hope
If I’ve been quiet recently, it’s because I don’t like talking to people that much on comp week. I can’t deal with being asked ‘how I’ll go’ or what I’m ‘planning on hitting’. It’s not that I don’t value or appreciate others showing an interest (I absolutely do) it’s just that I get so fucking anxious about it that I literally have to talk myself off a new ledge every day, and being asked ‘are you gonna get a PR?’ is pretty much the weightlifter equivalent of asking someone their due date when they’re not actually pregnant. So I’ve been in a fairly deep anxiety hole and consequently valuing some solitude and meaningful snuggles with Graham (there’s definitely a reason most weightlifters I know have pets). After a scale 100 meltdown last week, my coach encouraged me to write down my feelings, and basically get to the bottom of exactly what the fuck I was worried about. He probably didn’t mean ‘and also share it with the universe’, but that’s what I do, so that’s what I’m doing. You’re welcome.
Since I started this sport, I’ve always felt like I had something to prove. Kind of the same way you want to show the popular girls who were mean to you at school that you’re way hotter than them now…except it’s me, rubbing in old-shit-me’s face how much better new-better-me is. I think honestly that if you’re not looking back at your former self and thinking ‘god, what a fucking loser’, then you literally haven’t grown AT ALL, and to me that is beyond terrifying. A friend of mine recently shared this quote from Sylvia Plath which completely sums up my innermost thoughts. I have added the swearing, obviously. Sorry Sylvia.
‘What fucking horrifies me the most is the idea of being useless; well educated, promising and fading out into an indifferent middle age.’
And that’s it, right there. It’s the thought of failing to reach my potential that terrifies me, and that despite the hours of sacrifice and the promise I have shown in training, it’s not going to amount to any sort of tangible achievement, and that I’m literally going to end up a pointless 40-something with several cats who still talks about that time I tried to be good at a sport. I’m also worried that if I don’t see ‘progress’ soon that I’ll give up, that I’ll be like that guy in the picture who’s digging for diamonds and goes ‘fuck it’ when he’s like an inch away from them…and if I’m that guy, how will anyone take me and all my #mindgold shit seriously? Also, what if I am a person who should just bloody give up, and I just don’t know it yet?
Yes, I am aware that not doing well at a local meet has literally no impact on my life as a cat-enthused 40 year old woman, and that regardless of success or failure in this specific competition I am still the same person, with the same values…but as a chronic over-thinker, catastrophising is 100% my game. So let’s zoom in a little and focus on the actual event itself, as in, my actual lifts, on the day, in the present moment.
What’s the actual worst thing that will happen?
Not making any lifts, basically. Or I guess dying on my way to the meet, or not making any lifts (bombing) and THEN dying. Making all of my lifts then dying would be OK because at least I’d go out on a high note. On the other hand, in the case of bombing then dying at least I wouldn’t have to live with the shame of my terrible performance. Yes, there are a lot of major positives in my life right now, and I am so fucking grateful for them ALL. But having an amazing partner, coach, friends and cat won’t stop me wanting to momentarily neck myself if I bomb.
After my last competition my physio asked me how I went, and when I told him I made 2/6 (as in 2 successful lifts out of 6) he seemed genuinely upset for me and asked what happened. The thing is, nothing happened, I just missed 4 lifts. I wasn’t sick, I felt good, I’d had a good training cycle, nothing in my life was particularly terrible, I just didn’t do as well as I had hoped to. I honestly didn’t even feel that bad about my performance, until his suggestion that only making 2/6 lifts was something of an aberration (or abortion, if you really want to go there). If you really think about it, getting suicidal over a miss in a sport where there is literally a 50% chance of that happening is kinda fucking stupid. So this realization lead me to question: what did I focus on for that particular competition that meant I was actually happy with the two lifts I did make, and my overall performance?
I was grateful. Grateful for my coach, for my team mates and club, grateful to have the opportunity to compete, for the lifts I did make and for the technical improvements that they displayed.
I was accepting. I accepted that regardless of how well I’d trained, how good I was feeling, how well I’d slept or how much support I had from others, this wouldn’t affect the outcome. I’ve rocked up to training feeling like a million bucks and failed an easy lift, and just as often dragged myself to the gym like a broken bag of dicks and gotten a PR. It literally doesn’t fucking matter.
I was happy. I enjoyed seeing my friends compete and encouraging them. I was beyond stoked to see people in my life cared enough to come and watch, or message me to wish me luck. I felt loved and supported with every attempt, whether they were successful or not.
Hope is defined as a feeling of expectation and desire for a particular thing to happen. So what do I expect and desire tomorrow? Honestly, the confidence to walk up onto that platform like I own it and approach the bar like a badass motherfucker each time. I hope that the hours I’ve spent training, recovering and giving oh so many fucks about my sport are reflected in the few moments that others actually see. But mostly, I hope that I’ll know that the performance I gave was my absolute best, regardless of the outcome, and that I’ll be proud of what I achieve and reflect positively on what I don’t. I don’t need to hope that those in my life who love me will continue to do so regardless of how I go, because I know that they will.
Basically, I hope that when I’m balls deep in cats and indifferent middle age I’ll know I gave this shit an 11/10 crack, and showed old, piece-of-shit me, what’s up.
