MP: The Agony of Defeat
What was I thinking? No, really?
I was watching one of the Olympic Men's Alpine Skiing events the other day, and the commentators made a big deal about how this particular competitor was one of the oldest downhill skiers, and wasn't it remarkable that at the age of forty, he'd never had a serious skiing accident or injury? Seconds later the man was tumbling uncontrolled off the course, sliding to an unconscious stop against a snow fence. It was ghastly. It was obvious he was completely out long before his falling body came to rest. It turns out he was also supremely lucky, and got out of it with a concussion and some facial abrasions, but nothing worse. But he was out of that race, out of the Olympics, and I sat there thinking angry thoughts at the announcers for having doomed that man's career.
I know it's unscientific, illogical, superstitious to say those commentators jinxed that athlete. But you've seen it, too, haven't you? You've seen them say how thus-and-such figure skater is having the cleanest skate of her life, and that's the moment she falls on her ass. You've seen them talk about how all the gymnast needs to do is stick the landing to win gold, and that's when his dismount breaks his ankle, and he goes down in a heap, to a soundtrack of shocked "Ohhhhh!"s. You've watched speed skaters collide on slick ovals, and cyclists spin off hillsides, and batters strike out, and cursed the sportscasters who had just seconds before somehow caused those agonies of defeat with their strangely psychic utterances.
Well, I did it to myself yesterday. I posted that morning page about roller coasters and how I'd managed to circumnavigate the whirlpool for a change, and today, well... To quote Trent Reznor, "I was up above it; now I'm down in it."
It's been a really difficult day. I fought with friends, I hurt people I care about, I was sick and achy and tired. I had a moment, when things were at their bleakest, where I felt that old, familiar, detestable longing to pick up an Exacto knife and slice red furrows into the pallid undersides of my arms.
Are you shocked? Are you nodding your heads smugly and saying, "I always knew Nezu was a head case"?
Let's be clear here: I didn't do it. It's been more than ten years since I last put blade to skin. But god, for a moment there, how I wanted to. For a moment there the tricks I've learned to use to turn those urges away were tiny, weak things, fluttering vainly against a maelstrom.
It's that having wanted to that weighs on me. And that knowledge that I had half a dozen ready rationalizations for why it would be the right thing to do. Or at least not the wrong thing to do. Even my surest failsafe method: to imagine doing such a thing to one of my rats, to shock myself with the horror of violence against defenseless creatures I love, didn't work, because in that moment I looked at my rats and I knew that while I loved them, and God loved them, and I'd never allow any harm to come to then, I certainly didn't love myself. Not even a little. And God's love? That wasn't something for me.
The moment passed. I talked to a friend. I talked to another friend. I reconciled with the friend I was in conflict with, at least a little. I moved on, righting myself like the little hand-carved, lead-weighted canoe in Paddle to the Sea.
The chest ache emptiness remains. The feeling of lava rushing hot and dangerous at the base of the long caldera in my heart. I shouldn't have posted that morning page. Maybe I shouldn't post this one, either.
I made "Pride goeth before a fall" my Facebook status today, in the midst of all this, and Rev Terri replied "and, if you take one, don't just lay there, GET UP!" So this is me, getting up. Limping off the hill supported by two ski patrol rescuers, finishing the lap after the winner has already taken the podium, making one more try at that triple axle.
I don't think I'll ever be an Olympian.
I was watching one of the Olympic Men's Alpine Skiing events the other day, and the commentators made a big deal about how this particular competitor was one of the oldest downhill skiers, and wasn't it remarkable that at the age of forty, he'd never had a serious skiing accident or injury? Seconds later the man was tumbling uncontrolled off the course, sliding to an unconscious stop against a snow fence. It was ghastly. It was obvious he was completely out long before his falling body came to rest. It turns out he was also supremely lucky, and got out of it with a concussion and some facial abrasions, but nothing worse. But he was out of that race, out of the Olympics, and I sat there thinking angry thoughts at the announcers for having doomed that man's career.
I know it's unscientific, illogical, superstitious to say those commentators jinxed that athlete. But you've seen it, too, haven't you? You've seen them say how thus-and-such figure skater is having the cleanest skate of her life, and that's the moment she falls on her ass. You've seen them talk about how all the gymnast needs to do is stick the landing to win gold, and that's when his dismount breaks his ankle, and he goes down in a heap, to a soundtrack of shocked "Ohhhhh!"s. You've watched speed skaters collide on slick ovals, and cyclists spin off hillsides, and batters strike out, and cursed the sportscasters who had just seconds before somehow caused those agonies of defeat with their strangely psychic utterances.
Well, I did it to myself yesterday. I posted that morning page about roller coasters and how I'd managed to circumnavigate the whirlpool for a change, and today, well... To quote Trent Reznor, "I was up above it; now I'm down in it."
It's been a really difficult day. I fought with friends, I hurt people I care about, I was sick and achy and tired. I had a moment, when things were at their bleakest, where I felt that old, familiar, detestable longing to pick up an Exacto knife and slice red furrows into the pallid undersides of my arms.
Are you shocked? Are you nodding your heads smugly and saying, "I always knew Nezu was a head case"?
Let's be clear here: I didn't do it. It's been more than ten years since I last put blade to skin. But god, for a moment there, how I wanted to. For a moment there the tricks I've learned to use to turn those urges away were tiny, weak things, fluttering vainly against a maelstrom.
It's that having wanted to that weighs on me. And that knowledge that I had half a dozen ready rationalizations for why it would be the right thing to do. Or at least not the wrong thing to do. Even my surest failsafe method: to imagine doing such a thing to one of my rats, to shock myself with the horror of violence against defenseless creatures I love, didn't work, because in that moment I looked at my rats and I knew that while I loved them, and God loved them, and I'd never allow any harm to come to then, I certainly didn't love myself. Not even a little. And God's love? That wasn't something for me.
The moment passed. I talked to a friend. I talked to another friend. I reconciled with the friend I was in conflict with, at least a little. I moved on, righting myself like the little hand-carved, lead-weighted canoe in Paddle to the Sea.
The chest ache emptiness remains. The feeling of lava rushing hot and dangerous at the base of the long caldera in my heart. I shouldn't have posted that morning page. Maybe I shouldn't post this one, either.
I made "Pride goeth before a fall" my Facebook status today, in the midst of all this, and Rev Terri replied "and, if you take one, don't just lay there, GET UP!" So this is me, getting up. Limping off the hill supported by two ski patrol rescuers, finishing the lap after the winner has already taken the podium, making one more try at that triple axle.
I don't think I'll ever be an Olympian.