Reflections of An Ex-Gymnast

I have been doing gymnastics for 15 years. Since I was 3, I was working out almost every day, perfecting my skills. I identified as an athlete my whole life. My blistered and callused hands were my identity. My huge arm and leg muscles and tiny waist (pants never fit me, my 6-pack, the constant cracking of my joints were normal for me. I had practice after school, and my Saturday mornings were spent in my pajamas at the gym. Chalk was a separate food group, and the leotard lines on my shoulders would never fade. 

I could chuck a backtuck with my eyes closed - easily, and I would sleep in the splits - comfortably. I was known as the daring one on my team. I had the hardest skills of the group, and I would not be scared of anything. What went wrong? Sometime in my freshman year of high school, I started hating my gymnastics life. Practices became too long, the skills too hard, the competitions too scary, the coaches too mean. I stopped going for things. I didn't want to come to practice anymore. 

For 3 more years, I resented everything about gymnastics, and I couldn't wait to get out of there. I hated how my muscles would never stop hurting. I hated how cold the gym was in the mornings, and how hot it was in the afternoon. I hated how tight my leotards were, how restrictive the coaches were. I hated how my teammates weren't as close anymore. I hated how disappointing every competition was. I hated how many injuries I got, and I hated how my coaches cast me aside to work with Erin, Vic, and Lacy from Elite. Most of my original group disbanded, and I felt so alone. And the summer before my senior year of high school, I stopped. 

I didn't come to practice for a week, and on Friday, showed up to warm up, and told everyone the news. Nobody said anything, and nobody was surprised. They wanted to see me go. They knew it was a long time coming. The people I considered family for 15 years did not want me anymore. But I didn't care. I felt so happy for the first few months. After school, I'd go home. I did not have to worry about anything. I could eat whatever I wanted without worrying about gaining weight before practice. I thought I was happy. 

But the for the next 12 months, my problems did not disappear. Quitting gym only gave room for more issues, including those caused by quitting. I gained four pounds every month, and none of my clothes would fit me. Problems came up at school and at home that I could not escape from. I still felt alone and disconnected from everybody else. And most of all - I started missing gymnastics. 

I miss it so much now. I'd give anything to put my grips back on, to tumble again. I am not a gymnast anymore. I have no identity. I loved flipping and doing routines and dancing on floor. I regret quitting so much. There is an interesting thing about the word "quit." Gymnasts prefer not to use it. They say "retired," "stopped," "finished." But never "quit". Quitting implies that you gave up halfway. Which I can say, I honestly did. Well, not halfway. I quit after Level 9. But I still quit. I was lazy and weak. I know I could have made it to the finishing point - but I didn't. 

It tortures me when I see my old teammates. It tortures me when I see girls younger than me going to Level 10. It tortures me to watch gymnastics videos. My heart breaks as I am writing this. A year ago, I hated when the coaches yelled at me, and wanted nothing more than to get out of the sport. Now, I'd give anything to have them yell at me just one more time. 

When I talk to my friends about it, (friends who never did gymnastics), they never understand. They tell me to find another sport. They tell me to go sign up again. I forget sometimes how even the smartest people can be naive about these things. They don't know how our world works. They think it will be fine. But even if I wanted to go back, it wouldn't be the same. My body would be different. My muscles have turned to fat, and my hands have gone soft. The coaches would act differently, and my teammates would not be the same teammates I was friends with. I only have the other girls who quit - but without gymnastics, nothing holds us together anymore. These kinds of bonds, these kinds of skills that the sport gives you cannot be recreated on whim. If you lose it, you lose it forever. 

I wish I held on tighter. I wish I could to go back to 3 years ago, when I forgot about the girl who fell in love with the sport. I would remember her, honor her, and tumble once again. I miss gymnastics. 

Thoughts on Youtubers' Memoirs

There has been a new trend lately. Writing memoirs. That's the "cool" thing to do by celebrities and YouTubers. I see my friends reading Connor Franta's memboir, Joey Graceffa's book. Elle and Blair Fowler have a book, too! Even Trisha Paytas has a book. Like WHAAATTT??

Ok, don't get me wrong. I love a good memoir, perhaps more than most people. Key emphasis here is on the good. Like "Angela's Ashes" good or "The Glass Castle" (Jeannette Walls. My favorite memoir.) Or the amazing "The Things They Carried". There is also "Revolution is not a Dinner Party" (though technically not a memoir) about the Cultural Revolution in China. Even Lance Armstrong's memoir I can appreciate.

And furthermore, I love Connor Franta and Joey Graceffa and Trisha Paytas. Their videos are hilarious and entertaining, and I am subscribed to all of them.

HOWEVER!!!

When somebody writes a memoir, the content should be dignified. A good memoir shows a true struggle. A struggle of a half-starved and neglected child of criminal parents. A struggle of competing (which is hard enough) while battling a crippling disease! The struggle of war, with your comrades dying in an unknown, God-forsaken land. The memoir teaches about the corners of life we have no idea about. The memoir stirs something inside us and makes us think. We learn from this literature.

What is a twenty-something year old going to teach me? How hard it was to move from the Midwest to LA? Well, news flash for you, buddy: you are not the first one who did it, and you won't be the last. Sure it was rough at times, but we all went through it. That process is called "growing up". The struggle of coming to terms with your sexuality? Alright, that I can kind of understand. However, we do live in a first world nation where in a time when everything, literally everything, is much easier to deal with than ever before. And guess what? Everybody has problems! Conquering your own does not separate you from anyone else. So you expect me to spend money to waste my time reading literally nothing of value? Haha no.

Let's talk about Trisha. She has 3 books out, oh dear lord. She talks about being a stripper in her memoir(s). Like, wow. Way to go! Let's applaud this woman for taking her clothes off! Now, keep in mind, I have nothing against sex workers. You gotta do what you gotta do. I totally understand! But what I refuse to understand is why you write books about it! I can honestly say, that is an insult to literature! What a great thing to leave to the next generations: yeah, strippers write books now.

What I cannot believe is that people are actually taking these books seriously! Come on, these people have practically no experience and no talent in creative writing! Whereas when you mention the name of any other writer, a more talented writer, people draw a blank. Can't you see that what you are reading is bullcrap?! And you spend money on that shit?

Don't you see, these youtubers writing memoirs only want your money. They don't have any fascinating stories to tell! If you believe that they want to get those stories out and want to help people, you are stupid. Because if they really want to inspire us and share their stories, they would make a video. Which we could watch for free. Or put their book out for free. But they don't do that. Please, if you bought a memoir of theirs, please don't read it. Return it as soon as you can. Because you will literally waste your time and money with what they wrote. It is not worthy of you. I bet you could write a better memoir than they could. (But please use your second judgement if you actually took that idea seriously.)

Wacko Dream

I just had an epic dream and I needed to write it down somewhere, so I thought here.

In my dream, I just graduated from high school, and my school and my ex boyfriend's school decided to throw a graduation party together, combining the classes. Before going to the party, my ex was bothering me on Facebook. Now, the party was held at this village looking place that had a church, a fountain, a dance floor, long banquet tables with white table cloths and flowers on them, as well as two statues. One statue was a woman with dark hair and a red, sparkly dress (looked a lot like Jessica Rabbit's dress). The other statue was a man dressed in plain black robes. (Kinda looked like a cross between Darth Vader and a nun.) We knew in the dream that the lady statue represented fun, dance, love. The man represented academics, rules, and hard work. (Also notable that red and black were my school's colors.) Whenever the statues would have sunlight hit them, they would cast these "shadows" and become animated and would be able to move and speak. The shadow the lady statue casted was tinted gold with red polka dots. The shadow the black statue casted was grey with black vertical lines. We were told that whenever the sunlight hit the statues and they would cast these glows and become alive, that meant that God's presence was with us. I was standing next to the red lady statue when gold sunlight was shining on her back and she cast her glowing shadow on these girls in white dresses who were taking a picture in front of the fountain. She looked at me, and smiled. And so, I was right next to God as He was blessing these girls. I ended up walking up a hill overlooking the party. The statue of the man in black robes was standing on top of this hill, watching me as I climbed. He was casting his shadow, too. He was casting it on me. When I walked up to the top, I stood next to him, walked passed him, and then he exclaimed to all the students below "The seventh kingdom has come." And he crowned me as a representative of God, saying that His presence would now be known through me. After that, all the students sat down for dinner, and I was happy that I could avoid my ex boyfriend. I avoided my ex on the dance floor, too. Suddenly, we heard a voice say something along the lines of, "Not so fast. Nothing came yet!" And suddenly, three or four men in camouflage uniforms and some caps of either a red or a blue color rushed at us with weapons aiming right at us. We were ushered into the church and were told to pray. If the seventh kingdom really had come, someone would be able to answer our prayers and save us. Otherwise, we would be shot at, and only the smart use of the person in front of us as a shield could save us. We prayed, we prayed, and we prayed. Nothing happened. Until the door opened right behind me, and another man in camouflage with a weapon came in. As the door was closing behind him, I hid behind this man's back, and discreetly scampered through this open door. As soon as I was out, I ran as fast as I could, shouting "call 911" to random people passing by. As soon as I got to a phone, I called the police, and a SWAT team appeared, and started shooting at the men in camouflage, and with the help of a ballistic shield, I was able to get everyone out of the church and to safety. Later, both statues stood next to me as I stood on a pedestal, and people were cheering, and I was proclaimed as channeling God's presence. And the last thought in my head before I woke up was "I really hope my ex doesn't notice me."

Everything is going against us. Hell, he does not even know that someone like me is existing. His love is for someone else. Someone better. But how could something be so wrong when I know it is right? We practically belong together. Made for each other. Soul mates. If only he could see that. 

When Claudius is Right

How thick can they get? When someone tells you to stop, you stop! I don't want to hear any of your bullshit! All you do is hurt me. God I wish it all would stop.

"When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions." (Hamlet, Act IV.) Amen to that. Ain't that the truth?  

Forbidden Fantasies

It was only a dream. But it felt so real! I wish it was. It was a dream of prom night continuing, and Jordan D.* was telling me to sneak out of the house to hang out with him. We walked in the night, and cuddled and looked out at the stars. Then, we went back to prom and danced and talked. I kept on asking him, "But aren't you dating Briana?" But he never replied. Right when we were about to kiss, I woke up. 

I couldn't believe it wasn't real. I could feel the wind blowing against me, and the warmth of his body as it was pressing against me. The feeling of his arm around me, holding tight. The way his eyes could pierce in to you. Everything felt so much more than a dream. The one time I truly felt like I had a Cinderella moment - it was all in my head. 

I know we'd be so good together. It can't be just nothing. But he and I come from different crowds. I don't think he would accept me. Maybe if he breaks up with his girlfriend would he ever even look at me in real life. But I know he definitely would never like me, as he probably nearly hates me by now. All that remains is a forbidden fantasy. 

*name has been changed. 

The Door is Firmly Locked

I wish I could write through it all. The words would be streaming out, and my pain would be bleeding through them. I wish I could put it all there. Let it out. But these blocks are thwarting expression. I can't put it into words. It is indescribable. All I can do is draw a blank towards the outside, with the things I hold back slowly creeping and hurting me inside. 

Life is just one big game, and you have to play along and hope you get it right. Playing along is all you really can do.

Inside My Thoughts

When I am inside my brain, I am in a scary place. Any distraction keeps the darkness at bay. As reality rushes back to me, thought after thought washes over. Each thought is worse than the one before, and any glimmer of hope is quickly drowned by the overwhelming reality. I look at others, and wonder, and sink deeper and deeper into the inner chasm.

Lungs fill up with thick and tangible darkness. I can feel it. I feel it rise from the innermost pits of hell. I feel it working it's way through my limbs. It encircles every nerve. As if by command, it clenches. The tentacles tighten around my neck. Something stops my heart from beating. Brain is racing but frozen at the same time. The cold works its way in. The end is near. I am alone.

Behind Closed Doors

Shut up! Just shut up! Get out!Get out of my head! Get out of there!

They have no idea what they are talking about. They poke their noses into everything, thinking they know it all. But do they really? They throw accusations at me, believing they are omniscient beings standing in front of a failure, a disappointment. 

How do they know what the protagonists don't tell them? How can they know about the drama that has been unfolding these past four years? How can they know anything about what goes on behind closed doors? 

What goes on behind closed doors.

Nobody can tell. Nobody knows the real truth. Everybody assumes they know it. They think it is explainable in a single word. They do not and will not dig deep to find the truth. They will cling on to what is comfortable. And then the blame falls on me. Of course it does. Who else could be at fault? 

I am not perfect, nor do I claim to be. I try hard, but I still mess up. But someday, they'll see the truth. They will realize exactly how wrong they were, and how much they hurt me. They will see how twisted the words of the past were.

But it will be too late. I'll be gone, and the damage has been done. The accusations will stay. Then they will realize, that nobody knows what truly happens behind closed doors. 

What happens behind closed doors.

Or possibly, they'll never know. I'll be left with it all. The hurt, the blame. In the words of another, "We'll say goodbye. We'll say that you didn't try..." And they will never know, what really took place, all those years ago, behind closed doors. 

It all took place behind closed doors. 

They Don't Need to Know

Person 1: "Hi, how are you?"
Person 2: "Good! How are you?"

Person 1: "I'm good, thanks!" 

But are we really? Whenever I get that question asked, I smile through it. And lie. Because no. I am not doing well. I am not ok, like I want everybody else to believe. I want people to think I have my shit together, when in reality, I shattered into pieces a long time ago. 

If somebody remembers me falling apart, they expect me to pick myself up. They think I already have. But they do not know that every time I try to get myself back together, it ends up backfiring, and I am left empty, numb, and confused. But they don't need to know that. 

Asking for help is so difficult. Receiving it is even harder. All that is left is a fake smile, fake laugh, fake confidence that masks the silent scream inside. I am broken. I am near rock bottom. 

But they do not need to know that.