me because Coach Dan was there to see me take the first-place medal. I was still embarrassed competing in front of him, because I knew in my heart I could have done better. I knew I could have been a true champion, and now I was only a suggestion of that, a mere shadow of what I could have been.
The next level was regional competitions, consisting of all New England states. Chris and I were constantly neck and neck, and I was afraid he would win this one. He was much stronger than me, and resembled a body builder more than a gymnast. He also worked harder, but I felt I had more passion and had sacrificed more. I think my coach was eager to watch the story unfold, to see which one of us would win at that level.
During warm-up for our third event, Chris injured his ankle coming off the vault. He had to withdraw from the competition, ensuring we would never know who the better gymnast was. I won that regional championship, but it never felt like it was a true fight, both because Chris could not compete against me and because I had held back on some skills I would have tried in an effort to highlight my strengths. This made me hate the fact that I won. Although I knew my choice to play it safe was how you played “the game,” I wasn’t in it for the game as much as for the pleasure of the beatings. I chose to take the gold rather than to go all out and potentially screw up.
The regional win meant that I was now qualified to enter the Junior Olympic National Competition in Oakland. We would be gone for one week, with one day free to tour California. On our way to Oakland I revisited my daydream of not getting on the return flight and running away. The palm trees gave me refuge from my thoughts, and it was good to see a different environment. I thought that if I could just get away from my home, then maybe I would have a fighting chance at life.
We spent our “free” day seeing California before getting ready for our competition against the country’s top gymnasts. Practicing in their midst was pure intimidation, and our entire team felt the pressure. They all appeared confident, mature, and ready to deliver, while we all quietly fell to pieces. I don’t know if we were tired from the trip or just overwhelmed by the reality of the competition, but as a group, we did not want to compete. Yet we had no choice. We had to perform; we had worked too hard to pull out now. I realized that I had peaked too early in the season, and let myself be devoured like a small fish in a shark tank. I was all over the place during the first two events, and my performance was awful as I changed routines on the fly instead of going for solid skills I knew.
In my normal state of competing, I became deaf to sound. My mind would become a place of absolute quiet as I located the warrior within, but now, for the first time, I heard the chaos around me, and the champion never stepped forth. I couldn’t summon him. I drowned in the noise of the crowd, the sounds of other gymnasts as they met their marks, and the canned music in the background. My warrior got lost in that sea of sound.
To make matters worse, I fumbled my best event, the floor exercise. On my last tumbling pass I walked into the skill, giving up on the difficult movement and doing something basic. I don’t know why I did that, and as I left the floor I heard my dreams shatter. I couldn’t look my coach or teammates in the eye. I was so disappointed in myself, knowing how important that competition was to me . . . and to them. I had to perform exceptionally well there to show collegiate coaches that I was a good gymnast and a tough competitor, but I blew it. It was devastating.
If I didn’t have a motivation to kill myself before, I had just found one. I was nothing. Empty and completely confused by the sport I loved, betrayed by the grace and gift of gymnastics, I wanted to cry, but didn’t. Like a statue, I just sat there, solid and expressionless. In that moment, I surrendered my sword. I dropped the blade that was perfectly carved by years of training. I gave my power back to the heavens, saying, “I don’t want this fucking gift anymore; take it back, because I cannot handle the responsibility and demands of it.” I couldn’t endure another minute of this agony, and even though I had no idea what I would do with my life, I knew that I could not remain a gymnast.
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