When I woke up this morning I didn't think today would be any different from yesterday. I awoke to the same soft white sheets, the same pillow under my head. The same mess of long black hair in my face. But when I stood up and felt something brush over my feet I froze. My heart at a complete stop while I waited to see what would happen next. Nothing did happen and I ran out of my room as quickly as I could. That was my first mistake. I should've never left my room this morning. I should've at least checked what was under the bed first. Maybe then I Wouldn't have been so startled when I went to the bathroom. I stood in front of the sink, my hand slowly reaching for the faucet, and my reflection following everything I did precisely. I let the cold water run over my hands for a moment, the rush of frozen ice bringing me back to reality. There couldn't have been anything under my bed is what I told myself. I cupped my hands under the tap and watched as the water filled my hands, I watched as the water poured over the sides of my skin, making its way back into the basin. The mirror hanging on the wall in front of me, still keeping up with every single one of my movements. I bring the water in my hands to my face, and before splashing myself I hold my breath. I don't know why, but I've always done that. Without the sound my breath filling the dead silence I have to wonders....whose is then? I can hear it right behind me. The sound of someone breathing. Each breath louder and heavier then the last. When I spin around to my surprise no ones there. I let out a sigh in relief as I turn back to the mirror. I stare at my bitter reflection, my skin pale and sickly, my long hair in a tangled mess, my grey eyes drawing nothing but boredom and plainness. Then it happens. I jump back from the mirror, knocking into the cabinets behind me. Before I can catch my footing, I slip and fall backwards into them. The cabinets and I hitting the floor with a loud crash as my heart beats out of my chest. I know what I saw. There's no way that didn't happen. I replay it back in my head.....and every time I replay it, it's the same. I'm standing there, staring at myself in the mirror. Then the mirror slips up. It does something I don't do. It blinks. I know the safety of my closet won't save me forever, but at least it'll keep them out longer. It'll keep them out while I try to think. But the only thing I can think about is seeing myself blink.

“And...Aster, you're up!" I shakily drew in a breath and bent down to check if my en pointe shoes were tied. Why did the air suddenly seem so cold? Why were chills running up my spine? And why, out of all things, was I scared? It's gonna be alright, I assured myself. My brain believed it, but my heart didn't. It beat fast, as if it was saying, "Oh, I'm not sure..." My friend Wonder's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Pssst. Aster, go on," She nudged me with her elbow. "You can do this!" Wonder's sunny, smiling face encouraged me, but didn't do much to move my fears. "I can't do it." "What?" Wonder's face fell. "I just can't. I'm too scared." "But you can do it!" Wonder protested. "Then how do I do it?" "Just face your fears." * * * The first time my mother told me to try ballet, I was really skeptical. Ballet? Really? With music that goes, dodo-do-do? Nope, not for me. Then, she MADE me try it, which I complained about for a long time. She pushed me into our custom-made Porsche car and said, "You can't think that ballet is terrible before you've even tried it." Sigh. Grown-ups. "I still think ballet is a waste of time and torrible." I declared with a matter-of-fact look on my face, staring at her through the rear view mirror with my brown eyes. "Oh, Aster," murmured Mum. "Using words you've made up." I did make up words if there wasn't a good enough word in Merriam Webster's dictionary. Terrible and horrible both sounded the same and meant the same thing, so I decided to merge them to create, "Torrible". It's a word that's twice as strong than your ordinary negative adjective. Once we got to the ballet studio, I crossed my arms to make myself seem like I meant business and didn't want to be there. "Welcome!" cried a bright-eyed woman. "I'm Madame Natalia!" She had her hazel hair in a tight bun and was wearing a black leotard paired with white tights and ballet shoes. "Please come inside!" I reluctantly entered the studio. It had glossy walls, wooden bars, and a huge mirror at the very front. I had thought that ballet was going to be boring. Boy, was I wrong. Ballet now seemed like it was part of everything in my life now. It was in my schedule, and I tried to do anything to please Madame Natalia. I was having so much fun doing pliés and tendus and pirouettes that I even forgot how I first felt like when I went to the studio! It was as if I couldn't feel that way about ballet anymore. Soon, three years had passed and I was a high-level fifteen year old. Madame Natalia had long gone; I now had a teacher named Madame Trance. Her name suited her. She looked as if she had been taking too many sleeping pills. Her blonde hair always seemed to float and her gray eyes were always dreamy as if she were far, far away from the studio. One day Madame Trance said, “Aster, there's going to be a competition at the Lincoln Center Ballet Stage. Do you want to go for it?” My eyes grew wide. A competition? For real?“YES!” I shouted, jumping up and down. Madame looked at me disapprovingly and shook her head. “What's wrong Madame?” I asked, cocking my head, settling down again. “Oh, dear. The people downstairs will complain again.” I grinned sheepishly, embarrassed. * * * So here I was, at Lincoln Center making a fool out of myself. My brain had already confirmed that I couldn't bring myself to dance on the ballet stage. I had looked down at my feet and moped. Then, Wonder had given me one of the best pieces of advice that I had ever heard in my life: "Face your fears". I looked up. Wonder nodded. I thought about spiders. Poison. War. Stage fright, and another gazillion things that I never knew that I was afraid of. "If you're ever gonna do something in life," soothed Wonder, bring me back into the present, "If you're ever gonna try something new, you have to go face-to-face with whatever you're afraid of." She stared at me so intently that I snickered."Wow!" I laughed. "You sound just like a teacher!" "Thank you."Wonder giggled. "Number 26, are you coming? I repeat, number 26, are you coming?" I inhaled deeply and stepped forward. I put on my best calm face. It didn't matter which place I came in. All that mattered was that I had faced my fears.

The Monsters Beneath Me That's where they were: beneath me...under my bed, actually...the grizzly and ghoulish creatures of my childhood imaginings. But, for a six year old boy, still treading the perplexing waters between fantasy and reality, they were as real as the bed I lay upon. Night after night I would lay rigid in my bed, dreading falling asleep, for I knew that once asleep, my arm or leg would come to dangle over the side of my all-too-narrow bed. And that's when it would happen: some hideous, cartoonish monster, or team of them, would snatch my dangling limb and pull me under the bed, where all manner of horrors awaited me. Fearing what lay in wait for me, I would try to fall asleep laying perfectly still in the middle of my bed, legs together, arms tight to my sides, and hope that somehow I might safely awaken in the morning. Often, I would awaken in darkness and deep dread (did I yell for help?), sweating and shaking. Unconvinced that this was “just” a dream, I would lay there in that fixed, rigid position, trying to stay awake, but failing and falling again into sleep. To my great relief, I would indeed awaken safely each morning -- another treacherous and fearful night, survived. And although I would rise to meet the morning with my childish exuberance -- forgetting the sweat-inducing panic and fear of the night before -- all would return upon bedtime. I am not certain how long this phantasmic phase persisted. The memory is fuzzy, distorted by a lifetime since lived. But it seems to have recurred over many days, or periodically, over a week or two. I don't recall sharing these night terrors with my brothers or ever mentioning it to my dad or mom. I was, even at the age of six, deeply embarrassed by the whole thing. And so I felt rather helpless as well. But, possibly due to some innate stubbornness, or exasperation, this terrifying dreaming would abruptly stop. I can recall only opening my eyes, one morning, peering straight up at what seemed to be a wall of wooden slats pressing in on me. Startled, I lifted my head, banging it hard against the wood, exclaiming “Ow!” as one might expect. What was this? What's going on? A few seconds of disorientation and rousing consciousness passed before I realized what was ‘going on' -- where I was: I was underneath my bed! Somehow, in my sleeping state -- and I possessed no memory of doing so -- I had gotten out of bed, and, blanket and all, maneuvered myself onto the floor beneath my bed -- a tight space with just enough room, plus an inch or two, for one six year old boy. I laid there for some time, awake and marveling at this strange feat of magical transportation. And then, another profound realization came over me: if I was under my bed, then there couldn't be monsters under my bed, too -- there was simply no room for them. I remember smiling, even laughing out loud. That whole day I felt a strange, all-pervading sense of calm and confidence that I had never felt previously. I had, unknowingly, found the solution to my night time hallucinations. I had confronted the monsters where they lived and had emerged the stronger! I had become my own hero. No help from mom or dad or divine intervention. And, something in me had changed, permanently. My view of ‘reality', however limited by youthful inexperience, had been forever altered. I felt, deeply, that my Life was no longer the same. Possibly, I might have spent a night or two more sleeping under my bed (just to be sure), but I distinctly recall the complete vanquishing of those limb-snatching ghouls that were just out of sight, and yet so close beneath me. And, over the months following, whenever a new night time phantasm emerged, I would somehow find a way to thwart or out-smart it, as if now possessing magic powers. Over the years, I would come to confront other fears common to many...such as the ‘panic' of having to speak in front of others and even a fear of hypodermic needles. I remember a nurse rubbing the alcohol-soaked swab on my arm, just moments before being ‘stuck'. I started to feel that familiar panic rising up in me. Closing my eyes, slowing my breathing, I recalled that long-ago morning when I woke up beneath my bed. But now, I felt only an eye blink of anxiety, and then a wave of calm flowing over me as the needle pierced my skin. I think I laughed -- surprising myself, and the nurse. This ‘extinguishing' would ultimately prove invaluable as, only a few years afterwards, my dad developed an acute form of dysplastic anemia and was in need of a familial blood supply for possible transfusions. And, in the ride to the hospital, feeling no little pride, I recalled the vanquishing of those monsters once more. It might seem strange to say it now but I believe I first started ‘growing up' the moment that my six-year-old-self woke up, under my bed, bumped my head, and laughed.