, I take responsibility for everything that happens to me. Sometimes that means blaming everything wrong on myself, even if I know I couldn’t have changed the situation no matter how hard I tried. Not being in control is too scary. So everything becomes my fault.

I used to prefer taking blame than facing my fear. In recent times, I’ve been learning to let go of my old ideas so I can heal.

I have to let go of comfortable beliefs to work toward a better world.

My old ballet teacher once had mental breakdown so intense that she drove her car into a brick wall. Another two were hospitalized for over six months for disordered eating and mental health issues. Others have broken relationships with their children. And still, none of them get it.

They still haven’t learned, no matter how aggressively the lessons get shoved at them.

Purposefulness is my crutch. For my comfort, I told myself that my pain is meaningful.

My abuse seemed necessary because I believed it made me better. I should pity those who didn’t suffer the same way. Telling myself it gave my life value, I believed I should be grateful for what I now see was abuse.

Believing my pain my necessary, I’d believe other people’s pain was also necessary. I’d encourage their suffering, because it was essential on the path to success. This promotes a culture tolerant of abuse.

Once these beliefs helped me survive, but now they no longer serve me.

I have to swallow a bitter pill- my suffering is useless.

To heal, I have to forgive myself and others.

Forgiving others is easy, I just have to learn to let go.

Forgiving myself is the true challenge, because I have to release shame.

Shame can poison everything- relationships, dreams, accomplishments, and happiness. Fueled by fear, it makes honesty difficult and emotions uncomfortable.

Since shame thrives in secrecy and shadows, it is best fought when openly expressed. I feel shame when I eat too much, when I didn’t answer that email, when my depression gets bad and I can’t get out of bed.

Most of all, I feel shame when I think I’m not good enough, and it’s only a matter of time before the entire world realizes. But it isn’t true. I don’t have to be afraid anymore (most people aren’t nearly as terrible as they think they are).

For years, I used to tell myself that my abuse was for the best- but my reality was warped. Abuse feels like sacrifice, sacrifice feels like purpose, and purpose felt like validation. It meant that my life wasn’t worthless. I was obsessed with feeling like my life had meaning.

In reality, the dance industry was sucking me dry. I was burning out and couldn’t understand why. Why was it so hard to feel like I was good enough? I felt trapped in a cycle, desperate for validation. Nothing made sense.

Now I’m starting to learn now that sometimes things are painful and we can’t always know why.

So today, I’m trying to be better. ‘Be gentle, you’re learning’ I tell myself.

I think I am learning, bit by bit.

Thanks for reading. I’m a freelance writer who likes breaking boundaries. Fulfillment comes first. Connect with me on Twitter.