Wait

I continue to struggle with body image. I always thought that as a performer I was above that. Well, no, I never thought that. I always thought that a performer should be above that.

When traveling with the Burning Theatre, I found that the different faces within the sideshow act exuded confidence and forthright righteousness. They sang, they danced, and expressed themselves wildly within their unusual frames. And then offstage, they were quiet, withdrawn, and almost ashamed to be seen by their equals. When it's a circus, you're there for the crowd; when they cheer or jeer, they are there enjoying themselves. When they leave, you're left to yourself without a spotlight or a piano accompaniment. You walk by the misshapen mirrors and see yourself as a normal human being.

I admit I do not have scales, am not a dwarf, having missing or expendable limbs, or anything else that people would assume makes them a freak. Cosie said to me one time that she considers the audience a freakshow; a group of middle Americans or what have you, stuffing their faces with popcorn and candy, so convinced they are on the outside view of the aquarium. But they too have their flaws and indiosyncrasies, just on the inside. At least freaks have the honesty to wear it on their sleeves.

When on stage, it's no matter. You sing, you dance. No one at the Burning Theatre ever made me feel normal or abnormal. But since leaving them, I occasionally look down at my doughy stomach, my invasively pale complexion, and the acne marks that sometimes appear on my arms or chest and think "Perhaps living with the supposed freaks makes you that much more vain."

I am not firm, I am not taut; and when I look at my stomach and sigh, it's an accurate summation of much of my life. It is disappointing, but truly, I am not doing anything about it.