all the feels

Getting injured wasn’t necessarily a failure, but how I dealt with it was. Again, and again, and again.

Fail 1. August 2017. Getting broken.

When I first hurt myself at the end of August last year, I decided to ignore it. I was just a few weeks out from the World Championships, and I convinced myself I’d just pulled a muscle. It would be fine. I’d be fine. Hey, I’m a big tough lifter.

Fail 2. September 2017. Making it worse.

When the Worlds got postponed because of the earthquake in Mexico I kept on training at the same intensity, when I could, because no one knew when the competition would be rearranged. And I was still determined to hit the qualifying weights for the Commonwealth Games. I didn’t give myself any time off, even though it was getting harder to ignore the pain in my arm. There were some days it was just cutting out, or I couldn’t get enough push to walk upstairs. (Yes, it was my walking stick arm). No amount of ice, tiger balm, heat pads, more stretching helped. I got very angry and tearful during training sessions, and tried to train harder when I could to make up for the failures. And sometimes it worked. I hit more than one bench PB in these weeks. Which was exactly the opposite of what I should have been doing. I am too stubborn for my own damn good.

Fail 3. September and October 2017. Lying about being broken.

I was less than fully honest with my coach. I had told him about it hurting but reassured him I was fine. A bit worried, but fine. I convinced myself it was no big deal, which meant that I was being relatively truthful. Stupid, but kind of truthful. No, that’s still not true. I was lying my arse off. The pain was keeping me awake at night, and I still said it wasn’t too bad.

Fail 4. October 2017. Oh look, more lies.

I went ahead and entered a domestic competition. During warm up my arm just failed, and I got myself pinned under just 60kg. I wasn’t quite sure if I was just terrified, or in a bad way. So with the support and assistance of a couple of other lifters’ coaches, I unracked it again to see if I could hold it. Nope. I withdrew from the competition about three minutes before my flight started. And then cried a lot, all over everyone.

No, withdrawing wasn’t a fail. That was a pretty sensible thing to do, though horrible. The fail was telling the BWL team manager that I was fine, just a tweak, no big deal, I’d be fine for Mexico, and convincing myself this was true.

Fail 5. November 2017. Considering carrying on.

I had a long meeting with my coach, who rightly left the decision with me. My failure was even thinking that it was smart to carry on, and risk a full rupture at any time. But within 24 hours I came to my senses, and withdrew from my first Para international.

Fail 6. November 2017. Over optimism.

I figured I would be all healed up within two or three months, and could get back to where I was with no bother. Ha. No. The hope meant I crashed even harder.

Fail 6. December to June. Wallowing.

I had a lot of feelings. I ate most of them. Not true. I ate all of them. I ate misery cake, and twice my own body weight in toast. I couldn’t train at all. I put on a lot of weight. I went into hiding. And I kept doing these things, and doing them in ever worsening cycles.

I wavered between believing I’d be fine, and fretting I’d never lift again. I kept trying basic movements, and then being furious I couldn’t do them. Not even a push up. Not even a push up against the kitchen counter. Pull ups? Not if my life depended on it. I should probably have talked to my doctor about depression.

Fail 7. The whole year. Beating myself up.

The one thing I never failed at was beating myself up for my own failures. And then of course had to throw in some extra self-sabotage to make myself feel even worse. Yeah. That eating thing, and endless games of could-have-should-have to keep me awake. What I should have done? Talked to someone who knows how to deal with this. Sports shrinks exist for a reason, and I should have found one.

Fail 8. Now. Impatience.

I’m now working hard to try to undo the damage of a year of inactivity, wallowing, and eating, I am impatient. It’s a daily self-lecture to be patient, to take my time, to be kinder to myself. My body weight is dropping, my training has finally started up again. I’m starting to look less like I’m made of over-proved bread dough.

I have to give myself the talk every time I walk into the gym: “no, this is not where you were, but it’s where you are now, and this week is better than last week. These weights are tiny, but they are many times more than you could move for months.” Thinking ahead, weeks, months, years is dangerous. But it’s hard not to do that. I’ll keep trying to look at today and tomorrow, and not next year.

What was the injury?

A partially ruptured bicep tendon. From the initial tear or fraying, I made it much, much worse by continuing to train on it as though it was fine.

When I finally stopped, it was clear how much damage I had done. For the next three months or so, I couldn’t turn my palm even close to upwards. I couldn’t hold the weight of a kettle. An empty kettle. I couldn’t reach behind me to put a coat on without a lot of swearing, and a lot of extra time.

I managed to damage the front delt on my other shoulder around this time too, by overcompensating from the lack of use of me left arm. I can’t even remember how.

This was compounded by fairly intense general joint and tendon pain. It wasn’t until later that I discovered that this can be yet another of the fun, fun symptoms and side effects of menopause. (Starting HRT in the Spring made it go away. It also stopped me crying every day. Turns out I wasn’t as much of an emotional wreck as I feared—that was hormonal.)

As things calmed down, we tried introducing some very light rehab movements. I had to stop, because things were getting re-inflamed and it was clearly not healed up enough yet.

 

What’s happening now?

I met with my ever-patient coach every few weeks to see where things were. On the third time around of trying rehab exercises I got through without any pain. Testing things out, I was finally able to move a barbell again.

So we’ve started on a long, slow, careful programme to try to rebuild my strength. I’m five weeks in, and can finally move a barbell again. I am slowly getting more of my range of motion back. Fingers are firmly crossed that I will continue to make progress, and be aware that that might not happen as smoothly as I would like. And if things hiccup, I need to not jump straight back into fail mode.

 

What happens next?

I’m not sure, and I need to work out how to be OK with that. I very much hope to be able to do a competition before the end of the year so that I can qualify for the GBPF British Bench in 2019, and keep some options open. But that depends on getting my body weight down and by bench weight up in good timing without hurting myself again. And I have mixed feelings about competing unless I am genuinely competitive again, and lift enough.

Para competitions? Not until (if) I can get fully back to where I was, or beyond there. I’m not ruling out an attempt to get to the next Commonwealth Games, but I am trying not to count great-great-grandchickens.

In which I am overwhelmed by kindness and support, and count my blessings, and think a little about the multiple strands that weave together over the years.

I have been overwhelmed by kindness and support in the past few days, since I launched the crowdfunding to help me get to the World Para Powerlifting Championships in Mexico City. At lunchtime today, this tipped over my initial £1200 goal. Because sponsorise runs all or-nothing funding, meeting this goal means that I will receive all the contributions, including everything over that £1200.

The cost of my flights and my entry fee are now covered. I’m going. I’m going to Mexico.

Because of the the generosity of family, friends, friends-of-friends, and complete strangers, I will be able to take part in one of the biggest Para Powerlifting competitions.

Thank you!

It’s not just the financial contributions that means so much to me, but the encouragement and the belief. I have had support from people I’ve not seen in lifetimes–not just counting the passage of time since I’ve seen them, but whole worlds of living ago. People I worked with back when the web was shiny and new and built by hand, people I met through collaborative sites and communities. People who know me from the distant past as a student, as a colleague, a photographer, a student (again), as well as people I see every week, people who have known me from all the various paths we’ve walked through these years. I never imagined I’d be in this place, and I can’t imagine they did either.

No one would have expected me to become a competitive powerlifter.

Not even five years ago. It’s still not five years since I first tried lifting, and fell in love with it. This is one of the things that keeps amazing me: just because you didn’t take up a sport early in your life, it doesn’t mean that it’s too late. Just because you always hated taking part in sports, it doesn’t mean you can’t love one when you find the one that brings you joy.

And the list of support above doesn’t include that of my fellow lifters–people I’ve trained with, learned from, competed with, begged spots from, yelled at to get off my damn bench already, admired, and compared notes with along the way.

One of things about powerlifting that has always amazed me is how supportive people are.  My first competition was a revelation, as I realised that people were yelling and cheering their competitors to fight to get lifts–even when it meant they were about to be beaten if that lifter they were cheering for succeeded.  These are people who have given generously with their time, knowledge, friendship and emotional energy: to work with someone, to improve their technique, to listen, advise, mock, and to be there for training, to drive to competitions, and confiscate my snacks when I’m making weight. You know who you are. I’ve been incredibly lucky to have had your support, in all its forms. Thank you.

(And now I seem to have something in my eye. I thought hayfever season was over…)

 

So, here’s Joe Cocker, at Woodstock:

 

I always feel awkward in a singlet. It’s bad enough in competition when everyone has to do this, but wearing it in the gym feels worse. It’s a grim combination of self-consciousness and showing off, yet moaning about it feels like an odd mixture of fishing for reassurance and humble-bragging. But it’s something I usually do in the run up to a competition to get over myself a bit. It’s a peculiar juggling act: learning to be being present in my body, but also ignoring it. 

When I say that I “feel awkward”, I may be understating the case a little. Maybe a lot.

It’s not as bad as it used to be, but I still want to hide. These days, I can deal with the tightness of the clothing, I can deal with the lumps and bumps of the enclosed body. I still have trouble, however, dealing with the exposed legs.

A post shared by katie cooke (@slowlight) on Jul 11, 2017 at 10:09am PDT

 

Video: from last night’s training, six days out.Mostly tech singles. This is a cheeky little 68kg warm up. While wearing the dreaded singlet.

 

When I lift, it helps if I am completely present in my body–but in a useful way. The self-critical, highly distracting, waste-of-brain-space presence that runs and runs a brutal critique of aesthetics? Not so useful. (Though it’s useful for some, as that ‘s the way that sells a million magazines and diet plans.) The awareness and presence that gives me proper control of position (which is trickier than it sounds given that I often can’t feel most of my right leg or buttock), the cueing of actions, the squeezing of muscles, and the knowledge that I can push like hell? Aye, that’s the stuff. That’s the presence that lets you take up the space you need, do what you do, and feel good doing it.

I know the former option is a waste of time and energy, and most of the time I am happy enough in my own skin to live in the second state. But put me in a singlet, and all that tangled body image nonsense comes dancing to the front again, blocking the view of the important stuff. And where my response should be to read “singlet” as “YAY competition time! Go, Cooke, go!” rather than squirming.

Worrying about the stupid stuff

Because I have little fat legs, and one of them is super-wonky. And I hate that. I never show my bare legs; I don’t wear shorts and always wear leggings under dresses or skirts. It’s only in the last couple of years I’ve felt comfortable enough or confident enough or just plain no longer give a fuck enough to walk around town before and after training in loud leggings without a dress or long coat on top. (Though I don’t think I’ve ever worn them without a visit to the gym at some point.) It has nothing to do with “modesty” or with what anyone else thinks about my body, and everything to do with how I think about it.

No one cares how I look in a singlet. I know that.

I get grumpy that I care.

Part of it is standard issue body issues. (see above re: a million magazines.) And I’m seriously grumpy that I haven’t got over this by now. It has always been a little more complicated by medical history, in that it can be hard to love a part of your body that you associate with pain, and limits, and surgery.

But it’s been years since I was last sliced and diced, so that raw resentment has slipped into the shadows of deep history, and become just another layer of the sediment. These days I rarely get any bone pain (just weird misfiring of nerves), and I’ve learned a way to walk that’s far beyond anyone’s expectations (including my surgeon’s, and my own.)

The luxury of ignoring it

I’ve reached a point where I have the luxury of being able to ignore it most of the time. Most of my work-arounds and adaptations are so ingrained I am oblivious to them. It’s not “pretending to be normal” because screw normal, but what my body can do is much more alive in my brain that what it can’t. It can be hard to hate that.

I have ugly legs, and that doesn’t matter.

Wearing the singlet in training is much the same–I train in it so it becomes normal, so that it doesn’t get in the way by interrupting me with self-consciousness. I wear it until I hit the point of not thinking about it, until I can even tune out the stray background signals of “aargh, bare knees” or “ugh, weird pressure on my thigh.” Until I forget to care.

Better things to worry about

It took a long time until I could look at videos of myself lifting and see the lifts not all the things I hated about my body. In a singlet, that’s still a challenge. (Because hello little fat peely-wally wonky legs!) But when I’m wearing a singlet, I have more pressing things to worry about: a start command, a rack command, and what happens in between.

Roll on Sunday, and the next time I have to wear it.