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I looked down into the depths of the aquamarine abyss and knew that I would have to be emerged in the crystal-like nectar sooner or later. Bending over, I let my fingers graze the surface of the water. It felt like the fabric of a child’s favorite bedtime blanket; smooth, alluring and overall enchanting. With each passing of my hand through the water, it dawned on me how much I rather preferred the solitude of the locker room. As I stood up straight, I became fixated at my reflection in the hypnotizing current of the pool. I tugged at my ample shirt to make sure that no one could see the unoblivious muffin top that cascaded over my taut hawaiian printed swim trunks. When I measured myself from head-to-toe, the only result was that of me seeing myself as a rejected Mr.Potato Head. Taking in a deep breath of humid, chlorine-stenched air, I cautiously made my way over to the bench for roll call.
Roll call; otherwise known as the victimizing and yet painful judgment of a preadolescent’s swimsuit apparel. Hearing my heartbeat through my ears, it seemed to almost drown out the sound of the seventh grade swim instructor calling out my name. As I mumbled the routinely response, my ears were averted
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Every day would be full of therapy sessions, meal plans, and sitting in my hospital bed. Although, the time spent looking in my hospital mirror was the toughest. I no longer saw an overweight person. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a skeleton. The skeleton whose rib cage protruded like stiff tree limbs that connected to its lanky body. These limbs continuing up to a face whose eyes were sunken in and chalked with black circles. How could I have let myself do this? Why did I let those hurtful words turn me into this? As I looked at myself, in that mirror, something clicked inside of me. With whole heartedness, I knew that I had to change. Not only for others, but for my own well
“I guess we need to come up with an excuse when we are asked the reason for the annulment.”
"The Swimmer." Short Story Criticism. Ed. Janet Witalec. Vol. 57. Detroit: Gale, 2003. Literature Resource Center. Web. 17 Feb. 2014.
After the half-mile hike, a swipe of my student identification card opens the door. A quick walk to the locker room takes the prisoners of pain into line for their uniform. We pull on stale, manila shirts; manila, of course, from previous uses. Each resembles an old Mexican poncho, failing to conform to our bodies. The matching shorts follow; both shirt and shorts are embossed with one simple letter, “S.” The men, clad in uniform and barely awake, file out of the locker room, silently shuffling down the dimly lit back hallway, dreading the impending infliction of pain. Each socked foot becomes heavier, latching onto each fiber of carpet, but human will, not muscle mechanics, moves our warm, muscle bound, ligament and tendon attached, skin encased carcasses to the double doors. Thirteen feet away, the pungent smell of hot rubber, cool iron, moldy sweat and old coffee collides. Most men gag at this point, but the leader of the pack enters the room and there is but one choice.
"The Swimmer." Short Stories for Students. Ed. Kathleen Wilson. Vol. 2. Detroit: Gale, 1997. 278-294. Gale Virtual Reference Library. Web. 29 Jan. 2014.
February 16 2017..... Ok Jesse I don't even know what to feel anymore at first I liked you so much then you started dating Sadie and I absolutely died I had no idea what to do all I did was cry none stop after I was at my house I was told February 1st 3:10 2017 after school I was with Ryder and he was asking if I was ok but I didn't want to tell him because i don't want anyone to see me like this since then I didn't want to talk to you ever again I didn't want to see you or Sadie for ever I didn't want to do anything except cry forever and I am crying my eyes out writing this shocker I know
As I sit here with my eyes closed, I imagine a tropical breeze. The warm wet air slides over my face. The humidity seems almost heavy enough to crush me. As I take a deep breath, the realization that this is no tropical air comes crashing in. Instead of the refreshing scent of the ocean, or tropical plants, the taste of salt from sweat and a smell of the human body fill my lungs. The daydream is over. A shrill whistle sounds and the voice of coach Chuck booms through out the room, breaking the peace that was comforting the pain in my shoulder and bringing me back to reality. I was not on some humid island paradise, but rather in the explosive atmosphere of the Hotchkiss High School wrestling room.
As I stand in front of the mirror, I start to cry in anger. Purging. Dieting. Working Out. Skipping Meals. Nothing seemed to get rid of my fat. This thick layer of unwanted fat. I just wanted to get my scissors and cut it off. It was disturbing to see and I wasn’t the only one who saw it. The way people looked at me was demeaning. Their eyes gleamed mean with faces of disgust.
This is some of a poem that one of my friends from my support group had shared on the first day. But I shouldn't get to far ahead of myself, my name is Ender Olson, and I suffer from a very serious disorder, it is called anorexia. Some may say that anorexia is not that serious, but it changed my life, and many others.
I sprinted as fast as I could, my legs going numb underneath me, to the locker room; Sadie hollered “WE’RE GOING TO BE LATE!!”. When we finally arrived at the locker room, I grabbed the cold silver handle, a shiver spreading throughout my whole body, and yanked the door open. The smell of sweaty socks and vanilla perfume wafted into nose; it was atrocious. I threw my heavy backpack, filled with books and homework, onto the concrete floor. I quickly took my clothes off and put on a Jenison football t-shirt, black softball pants, and green softball socks. I zoomed over to the closet in the locker room that we keep our bat bags in.
The sink was still running, and the water was flowing out with full force. The bathroom’s vents were put on blast, and the shower was steaming up the entire area to the point where the mirror completely blurred. Even though there was so much noise blaring all at once, I needed it. I needed something in my ears to cancel out the harmful jokes from others, the hurtful “you are good for nothing” speech from my parents, and my self hatred. The corners of the wall were my escape area from the world and its cruelty. My eyes were a scene from niagara falls as tears flowed out. I purposely had fogged up the mirror so I could stop looking at myself. I hated my fat. I hated my acne. Most of all, I hated my selfish and negative minded mentality.
I dip my toes in—feels cold. My nerves rise up and spread like fire throughout my body while I watch—while I wait. Stomach hurts. All those butterflies clash and crowd. They come every time that I race—it never fails. There is so much noise—the splash of water, talking, yelling, whistling, cheering.
The pool quickly became my second home, and has been ever since. From the time when I was five, there hasn’t been many days that I was not in or within a close proximity of a chlorine-infused pool. I started my swimming career as a summer team swimmer at the Hasbrouck Heights Swim Club, after many torturous swim lessons at my local YMCA. After my first year on the summer team, my coach had spoken to my mom about wanting me join a local club swim team. At first, my mom was very hesitant, as she was a swimmer herself and knew exactly what she would be getting both of us into. Even knowing that she would need to wake up at the crack of dawn to drive me to practice, spend countless of hours a day in a pool, and watch me race for as little as twenty-one seconds, she signed me
How strange it felt to be the last resort from keeping a boy from drowning. To fill a volunteer requirement I chose to assist children with disabilities in learning how to swim at my local YMCA. I was surprised to be given so much immediate freedom after a five minute conversation with the supervisor, but there I was holding Mateo’s head above water. The second hour I helped Robert, who was more reserved than Mateo. I had to alter my approach as Robert was more advanced and better at following instructions. After the conclusion of the second hour, the supervisor informed me that I had taught Robert to backstroke for the first time, which shocked me. Making a difference in someone’s life, even as tiny as learning a new skill, was a liberating
With every practice and every race, I began to lose the opportunity I once had as a child. I began to stress waking early to go to morning practice. And after every practice, I began to come home sore and famished. With months passing by, I became restless and disappointed at my times. Sometimes, when the once buoyant drag me underwater, I find myself giving in to the overwhelming circumstances.