(Based on the
book “Breaking Through My Limits: An
Olympian Uncovered”,
copyright 2012, by Alexandra Orlando)
As related by Ms. Orlando (prior to the
2004 Olympic Qualifiers):
There were nights that I sat alone on
the edge of the bathtub in my washroom, shaking, and holding a toothbrush in my
hand, always just one step away from sticking it down my throat like so many
girls I knew. The thought that would run through my mind
terrified me. I would run the water to
try and drown them out: “How hard could
it be? You eat, then throw up and get
rid of it as if it never happened. Other
girls did it. It wasn’t abnormal. It was something to be proud of. The skinnier you got, the more other girls
were in awe of you.” It was sick. I would overhear girls whining that they
couldn’t do it, that they had spent hours in the bathroom trying to make their
gag reflex kick in, but it just wouldn’t work.
Their bodies were holding strong.
This was a typical dinner conversation for us. You learned to admire the girls who were deathly
skinny, asking yourself why you couldn’t look like that. But, even worse was figuring out how you were
going to look like that against all odds.
Every competition that did not go well
was almost always blamed on my weight.
I would be called into hotel rooms and hear that I would be nowhere, no
one, if things didn’t change. When I
would miraculously lose weight, even though I didn’t perform well, the
performance never mattered. I could do
no wrong then, the mistakes weren’t as big of a deal. In the mind of a young girl, this pattern
became ingrained in my head, and losing weight became the number one obstacle
standing in my way. Even the weight I
lost didn’t make me happy, it was never good enough. There was always more fat to lose, more
inches to come off, and a smaller size to fit into. I would hole myself up on the top bunk in a
tiny Parisian room, earphones in, and a supply of gum that would soothe the
hunger pains, and I would furiously write in my journal until my head would
ache, ignoring the pile of school work I had photocopied and lugged halfway
around the world with me. This wasn’t
real life, I couldn’t concentrate on school.
Those days, I would wake up in the
morning and take the local bus to the gym alone, where I had to work out with a
trainer who didn’t speak a word of English. He trained French boxers, and I was just
along for the ride. My lunch break was
my only alone time, and I would run across to the little convenience store from
the sports complex, so mad, tired and upset, that I would buy individual
packages of chocolate cake and eat them as if I hadn’t eaten in days. The locals passing me on the street would
look at me like I was crazy. I would
wolf it down as I walked back to the gym, knowing that I had to finish it or
throw it away before I turned the corner and would be in sight of any potential
onlookers from the gym. I walked back
into the gym with a smirk on my face, thinking I had won some secret battle in
my head, and I had tricked them. In the
end, it was only putting me further into the ground, burying me deeper until I
was so far over my head that nothing seemed real anymore.
I pride myself on never stepping on a
scale in front of anyone, despite them desperately trying to get me to do so. I refused to subject myself to that in front
of my teammates and everyone who mattered in our sport. I wouldn’t let them take my pride from me in
that way. They took it in other ways,
but I would never offer it up willingly.
Today, I can’t look at a scale again as it brings back so many horrible
memories of wishing and hoping that that little screen would flash a lower
number, believing that it was lying to me.
The very thought of standing on one gives me goose bumps, and I shudder
when I have to step onto one for my doctor at my annual checkup. I don’t even look, I just let her write that
number down and be done with it.
I’ll never define myself with a number
ever again. It’s just a number, an insignificant few
digits that can’t say anything about who you are, what you believe in or what
you love. It doesn’t make you any more
or less of a person. You are you,
regardless of what the scale says. Don’t
let it dictate your life. I learned how
that “special” little number and the approval of others swayed my mood, my
mindset, and my whole persona. The power
it held was instrumental in the choices I made and how I perceived myself. I lost friends, potential boyfriends, even
the relationship with some of my family members over what this was doing to
me. Anything I put into my mouth would
start me imagining where it would be going on my body the next day. Another piece of cheese would mean another
thirty minutes on the elliptical. Was it
worth it? That became my thought
process, every minute of every day.
By the start of 2006, things hadn’t
gotten any better. I was still too heavy, and the Commonwealth
Games were coming up in Australia. These
were my first, big multi-sport Games since the 2003 Pan American Games when I
was just an inexperienced gymnast thrown into the spotlight. These Games were important for my country,
and I needed to come out guns blazing and take it. During the last Commonwealth Games in
Manchester, England, Canada won five gold medals out the possible six in
rhythmic gymnastics, and so I had a reputation to live up to. My whole team knew it. We walked into the selection meet knowing
that the judges were keeping in mind who should be heading Down Under, and who
would make the top three that weekend.
The pressure was on, and I came out on top, but there was something
different about me and everyone saw it.
I had lost my heart, my fire. I
was a robot out there going through the motions because I had to. But, that love I had for the sport was
missing.
(to be continued in Part F)
No comments:
Post a Comment