“And I will call upon your name
And keep my eyes above the waves …”
God, where are you?
Can you even hear me?
I’m in the deep ocean … and I’m drowning.
Please save me.
But sometimes, anger clouds our ability to hear God and understand His purpose.
I keep searching and searching, but my anger, frustration, and confusion are louder than my prayers. I can’t stop thinking about the reality of my situation and my swimming career.
What happens now?
Where do I go from here?
Is this it?
Am I done?
Is it really over?
When I get home that night, I am desperate and confused and don’t know where to turn or what to do. I find myself hysterically crying on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night. Shaking with anger and confusion.
Detoxing can be hell.
What no one knows is that swimming is my drug. Though I truly love it, it is also the way I cope with the pain of what happened to me. With each stroke, I swim away from the internal battles and the fears that have plagued me since the day I woke up in 2009.
My fix has been suddenly and abruptly taken away from me, and now I am desperate for that drug and that escape. What swimming did for me was beyond the medals and fame and sponsors. It brought me back to life and to the world. For the two to three hours that I train each day, I am actually happy. Through swimming, I can escape the memories, the pain, and the very real posttraumatic stress that I feel. I don’t want to be in a wheelchair or in my own head. I want to be in the water, but now I feel like a sword has stabbed me in the chest and is never removed—continually piercing my heart.
I, I, can’t do this.
I, I, need to swim.
I have come so far, and now I have been knocked back into my hurt. All for what?
I soon find out losing the very thing that gave me a purpose and a place to escape is the catalyst that changes everything.
Why did they do this to me?
Because I have hope, the very thing that kept me alive all those years ago. What I clung to the most ultimately gets me kicked out of the Paralympics. The IPC has been incredibly unreasonable throughout this entire ordeal and, frankly, my entire Paralympic swimming career. Failing to provide concrete reasoning and backed by rules they can’t explain for their actions. It makes no sense why I cannot swim. Quickly, I am contacted by some of the top sports lawyers in the country, and they each tell me that I have a “very strong case.” And I’m not going to lie, the thought does cross my mind to take legal action, but if I did my hands would literally be tied.
I’d never be allowed to share my story.
In the end, I decide not to pursue legal action in hopes that my swimming career can still be saved without being held up in the legal system. But none of that matters as the IPC refuses to change its position, and still provides what I believe to be illegitimate reasoning. As preposterous as it sounds, I was pushed out because I had hope. And I refuse to let anyone take that away from me.
13
MY ALMOST-QUARTER-LIFE CRISIS
September 2013 to April 2015
“You need to make another statement about the IPC and what happened in Montreal.”
I’m done talking.
“Please, just tell everyone to leave me alone.”
It’s been a month since my world imploded and my swimming career was derailed, and the questions keep coming. Over and over again, I am asked for statements and answers about my declassification in Montreal and the World Championships. But the only answer I can come up with is …
I was penalized for having hope.
The life I had worked the last two years to build has now imploded. Between the doctor’s words that all my pain and suffering could have been avoided and the realization that my swimming career no longer exists, I find myself slowly slipping away. I don’t fully realize it at the time, but I am losing myself.
“But, Victoria … you have it all. You should be happy.”
Perceptions about others are frequently based on assumption. But reality is often very different from what can be seen on the outside. People post “happy” pictures on social media yet are often unhappy and lost on the inside. We create façades to cover up our truth.
“Victoria?”
“Victoria?”
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
“Um, yeah. I’m fine …”
“Victoria, people are asking a lot of questions. They want answers.”
“I have nothing more to say.”
Actually … I’m not at all fine. I’m slowly drifting away …
I’m losing myself again. I thought I had rebuilt everything. I thought my foundation was on solid ground. But I look down at my feet, and all I see is sand, shifting sand—not stone. People often talk about having a midlife crisis. Since I’m only nineteen, how about an almost-quarter-life crisis? This is mine, part one.
Lights out.
Again.
As quickly as the spotlight had turned on, it is turned off.
After the Montreal fiasco, I struggle to find a “new normal.” I am surrounded by my family and friends and try to “move on” from swimming.
What the IPC did to me was horrible, but I try to use that as fuel to achieve a new goal: walking. Most of the medical world say my dream of walking is impossible. But I cannot shake the desire to try. After all, I have already achieved several impossible dreams. I can now talk, move, function independently, and ultimately, I have survived.
After Montreal, my mummy goes back into proactive mode. My daddy, on the other hand, struggles significantly with what the IPC did to me. He spares no words when speaking to the media and is incredibly frustrated. Like many men, when he can’t “fix” something, he gets frustrated and angry. What happened in Montreal is in no way his fault, but he feels responsible to make it all better for me. He struggles to grasp and express his emotions.
When I sense his frustration, I pull away, like I did when I was so sick.
Mummy and I have always been a team, and her relentless efforts to help me take us to San Diego, California, to a facility called Project Walk. Project Walk is a world-renowned spinal cord injury recovery center that specializes in activity-based recovery programs.
Having been to countless rehab and physical therapy clinics, I have a pretty sour taste in my mouth when it comes to “recovery.” Most of my previous physical therapy sessions focused on teaching me how to use my wheelchair and live my life in a wheelchair. Don’t get me wrong: I needed to learn how to do that. But I didn’t want to stay in a wheelchair. I wanted to get back on my feet. However, the odds were against me, and my physical therapists didn’t believe it was a beneficial route to pursue.
So, when I arrive at Project Walk, I am pretty skeptical and weary.
This is not what I expected.
I am in for a very pleasant surprise. The people at Project Walk are the first people in seven years to give us even a glimmer of hope. They offer no guarantees, but they also don’t talk about what’s impossible; instead, they focus on what is possible.
During our three months in California, we stay with one of my mom’s dearest friends, whom I call my West Coast Mamma. (Thank you, Marylynn and Jack.) Just being away from all the drama and resting in their gracious home is healing.
Within the first twenty minutes at Project Walk, I am sweating and being pushed like never before. I am hooked. It is set up like a gym, and I see several individuals, all with different kinds of spinal cord injuries and neurological conditions. We all arrive in wheelchairs, but as soon as our sessions start, we are out. Workouts are adapted to our individual needs. And each of my trainers knows just how far to push me. I love it!
Walking is still a long shot, and during my three months at Project Walk, my eyes are definitely opened to the severity of my paralysis. But in the midst of this realization, I
am overwhelmed with motivation and hope—which is key to achieving any kind of “impossible” goal. Trust me: impossible is kind of my thing.
This is the place.
This is where I have my best shot.
Project Walk reignites something in me that has been lost for a very long time. I have not been able to get over or move past my desire to walk again. I’m not ready to accept the idea that I will never walk again. More than anything else, I want to look people in the eye and have the freedom to go wherever I want, whenever I want. Thus far, my wheelchair and paralysis have prevented me from doing that. In many ways it feels as if I am trapped in my wheelchair.
Unfortunately, our time at Project Walk must come to an end. Our family and our lives are on the East Coast. It is not practical to live on the West Coast when everyone is back east. So right before Thanksgiving, we head home.
• • •
This is when my life takes a drastic turn for the worse.
Being back home is way more challenging than I anticipate. I struggle with reality and adjusting to a routine. I often drive up north to visit my boyfriend, who is in college, and I try to fit in there.
His friends still see me as the “gold medalist” and still consider me a champion. I want to be treated “normal,” yet everywhere I go I seem to be attracting people who crave the spotlight. But I am trying to escape. The attention is cool to them but overwhelming for me. I’m not usually a partier, yet I suddenly find myself surrounded by bad influences.
I think I’m happy, but I’m chasing an illusion. I am trying to numb the pain and sadness that I have yet to acknowledge consciously. And without knowing it, I am walking away from my family and my life and trying to create a different life—one that doesn’t hurt so much.
I still have a strong need to swim, so I often find a pool and swim until I’m exhausted. Maybe I’m swimming because I crave the competition and the accolades. Maybe it’s to prove to the world that I’m not “washed up.” This phrase is used more and more by my friends and boyfriend at the time. And even though they are “joking,” words like that sting, especially in my current emotional state.
The best way I know to describe my state of mind is an out-of-control carousel, spinning faster and faster yet going nowhere. Around and around, spinning so fast that I am intoxicatingly dizzy. To the outside world, I am this lucky nineteen-year-old who is being flown all over the country for speaking engagements and appearances. I’m the epitome of “success,” but what they do not know is that I’m using it to cover my inner pain and discontentment. I am supposed to be this “inspiration, hero, and example,” yet that is the last thing I feel. I’ve become an expert at plastering on a smile and making other people happy. I didn’t realize it, but I was beginning a journey down a long road of severe anxiety and depression.
My new friends want to come to events with me, and they praise me for my accomplishments. I find myself wanting to impress them. Over and over again, proving that I was not “washed up.”
Put on a smile, Victoria.
Don’t cry, at least not in front of anyone.
Don’t let them see you “not perfect.”
As a baby and as a growing kid, I was happy and joyful and full of laughter. And my family was always happy and laughing. Even when I was deathly ill, my family never lost their humor. To others, I appear joyful and light, but it’s just on the surface. It’s not real. Deep down, my joy, humor, and light have disappeared. My default and ingrained personality still “works” for me, even when I’m sad. Smiling is a survival tactic. No matter what I am going through or where I am, I know how to turn it on.
My closest friends—and even my family—have no idea that I’m struggling so much. I try not to let anyone see the internal turmoil and discontentment that are building in me. I struggle each day to fight and overcome it, but doing so means I turn up the numbing mechanism I’m becoming so used to. I make sure I stay busy. I fixate on impressing my circle of spotlight seekers, and I work even harder to prove myself.
Keep proving.
I have already achieved so much and come so far, yet that is not good enough. I keep spinning and spinning until … God throws me off the carousel, metaphorically speaking.
No, no, no.
This can’t be happening …
It has been three years since my last seizure. I am off my seizure meds, and the doctors don’t think they’ll ever come back. The first seizure is small, but it freaks me out. I try my very best to brush it off, but on the inside, I start to worry.
What’s happening to me?
On the outside I seem fine, so I don’t let myself believe that anything is wrong.
I’m probably just tired.
I push myself, harder, harder, and harder. I’m desperately fighting the internal mayhem and keeping myself so busy that I don’t have time to think. I am fixated on going, going, going, and being perfect and successful. And I can’t see—don’t want to see—what is going wrong with my life. Many of the new people who came into my life so quickly are dysfunctional and don’t have my best interests at heart. In fact, they are unknowingly contributing to the emotional mess I’ve become. I am filled with anxiety and the urge to please and prove.
I am slowly slipping away in more ways than I know—all with a smile on my face.
The seizures become more frequent, and before I know it, I feel sick and tired and anxious all the time.
Slowly losing myself.
Falling further and further into the unknown.
Crashing.
I am overwhelmed and frightened and confused. My world is imploding, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Yet I continue to try to balance it all and make everyone happy.
But now that I’m becoming more physically limited, my new friends begin to disappear like moths that fly off into the night when you shut off the light. My boyfriend and “friends” have lost interest in me, dumping me and kicking me to the curb.
I truly feel washed up.
I need to get off the carousel that won’t stop spinning. Not only am I emotionally shutting down, but my body is shutting down, too.
This is what sinking to the bottom feels like.
Have you ever done a pencil dive? Jumping into the water (deep water) as straight as a pencil? You jump and then you sink—fast. You either reach the bottom or go deeper than a normal jump can take you. And when you get to the bottom, you frantically swim up, the bounce in your body quickly propelling you upward, and you break through the surface and breathe.
But have you ever stayed under a little too long? Your ears pop and your lungs contract and your mind races. You are filled with panic, and you fight your way to the surface.
I don’t know how to make the panic and the racing mind stop.
I had jumped into the fast life and gone straight to the bottom. But I’m not being propelled back to the surface. I can’t breathe; I’m drowning … I’m pulled wherever the water pulls me, and I’m thrashed around by every wave. There is no set path or strength in this wayward sailboat. I crash over and over again, and I never reach shore. Going and going, but never ending up anywhere. Eventually, this internal battle begins to surface.
H … E … L … P …
The seizures become even more frequent. I’m losing my “sparkle.” My body aches, and it gets harder and harder to get out of bed and find any semblance of joy. Up until now, I’d been able to fake it, but I can’t keep up the façade. One of my biggest fears is coming to life—relapsing.
I need a break, an escape from the crazy world I’ve created. Appearances, events, competitions, fake people, drama, and pressure have literally owned my life for the past two years (2012 to 2014). All of a sudden, the “spotlight” goes off, and like a car without headlights, I crash hard and fast into the rocky bottom, the dark unknown.
I heard a quote a long time ago that goes something like this: “Many people want to ride with you in the limo, but only true friends take the bus with you when the limo
breaks down.” The limo has indeed broken down, and I feel abandoned on the street. The ones who stand by you through the worst of times are the best ones to celebrate with in the best of times.
The “world” I’d built has come tumbling down, and I am buried in the rubble. I’ve lost a significant amount of weight, and I literally cannot get up. Once again, I find myself on the floor. I push my wheelchair away and cry uncontrollably.
How did I get here?
How could I let this happen?
When I was really sick, I was physically and mentally “locked in.” I couldn’t move or talk or function. It was a prison sentence for a crime I hadn’t committed. When I came back, I came back with a vengeance, never truly understanding what had happened to me or the effects of the trauma I had endured. Never dealing with the sadness, the loss, and the abuse. Yet, I came back with a smile and the desire to just move on.
Just forget.
All of it.
Remembering those painful places hurt too much; the pain was like a piece of glass in my foot, stabbing me with each movement. When the pain begged to be tended to, I would be too “busy.” I was desperate to forget. But if you walk around with a piece of glass in your foot, you’ll eventually be forced to remove it. It will hurt so much that you can’t take it anymore, and you’ll have to sit down and deal with it.
Sit down, Victoria.
Slow down, Victoria.
Are you okay, Victoria?
No.
In the first few months of 2014, I am running as fast as I can, smiling and grinning on the outside, but steadily deteriorating on the inside. Now I can’t breathe, and I am a slave to the seizures.
Knocked. Back. Down.
In many ways it feels as if this new life has failed me. I have nothing to look forward to and can’t bear to look back. I am stuck between two worlds: the now and the past. Pain versus pain.
I vividly remember my mummy walking into my room, and—like she always does—she lifts me up. “Mummy’s here, you will get through this. I promise.” My mom has always been my rock, through the good and the bad. She has always been there for me, even when things were the scariest. Her strength and perseverance have never wavered. If anything, when things got tough, she shined the brightest. I’ve always admired her for that. Her strength, joy, and love are the most powerful things I’ve ever known.
Locked In: The Will to Survive and the Resolve to Live Page 12
