Not thin enough: when losing weight becomes losing control.

I'm not sure when it started. What I do know is that it wasn't about being thin enough for a guy, or about not being happy in my life, and it certainly wasn't because I thought I was fat. For "real" life, I knew that I was fine. But for ballet, I wasn't quite thin enough, or so I believed.

I'd wanted to be a ballerina for as long as I could remember. While most teens were at the mall, dating, or getting that perfect prom dress, I was at ballet. Ballet class wasn't just something I went to for fun; it was my whole life. When I wasn't at dance, I was watching videos of my favorites, listening to classical music and envisioning choreography, or daydreaming about being onstage.

To this day, I have a hard time saying that I was anorexic. I certainly wasn't bulimic. But while I may not have starved myself completely or binged and purged, I definitely had some serious issues about food. I suppose that anorexia is the closest description to what I put myself through.

I hear stories about girls whose teachers demand that they get thin, but my ballet teacher, Frank Ohman--a wonderfully talented man who had been a soloist in the New York City Ballet--did not encourage me to lose weight. He actually called my mother once, to ask if I was unwell. "She looked fine before," he told her. "Lana's getting too thin now--and it's happened really fast I'm concerned." I can't ever recall Mr. Ohman putting anyone down because of their weight. Like a true professional, he was more concerned with ability, potential, and one's level of desire to be there.

Even though my morn got annoyed at me and may have been a little embarrassed about the call, I didn't think too much about it.

Then, when I was about 17, and deeply focused on a professional career, my once-curvy figure became a thing of the past. My legs were like those of most dancers: a mass of muscles. But the rest of me was skin and bones. My ribcage was completely visible from front to back. My arms looked as though they'd snap, and my face looked way too large for the rest of me.

In 1995, I got accepted to the Richmond Ballet's summer dance program. Faced with competing against talented dancers from all across the country, I was mentally and physically pushed to the limit. I worked hard in Virginia, and cut my retake of food down to one meal a day. I would dance from ten in the morning until six at night; eating only once-sounds insane, right?

That summer, I stopped getting my period. Instead of becoming alarmed, though, I knew it meant I was losing weight. I'd arrived in Virginia at 5' 4" and 110 pounds. By the time I left, I weighed a mere 98 pounds.

Although I'd learned a lot in my time away, I was eager to come home, see my friends and family, and rest. I can still recall what went through my mind as I took my bow in our final workshop performance--I don't want to dance; I'm tired.

I thought my dancing was stronger, but overall, I was exhausted. When my parents came to get me, they were worried. Through happy tears at seeing me for the first time in a few months, my morn said, "You look terrible."

At this point, I knew something was wrong. For the first time, I looked in the mirror and saw what I really looked like. Back at home, my friends said, "What happened to you? Did you not eat a bite the whole summer?"

Not exactly flattering. I wanted to shout, "But you should see how much better I've gotten!"

I knew I had to eat normally and snap out of it. I was tired of hurting my parents and myself. My mother talked of taking me to see a therapist if I didn't get back In a normal eating pattern, I panicked--I didn't want that! So, very slowly, I began to eat a little more, to respond better to my hunger rather titan suppressing it. Because I always ate dinner with my parents, they didn't know how little I was eating at offer times. I'd be voracious at dinner with them, therefore presenting a seemingly healthy appetite.

Once I started eating properly again--wouldn't you know it? My dancing got better! With more energy, I was better able to attack steps and not be completely beat after classes and rehearsals. When I began to menstruate again, I knew that I was finally back on track. Three months without a menstrual period can be hazardous to one's health, especially for a growing girl.

When I think back, I realize what the problem stemmed from. There's a lot of pressure on young girls. We feel that we need to look a certain way to fit a particular mold. For me, that mold was what I perceived as "the ballerina look." For others, it's something else. Let me say that many ballerinas do not look anorexic. Sure, there are some--but it's nearly impossible to maintain such a low body weight and still have the stamina that ballet demands.

Instead of shedding a pound or two, I lost control and lost sight of what I really looked like. I was obsessed with being reed-thin, and didn't realize that I'd be too tired to achieve my original goal. It doesn't matter how skinny you look in your costume if you're too tired to dance with the necessary bravura. I consider myself lucky, though. I was able to gain control of my caring before it became even more of a problem for me.

Sometimes I remind myself of what happened. With the pressures of a professional ballet career behind me now, I have to say I feel better in my skin. Oh, I still daydream about what could have been, and I wouldn't take back one minute of practice for anything in the world. I've continued dancing for the pure love of it, and I still adore going to the ballet.

The regimen of dance taught me about concentration, passion, goals, dedication, and plain old hard work. My ballet mentor and I are still good friends, and when I pop into his class he's happy to see that I look healthy. And when my parents get on my case about something, I listen.

Lana D'Amico, a former intern at DANCE MAGAZINE, is an associate editor at Sterling Macfadden Partnership in New York. She is also a freelance writer for various women's magazines.

A version of this story was originally published in Coed Confessions as "When What You Weigh Becomes Who You Are." Reprinted by permission of Sterling Macfadden.

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