This Is It
This is an archived post that was originally published at beyond-terminal.com
It’s hard to undo words. Mr. Dalson’s words still make me shudder 30-plus years later.
I look back at this moment and think of all the words that I could have said in response to Mr. Dalson instead of turning on my heel and walking away.
If you think this is slow, you should have seen me three years ago when I couldn’t make my body do anything that I wanted it to do. This is progress, Mr. Dalson. This is progress! And, by the way, you should have compassion for me since you, of all people, know about my illness!
However, I stuffed everything down, all in an attempt to appear “normal.” From that point on, I knew I needed to be stealthy. I needed to hide all of my deficits from everyone. No one would know when I was struggling. No one.
The reality is that there really weren’t any major incidents when I started at Hopkins High School. Part of this was because I was super vigilant. And, looking back at these years, I now have the perspective to realize that other people were most likely more preoccupied with themselves than with me. Little did I realize that everyone was concerned about fitting in, even the “popular” kids.
All in all, my high school years were really good years. Yes, I needed extra time on tests all the way through my junior year because I still was slower than the average student. The rehabilitation and detoxification process took that long. But I started to make friends. And I started to run again.
__________
The excerpt below is from the chapter “I Am Back.”
It’s during my junior year that I meet my new neighbor Molly. She’s got crystal blue eyes and is quick to laugh. She’s excited to hear that I’m new to running and that I’m going to try out for track in the spring.
“You’re going to love it,” she says. “I’m one of the captains and I’ll be sure to introduce you to everyone.”
I can’t believe my good fortune. Just when I’m feeling ready to put myself out there, Molly appears in my life, and I’m instantly part of a group, right before track starts up in March.
We train and train throughout all of March and the first part of April. And then the day that I’ve been waiting for, the day of our first race, finally arrives. I’m full of nerves and adrenaline. This is it. I lace up my Nikes extra tight, double knot them, and wait for my turn. I’m slotted to run the junior varsity 800-yard dash, the eighth race in the meet. I try my best to be present and cheer on my teammates while I watch them compete. But with each passing race, my heart beats faster with anticipation. This is it. This is it.
I look up at the bleachers after the gun goes off to mark the beginning of the 400-meter dash. My dad didn’t want to make any promises this morning, but he must have been able to reschedule one of his meetings after all because there he is, sitting next to my mom, the knot of his tie loosened. I watch my mom as she rifles through her purse for something. I imagine she has a lot of nervous energy too.
The runners from the 400-meter race past the finish line, and I look back at my parents one last time. My mom’s attention is back on the field, and she gives me a big smile.
Over the megaphone, I hear the announcer shout, “Girls junior varsity 800-meter race, line up!”
I walk over to the middle lane I’ve been assigned to and place my feet in the starting blocks while positioning my hands behind the white chalky line. I smell the gritty track, I feel the sun shining down on me, and I hear Molly shouting, “Go Megan! Go Megan!”
At last, the gun sounds, and I push off from the starting blocks and leap forward.
I am back! I am truly back!
__________
In terms of reclaiming a part of my identity, this scene is huge. Many specialists in my life painted a picture where this never would have been a possibility.
There was a time when I didn’t know whether or not I would live to see the next day. To think that I’d one day have the strength and be able to move my body well enough that I could run seemed too good to be true. Yet here I was.
All of this has me thinking about other people who have had to give up a part of their identity – or contemplated doing so — and then work on reclaiming it.
Last week when I turned on the Olympics, Maame Biney was being featured before her speed skating race. I learned that she had suffered from depression for three years while training with a coach who bullied her. The announcer said that Biney almost didn’t make it to the Winter Olympics in Beijing because of the toll exacted on her from the bullying. Fortunately, Biney eventually recognized the abuse for what it was and started training with a different coach – and now she’s back.
I appreciate Biney’s ability to recognize the abusive relationship and do something about it. This takes courage and tenacity.
Yes, there will come a time when she – and all the other Olympic athletes – will need to close this chapter in their lives. But I’m glad, at least for Biney, that she’s able to have this be on her terms versus at the hands of her abusive former coach.