Body Lengths

by Leisel Jones

  I do not want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere. This is the worst feeling in the world and I just don’t know how to break out of it. I phone Mum in tears and tell her I need to come home. ‘You’ll be right,’ she says. ‘Just stick it out.’ If only she knew what was going through my head. If only I could tell her somehow. I try listening to music, watching movies: all the things that usually make me happy. I watch Curb Your Enthusiasm (starring Larry David, the co-creator of Seinfeld), which is a show I normally love, but now even this can’t make me laugh. Nothing will break me out of it. I want to shake the feeling. I want to shed my skin. Pull out my black soul so I can feel light again.

  I’m not well. I am spiralling. I am mentally, physically and emotionally done. I want this to end so badly that I will do anything – anything – to make it all stop. I swim up and down, thinking about suicide, about ways I can kill myself. I’d rather shoot myself in the head than go on like this. I’m tired of swimming, and just so terribly sad. I hate my life, I hate myself. I just want to quit. I shut down every time I get in the pool.

  What else can I do? Who am I if I’m not a swimmer?

  There isn’t an answer; I am nothing without it.

  I don’t exist without swimming, and I don’t want to exist with it. I wish I was dead. I want to go to sleep. I want to die.

  And so one hollow, grey Tuesday afternoon in Spain, while the snow outside is beginning to whirl and dance, I sit down on the bathroom floor with sleeping tablets and plan how I will steal a paring knife from the hotel kitchen to try to kill myself. I will start with my legs, with the big veins in my thighs. Then I will slash at my arms, at my pale white wrists. I shake as I think about it.

  The room smells like every other cheap hotel I have even been in. Like a room constantly being deserted.

  I imagine the knife and how I will run its blade gently over my skin, scrape it across the smooth skin of my wrist – then go further, do what I need to do.

  I am bawling my eyes out now. It’s coming from my guts. It’s all coming out, I am sobbing so hard.

  Then I get a text on my phone. This is it! My heart lurches. This is the message that could yet save my life.

  I click it open and stare in disbelief. It’s from our team sports scientist. ‘Having a coffee downstairs with Cadel Evans, if you want to join us.’

  Fucking what? Are you serious? I want to kill myself right now, I’m planning to cut my legs and arms open, and she’s telling me Cadel Evans is downstairs! You think I give a shit? How insensitive! I am irrational and frenzied. I am on the edge. I hit ‘delete’ and slump to the floor.

  I sit in the bathroom for a couple of hours. On my own, on the floor. Sobbing and trembling and trying to let go. I can do this, I can. I can fix everything. On my own, by myself. I will do it my way.

  But then suddenly I am not alone. Someone is knocking.

  I peel myself off the floor and stagger to the front door. Who would be knocking? Who could possibly know?

  ‘Leisel? Leisel! What’s going on in here?’

  I open the door and find myself falling. The carpet feels warm and alive after the cold tiles of the bathroom. I don’t speak – can’t speak – I just sit on the floor bawling, and my coach waits beside me for as long as it takes.

  In the end he speaks first, and all he says is: ‘Leisel, we need to get you some air.’

  25

  The Comedown

  It is not the end of me, but it’s the end of Sierra Nevada for me. I am shipped off home at 4 a.m. the next morning, in a shroud of secrecy, when the sky is low and cold, and dark as congealed blood.

  Nobody knows I planned to kill myself. The papers don’t get hold of it; my teammates aren’t told. Even Mum has no idea. My coach, who found me, and my psychologist, who has to fix me: these are the only people who know. The only people in the world who have any idea how close I came to going through with it. ‘How did you know what I was doing in there?’ I ask Rohan.

  He shrugs. ‘I didn’t. I just came to see why you weren’t at coffee.’

  So it was a fluke. Just a coincidence that Rohan dropped by. The casualness of it all sends a shiver down my spine. And at the same time, I really feel like Rohan was my guardian angel that day. It’s as if someone sent him just for me.

  I arrive home from Sierra Nevada and immediately disappear. No training, no racing, no leaving the house. I’m in lockdown: I cannot face the world. I see no-one, go nowhere. I do nothing except try to want to live again.

  In June I am supposed to compete in the Barcelona leg of the Mare Nostrum series in Europe. I am scheduled to fly to Spain again, along with seventeen other Australian swimmers, within weeks of returning from Sierra Nevada. But Rohan doesn’t even discuss it, doesn’t entertain the idea. He immediately pulls me from competition. ‘Expected starter Leisel Jones will no longer swim in Barcelona after her coach, Rohan Taylor, decided she would benefit more from a home training environment following three weeks of altitude training in Sierra Nevada,’ reports Swimming Australia.

  ‘Following three weeks of altitude training in Sierra Nevada …’ If only they knew. If only anyone knew.

  Following her intended suicide in Sierra Nevada. Following her plan to drug herself and then slice open her wrists and legs, to go at them with a knife as if they are nothing more than slabs of meat and muscle, slabs of tendon and sinew waiting to be dissected. Slabs of meat made for swimming and racing and winning, and later bleeding and dying. But never really designed for living.

  I sob and sob and shake and sob. I don’t want to swim, but I have nothing else. I don’t want to die, but I hate living, too.

  In July, despite everything, I go to the World Championships in Shanghai. In a fog, I win silver in the 100-metre event, just behind Rebecca Soni, but I don’t compete in the 200 metres. I will never swim that race again.

  In November 2011, after Mare Nostrum in Barcelona, there is yet another trip planned to Spain. I should just buy a bloody villa in Majorca and relocate already, I think bitterly. This time a bunch of the Aussie contingent, plus their coaches (including Rohan), are heading south for three weeks. Back to Sierra Nevada.

  Over. My. Dead. Body.

  And this is exactly what Rohan is terrified of. There is no talk of me going; we don’t even mention it. Because Rohan knows – and I know – it would kill me for sure. Instead, I head to Queensland for three weeks to train with local coach Michael Bohl for a bit. He’s a big deal up there. He knows Olympics and Olympians; he knows the drill.

  I will lob up at Bohl’s instead of going back to Stephan’s, because I still feel really bad about the way I left Stephan all those years ago. Every time I think back to that phone call I made – when I rang Stephan from Melbourne and told him I wasn’t coming back – I feel awful all over again. I’m sorry for the way I treated Stephan back then. It was a terrible conversation and that was my fault. I should have flown back and had a meeting with him, told him face to face. I handled it very poorly and I regret that I did. After all he’d done, all he’d given me … I never performed better than when I was under Stephan.

  That’s not to say I regret the move to Melbourne. I don’t. Not for one second. Even after Marty and I broke up, I still maintained that taking that chance, taking such a huge risk to relocate just months out from the Beijing Olympics, was one of the best decisions of my life. The best decision of my life. It was gutsy, gung-ho and totally right for me. And I don’t think I would have won at Beijing if I hadn’t done it my way.

  But now I head to train with Michael Bohl in Brisbane for a few weeks. Back to Queensland, to my roots. Back home to try and remember who I used to be. Back to Bris Vegas and back to Mum’s for some support and some home-cooked meals.

  I have just started taking antidepressant medication. Lexapro. The word bounces around in my brain, all nervy and jittery and too keen to get off the blocks. Lex. A. Pro. Lexapro. Be a pro. Turn yourself into a professional human being! No tears, no feelings: no nothing
at all.

  I wander around in a fog and lose hours, lose days.

  Mum doesn’t know I’m on meds. She doesn’t know I’ve started seeing a psychiatrist. (One with a dingy office in Carlton, all dark and uninspiring. His solution is drugs, always drugs. Lisa sent me to see him after I got back from Sierra Nevada. ‘This is bigger than me now,’ she said.) But most of all, Mum has no idea I planned to kill myself. It would break her heart if I told her that.

  I lose a lot of time over the next six months. Lose time, lose myself. Just wander in my fog. By the end of the year I am as miserable as I’ve ever been. I’m in a black hole, no matter how hard I dig.

  And I’ve tried bloody digging, believe me. I’ve tried sports therapy, psychotherapy. I’m taking my meds. I’ve tried working hard, and tried working less hard. I’ve tried going out with friends. I’ve flown to New York with my friend (and fellow swimmer) Matt Targett. We went there on holidays for two weeks on the way home from Worlds in July. But even the Big Apple couldn’t give me back my hunger. At least not my metaphorical one.

  My physical hunger – my actual hunger – seems to be alive and kicking these days though, and I am drinking a contraband full-fat latte when I phone Rohan with yet another idea to try to be happy. I am back in Melbourne, in my car, stuck in traffic, while half the city seems to be in Yarra Park just beyond my car window, soaking up the summer sunshine.

  ‘Okay, what about this?’ I say to Rohan. ‘How would you feel about me switching gym coaches – train with Matt’s coach instead of with Jeremy?’ Matt Targett suggested this while we were away in New York. He reckons his coach and I would get on like a house on fire. ‘He’s a respected gym coach; he’s a name in the business,’ I say.

  And I’m pretty sure he won’t make me bawl at every session, like Jeremy does.

  ‘Nope,’ says Rohan, as if that is that.

  I try again a few days later at training: ‘Look, I can’t train with Jeremy anymore. It’s no good for my health. I’ve called Matt’s coach, I’ve organised everything. He’s happy to start working with me starting Monday.’

  ‘Nope,’ says Rohan again.

  ‘But why not? This could be just what I need, Rohan! Just the thing to get me back on track. Just the thing to help me feel a bit more positive about training.’

  ‘Jeremy’s an excellent gym coach.’

  ‘Sure, fine. But he’s not excellent for me. I’m no good when I train with him. I’m crying after every session with the guy, and it’s not because he’s working me too hard. It’s because he makes me miserable. He makes me feel like shit. When I train with him I don’t want to be here.’

  But Rohan has got a bee in his bonnet about it.

  ‘Leisel, you train with Jeremy.’

  ‘I want to train with Matt’s coach.’

  ‘But I don’t know Matt’s coach.’

  ‘Yeah, but you didn’t know Jeremy a few years ago, either,’ I point out. ‘What difference does it make, anyway? I don’t want to work with Jeremy.’

  ‘You train with Jeremy or you don’t train here with me.’

  ‘You— what?’ I am pulled up in my tracks. ‘Did you just give me an ultimatum?’

  ‘The decision is yours,’ Rohan says.

  ‘Don’t you ever give me an ultimatum, because I will always choose the option you don’t want! I’m not going to train with Jeremy!’ I say, my voice rising. ‘I’m just not!’

  Rohan simply holds out his hands, palms facing upwards.

  ‘Fine!’ I shout. ‘I’m leaving! I’m going to train with Bohly in Brisbane. He’s happy to have me!’ I am bluffing. Bohly knows nothing about this. And it’s a dumb thing to say, because Rohan and Bohly are great mates, too.

  Rohan doesn’t flinch. But I am stubborn and gutsy, and stupid to boot.

  ‘You leave me no choice, Rohan. I am not training with Jeremy. Pure and simple.’

  And I leave Rohan’s squad for good that day.

  I still don’t know what went wrong with me and Rohan. How we got to that point. Sure, I was bloody-minded about it: that’s me. If you give me an ultimatum, I will choose the option that will piss you off. But it was more than that. It was something else. It was almost like Rohan had had enough of me and he was using Jeremy as an excuse to end our partnership. I can’t think of any other explanation. Why else would he be so insistent I train with Jeremy, the guy who made my life a misery. Jeremy was so bad for my head. Rohan saw me in Sierra Nevada, for Christ’s sake. And yet he insisted I stick with him? I still don’t get it.

  When I leave the pool that morning, my hair still wet, my skin reeking of chlorine, I thank Rohan for everything he’s done for me. Things are pretty awkward. We’re like polite strangers. But we’re on speaking terms at least and I know eventually we’ll be fine. Not great, not like we were. But Rohan and I will never lose touch. We’ve been through too much together for that.

  And so I pack up my stuff and I move back to Queensland. Back to the Sunshine State to let a little light back into my life. A bit of routine, a bit of control. I move into my old house at The Gap, where Mum is still living upstairs. I catch up with friends I haven’t seen in a while. Go out for pasta. Do a little comfort eating.

  I turn up at St Peter’s Western and throw myself at Michael Bohl, beg him to let me join his squad. Bohly is confused. Bemused. He doesn’t even coach the 100-metre breaststroke event.

  But he’s my only option. I’ve got no-one else.

  ‘Can I join?’ I ask bluntly.

  ‘I’ve got too many people, Leisel. I don’t think I can do this.’

  He’s being kind. What he means is:

  I don’t do 100-metre breaststroke.

  I don’t do 26-year-old dropouts.

  I don’t do miracles, and the Olympics are only six months away.

  ‘Bohly,’ I level with him. ‘Either you take me in or I retire. You’re the only thing saving me from quitting the sport.’

  And Bohly, thank God, takes pity on me. I start that day. I’ve got no doubt that Bohly lets me join his squad out of sympathy. But I am grateful that he does. And even more grateful that he doesn’t say so.

  And for all the awkwardness about the way it happened, for all my falling out with Rohan, who I admire, there’s something cyclical about being back in Queensland for my final Olympic campaign. For my last roll of the dice. There’s something nice about returning to where it all began.

  I’ve come a long way since I left. I’ve learnt an awful lot. But at the same time, I haven’t really changed at all. I’m still little Leisel from Burpengary, little Leisel who’ll tread water for a Mars bar. Still Leisel who will try and try and try again, do anything to win. Six months ago in Sierra Nevada I planned to take my own life. In the coming six months, I will try to qualify for the Olympic Games. My fourth Olympic Games. By this stage in my career, I might not have regained my hunger to win, but I haven’t lost my stubbornness either. I will qualify for the London Olympics. You know I bloody will.

  So I get back in the pool to get on with my job.

  Michael Bohl’s squad, at St Peter’s Western Club at Indooroopilly, Brisbane, is the biggest elite swimming squad in the country. When I join in November 2011, Bohly already has three Beijing Olympic gold medallists in his squad (Australians Stephanie Rice and Bronte Barratt, and Korean Park Tae-Hwan), plus half a dozen other Olympic hopefuls. The squad is big, slick and intimidating. It is the worst squad environment I have ever swum in.

  The first few weeks are not too bad. Everyone is welcoming at best and only indifferent at worst. Fine, whatever. I don’t need a red carpet. I’m just happy to be accepted and keen to get on with the job. We do some fun stuff; they are pretty good at being social. We play barefoot bowls, have barbecues at the weekend. But from the beginning there are signs that I don’t quite fit in here. I am loud. I am vocal when no-one else is. ‘C’mon, guys! Last one! Last effort!’ I shout, as the squad buckles down to do our final splits of the day. But my encouragement is met with
awkward silence and sideways glances, and I soon learn that’s not the way they do it around here.

  Bohly’s squad is competitive. We are not one big team. We do not encourage one another or look out for each other the way we did at Rohan’s. Most days we don’t even talk to one another. These people are here to win and anything else is wasted energy. These people are not here to be my friend.

  Except for one person: Stephanie Rice.

  Steph Rice is an unlikely ally, I’ll admit. She’s not the first person I expected to hit it off with. When I move to St Peter’s, I don’t know much about Steph, except that she has a reputation among the swimming fraternity for being a bit of a showpony. That, and she can swim a pretty impressive individual medley. But within days of meeting, we are fast friends. Steph is so welcoming and helpful. She is as nice as pie to me. She shows me which showers are the best ones in the change rooms, and which cafes nearby do the best brunch. She introduces me to her friends, invites me to her parties; we go for coffee, catch up for wine.

  I say to Mum in my first few weeks: ‘You know, I feel Steph Rice is a bit misunderstood. Like, she gets a bad rap and she doesn’t deserve it.’

  By now Steph has insisted I share her gym coach with her (‘You’ll love my coach!’) so we’re doing all our workouts together, spending all our gym and pool time together. And yeah, I think she is a bit of a showpony, but you know what? Good on her. If that’s what floats her boat, if that’s her style: good for her. She’s not hurting anyone.