Hard wood floor, beneath my dancing feet. My slippers are soft, and I’m connected to them. Light shines through the studio windows and I cry because I’m sick of being so sad. I look into the mirror, I wish I saw something else, something more than there was.
At a party, with a lot of people I don’t know. A friend dragged me here with her, only I don’t mind so much. At least I can dance my frustration of the past week off. I’m getting a lot of attention, a little too much. Drinks go round and round, but it’s definitely not juice and it’s not just soda either. Drugs start going around to, and I’m really drunk and scared. Then just as I’m trying to leave, trying to get away so I can call someone, anyone. I get a needle, but it doesn’t hurt like an ordinary needle, it feels good, and all my worry disappears.
I’m in an alley, I’ve traded my slippers in for a needle. I don’t remember who I am right now, and all I can think about is one thing: heroine. Flashing blue and red lights. I’m picked up by authorities, I’ve been doing a lot of bad things lately. Only I don’t remember them very well, and what I do remember, it doesn’t feel like they’re my own memories, because they aren’t. They are heroine’s memories. Nothing I do is like me. I’m no longer myself.
In a rehabilitation home for young women. There are so many rules in this place, and it makes me mad out first. I look in a mirror, and I see a monster, a stranger. Look around trying to find any loose drugs but all I get my hands on is a toothpick and some glass cleaner. I decide to poke a hole and poor it on. Then I drink some.
At a hospital, I feel like such an idiot. I stay there for about a week. Then I go back to the home. We’re having a group activity, that everyone is encouraged to go to, and so I go. I need all the help I can get.
The topic, of the discussion is what used to be our dream or dreams until, drugs, alcohol, abuse, or depression took us over.
I speak up, I haven’t talked at all since I got here several months ago. Everyone is quiet. I used to want to be a dancer, and I would practice every day since I was 12. I never wanted to be anything else. I say that to over a hundred people, into a microphone, standing up, and then I tell them my story. I tell them about the party, how I can’t remember all the horrible things I did, while on drugs, and the only way I know is from other’s and I tell them about how glad I am to be back. I talk for over an hour, and after, everybody claps. Other young women come up to me and tell me how glad they were that I was so honest and it helped them to be honest too.
A counselor comes up to me and she tells me about the studio she teaches at, and welcomes me to use it whenever I need to, and to come to classes.

I step into a dance studio, for the first time in 2 years. It’s bright, and cool. I take a deep breath, pull my slippers out, and put them on, this feeling I get as I move across the room, makes me feel so amazing. Desperately searching for who I am, healing myself through this type of therapy. I’ve felt so ugly, until now.
I look into the mirror and smile. The reflection shows me who and what I wanted to become all those years ago. I’m a dancer and I’m finally stronger.