(Based on the
book “Breaking Through My Limits: An
Olympian Uncovered”,
copyright 2012, by Alexandra Orlando)
(beginning of Chapter 5 – Rock Bottom)
As related by Ms. Orlando (prior to the
2004 Olympic Qualifiers):
For any young person growing up in
today’s cluttered, commercialized world, the pressure to be beautiful is all
around us. What we really define as beauty has been
twisted and contorted to mean something artificial, unattainable, and
unhealthy. It fills our minds from the
moment we wake up in the morning and see our favourite celebrities telling us
what yogurt to eat or shampoo to use, to the girls at school or work that starve
themselves to fit into a size zero. Even
on a crowded subway, there are magazines in your face with images of “beauty”
plastered all over them, re-shaped and re-coloured to look different, but in
the end they’re all the same. The
obsession with being thin is unfortunately here to stay. No matter how many designers say they won’t
put deathly skinny models in their runway shows to help young women with their
self-confidence, it doesn’t matter. It
has seeped so far into our society and subconscious that I’ve seen 12-year-olds
throwing up after they eat, or calling other girls fat.
How I loathe that word “fat”. A word that stings even as I say it. A word so small, yet powerful enough to make
someone break down inside so slowing that they lose who they are. A meaning that can hit someone so hard, they
will feel forever as though the wind has been knocked out of them when they
look in the mirror; a constant reminder that they’re not good enough. The very use of that word from other women
makes me sick to my stomach, especially when I see girls who are also
struggling with coming into their own, bully the unpopular ones: the girls who look different, who are
bigger. They use it against each other
when competing for a job or a relationship.
The judgment that has begun to take over
our lives hurts us as women more that we can possibly imagine. We judge a girl even before we know her: “There’s the fat girl no one thinks is going
to be popular, so why would I want to spend time with her?” Or, they think that
picking on her is so easy and makes them feel better about themselves. These are statements I’ve heard from the
young women I coach and mentor, girls I passed in the hallways of the high
school I worked in, and the business women gossiping at lunch. We use this language and then we laugh as if
it’s acceptable. No one seems to have a
problem with it at all, and the fact that women think it’s okay just allows men
to do the same.
We’ve all been in a group of people when
we’ve heard a guy describe some girl walking in as fat, and laughing. The response is usually well received at the
table with the girls rolling their eyes, but accepting it, and most of the time
joining in to make themselves feel more attractive. Does that really make you feel better knowing
that you’ve hurt someone, knowing that they’ll cringe a little more when they
look at themselves? Knowing that because
of what you said or did, they will hide their bodies with layers of clothes and
try and become invisible. I would
know. I’ve been there.
My life in gymnastics revolved around
what I looked like. Forget the
inner beauty pep talk because that didn’t matter at all. How thin I should be was the most important
question. When I was a little girl
playing sports, I had no concept of how skinny I was and if that was a good
thing or why that would even matter. I
was so completely oblivious to the stress it caused women and the pressure they
put on themselves. I believe the longer
you stay in this bubble of self-love, the better grounded you are growing up,
and the more likely you are to keep a good head on your shoulders when faced
with adversity. When you’re exposed to
people who accept others for who they are, you keep an open mind about
embracing people who are different from you, whether it’s based on race,
religion, or appearance.
That horrible, gut-wrenching feeling you
get when someone attacks your racial background is the same as an attack on
your appearance. The ability to make someone feel as low as
they possibly can is a talent I never hope to master. I was a tiny little kid, and stayed pretty
small throughout my adolescence. I was
the shortest in my class, muscular but lean.
I was what I wanted, whether it was trendy or not, and didn’t think
twice about it. Those were the days. As I got older, I was still the happy tomboy,
racing the guys and never being the one they looked at in “that” way. I was fit and an athlete, so the girls didn’t
judge me either, and I was fortunate to never really be bullied or picked
on. Sport was my saving grace.
It all happened so fast once I turned
twelve and propelled into my high performance career. By fifteen, I was novice national champion
and two-time junior Canadian national champion, racking up international
trophies and medals, jetting around the world, climbing higher and higher. Life was good, and I never expected things to
change because I was riding so fast and so high that I was just flying. Then, my entire life came crashing down all
around me.
I missed qualifying for the 2004 Olympics;
I tore two ligaments in my left ankle while tripping down the front
steps of my house, rushing to practice. Not
only was I recovering from the biggest disappointment of my life, and trying to
put this crushing defeat behind me, but having to sit at home for three months
on my couch nursing an ankle that would not cooperate with me, was hell. So, instead of being in the gym where I loved
to be, and getting my mind off Athens, I was parked on my couch with too much
time to think.
As a young female athlete, this age is
always the trickiest. Your body
starts to change, and for gymnasts, this can be career ending. If you grow too much too quickly, it can
throw off your balance. And, if you
spend a season trying to get used to it, you can miss your chance, and before
you know it, you watch your career fizzle out in the blink of an eye. My problem wasn’t my height. I was growing slowly, still all legs, but
those three months of “rest” drastically changed my body type. No longer was I this little bodiless
girl. Breasts, hips and thighs later, I
was the definition of a young woman. Not
something my coaches were too pleased about.
I cursed my Italian ancestors for giving
me this curvy shape and the worst thing was that I didn’t really notice my body
changing until it was too late.
I will never forget the look on their faces when I walked back into the
gym for the first time. A mixture of
disgust, confusion and panic, I think.
Just what a self-conscious teenager really needs. From that day on everything changed, and my
body became my obsession, my weakness.
(to be continued in Part B)
copyright 2014, Anne Shier. All rights reserved.
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