I stood with beet-red, tear-streamed cheeks and static-strewn, duck-fluff hair while peering through the plexiglass that separated the waiting room from the gym. At one year old, I was too young to do “‘nastics” like my older sister, so for 18 months, my mom was tasked with keeping me contained while I protested this injustice. In the interim, I made the world my gym. I climbed out of my crib, onto countertops, and up my mom’s limbs.
When I turned two and a half and could finally confirm that the grass really was greener on the other side of the plexiglass, my parents’ relief almost outweighed my excitement. I sported a ponytail at all times, which left me with a semi-permanent dent in my hair, and I wore my leotard as often as possible, including under my clothes on the plane ride to Florida when I was four despite my mom’s worry that I would overheat.
Gymnastics quickly became my release. Not only was learning how to swing and flip fun (like, really, really, fun), but it also brought me an unmatched sense of clarity, freedom, and purpose. Nothing compared to the rush of being upside down, and I was hooked on the adrenaline that came with competing ever since my first meet at six years old.
The gym was my place of escape, but at some point, the doors separating the outside world from the gymnastics world could no longer filter out all aspects of my personal life. Around the time I was 11 and my sister was 13, she was increasingly experiencing mental health and developmental challenges. I watched in confusion as what I had initially categorized as sibling strife and growing pains turned into a serious mental health crisis. Before, during, and after all of this, I subconsciously searched for ways to regain control of my environment, something gymnastics encourages.
I defied gravity during practice nearly every day, yet my greatest fear was failing to feel grounded. Out of nowhere, I became terrified that the universe would sweep me up and swallow me. My vision would shake, my palms would sweat, and I’d grab hold of whatever was closest—a chair, countertop, or piece of equipment—in an attempt to will myself away from panic and into the present moment. Fear also manifested itself in twisted convictions, like the idea that I would definitely puke if I didn’t skip the first step of the staircase. Even at the gym, where I spent over 25 hours each week, something as simple as walking across the spring floor required counting my steps and avoiding the velcro strips, “or else.”
I heard the term “OCD” thrown around in everyday conversations, but misinformation warped my perception of the condition. My classmates and teammates used OCD as a personality descriptor or casually mentioned how “OCD” it was when someone needed something to be “just right,” which made the condition seem obvious and cookie-cutter. The truth is, obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is pervasive, sneaky, and variable. I didn’t realize that something like needing the time to be even and flipping the light switch four sets of four times every time I left my bedroom was a way for me to feel safe—I thought I had picked up some odd habits. Plus, it felt like the threats of what could happen if I didn’t perform certain mannerisms in a certain way at certain times were real, so I didn’t dare challenge them.
Since I feared judgment, I kept my preoccupations silent. In reality, it’s likely that a number of my teammates would’ve related to my thoughts and experiences. Research shows that ~35% of student-athletes are affected by OCD-tendencies and that student-athletes reach the diagnostic criteria of OCD at more than two times the rate of the general population (2.3% among adults and 5.2% among college athletes). Despite its prevalence in the community, athletes who fit the DSM-5 criteria are rarely diagnosed, presumably in part due to the silencing nature of stigma. Since OCD is an anxiety-related condition, those who experience it are also likely to experience comorbid conditions, such as depression, panic disorder, and eating disorders, and I was no exception.
***
The summer after my first season competing as a Level 10, before my sophomore year of high school, and around the time I began college recruiting, passed in a haze. I don’t remember a lot, but I do remember weighing myself every morning and the brief feeling of relief when the number loyally decreased. Cause and effect. This was appealing, straightforward, and comforting, and it became my new way of reaffirming that my existence was justified, safe, and controlled. The high I got from shrinking first fueled and then betrayed me. My toenails bruised and peeled, my lungs felt suffocated, and my skin-tight leotards were baggy. Periods of brain fog, eczema flare-ups, glaringly obvious stares, and not-so-soft whispers about how I looked and acted and what I ate or should’ve eaten or was not eating soon encompassed me. Whatever energy I had was spent on attempting to cover up the fact that I was operating within a severe energy deficit. I don’t remember a lot, but I do remember that I wouldn’t wish any of this on my worst enemy.
By this point, a decade worth of innocent comments about my lean, muscular build had sunk in deep enough that I felt like this tangible aspect of myself mattered, and maybe even mattered the most. The world of gymnastics at large reinforced that being petite was not only acceptable but also expected. In turn, I blatantly disregarded the promise I’d made to myself to never, ever, ever place value on my appearance. Little did I know, deciding not to have an eating disorder failed to protect me from struggling with one.
In my clouded mind, restricting meant (falsely) proving to myself that I had what it took to be a “successful” athlete. Restricting meant fabricating a world in which avoidance sparked change. Restricting meant “right” and “wrong”; it meant black-and-white thinking; it meant staving off overwhelming feelings of guilt and grief. Not only was this vicious cycle jeopardizing my health and happiness as a gymnast, but it was also tarnishing my ability to view myself as a human being whose worth did not depend on either my athletic excellence or physical appearance.
***
In hindsight, it all seems so obvious. Another athlete—no, another white, adolescent, female, high-level gymnast—falling into the age-old trap of appearance, control, and perfectionism. Another case of personal challenges, a performance-based sport, and a type-A personality teaming up against physical existence. Another perfect storm.
At the time, though, my broken relationship with food and body image felt like a precious secret. I deflected accusations that something was wrong even though I ached for someone to help me. Although eating disorders are not defined solely by physical symptoms, for a while, mine manifested in a way that was hard to miss. I was terrified of being called out or diagnosed. In an odd way, my fear of being a burden coupled with my people-pleasing tendencies worked to save me, or maybe just to string me along. Fear constantly competed for my attention and determined my behavior. One of the twisted aspects of eating disorders is that they create a prolonged period of liminality, so nothing feels real. I kept telling myself that I’d change tomorrow, next week, or next month to escape the responsibility that came with accepting what was going on. By doing so, it didn’t feel like anything happening in the present moment was that bad, and I didn’t have to admit to myself or anyone else that I had neither any idea how to change nor any desire to change.
When confronted in medical settings, I narrowly escaped the opportunity to receive help. I wore leggings under my thickest sweatpants and three layers of clothing on my upper body when I was weighed during my annual check-up. I avoided eye contact with my doctor both when I admitted to “accidentally” losing weight over the summer and when I reluctantly answered that I hadn’t had my period in months. Despite acknowledging that I was a rounding error away from being classified as anorexic based on my (cheated) BMI, a woman with medical credentials reassured me that it was normal for high-level athletes to lose their cycles, that I should try to gain weight, but that I shouldn’t just “sit on the couch and eat potato chips.” When threatened with not being allowed to go to practice if I didn’t eat “x,” I generally complied, or appeared to comply. Even if I had to blink back tears while eating, I didn’t want to make anything a big deal, and I couldn’t bear to not have gymnastics. Throughout everything, the gym offered itself as an escape.
***
I dislocated my elbow during practice almost exactly one year after the first time I wrote down everything I ate in a day in a little pocket-sized notebook. The dislocation was bad, but I was lucky. I needed to go to the hospital to have it reduced (popped back into place), but I didn’t need surgery. I would be out of the gym for several months, but I would be able to return to the sport if the rehabilitation went as planned.
At the time of the injury, I was sixteen years old and two weeks away from the biggest competition of the year. Coaches from colleges across the country attended Level 10 USAG Junior Olympic Nationals to watch for potential recruits, and the end of tenth grade was prime time for recruiting. Instead of visualizing routines, I was humbled into visualizing the easiest, most efficient way to wash my hair with one arm. Putting in my contacts, cooking eggs, and brushing my teeth were casual tasks that became multi-step ordeals.
In parallel with my elbow recovery, my relationship with my body and food began to shift. In many ways, I started changing my behavior because I needed to. I had already reached several breaking points, during which I realized that the only way I thought I could survive was killing me. When this understanding didn’t leave me ambivalent, I clung to the sense of urgency it sparked. After the dislocation, I was forced to take time off of training and to view my body in a different light. Rather than working tirelessly against it, I tried to treat it slightly more compassionately.
It’s strange to frame the process of letting go as a form of healing to a society that champions self-discipline. But for me, learning how not to analyze every morsel of food entering my body was infinitely more difficult than adhering to rules of restriction. Logically, I understood how silly it was to fear something as seemingly harmless as an apple or to tear up while eating a bowl of ice cream, or cereal, or soup, yet my body reacted to those scenarios as though they posed real threats. The addictive tendencies that accompany an eating disorder made it impossible to just dismiss the patterns that had found their way into the folds of my mind. At the same time, it’s not like not thinking about food was an option, either. Reframing eating as a social, enjoyable, and celebratory experience was like learning a new language. Eventually, the more I challenged destructive thoughts and behaviors, the less debilitating they became. The process was excruciatingly challenging, painful, and slow—even slower than it took me to relearn how to do a release move on bars after dislocating my elbow—but with movement comes momentum.
***
Despite this momentum, recovery has not just been smooth sailing from then until now. Over the past 6+ years, I’ve found myself wrapped up in old habits and trapped by hopelessness several times. Recovery requires reconciling both my relationship with food and my relationship with myself. Although not a cure-all, going to therapy to address and alleviate the underlying pain that feeds unwanted thoughts, feelings, and behaviors has helped me tremendously.
After spending so long denying what was going on, I find myself analyzing how much and what parts of my life have been shaped by this experience. I can’t help but to question whether I would have walked away from Division I gymnastics after two years had I not had such a damaging relationship with food and body image, had I received adequate professional help earlier, or had the stigma felt less suffocating. I felt dragged down by bouts of numbness and torn up over temptations to engage in disordered eating patterns even, especially, when I was competing every weekend and doing well in school. All the while, I felt like I could only appear composed and optimistic. The dichotomy was stark and exhausting. While this was far from the only reason why I decided to leave the sport when I did, these invisible struggles played a significant role in my collegiate gymnastics experience.
Unlike control, vulnerability is not inherently encouraged in gymnastics. We are taught to chase perfection. We are judged on appearance. Despite past evidence that shows the prevalence of eating disorders in gymnasts, there are very few resources to help us better understand both the steps we can take to reduce the chances that young female gymnasts will develop unhealthy body images or eating pathologies and the ways to respond to those who are struggling. I feel immensely grateful that I caught glimpses of the kind of life I could craft for myself by soaking up the stories of those who were in recovery and had recovered. I also feel immensely grateful to those who have both knowingly and unknowingly countered my belief that I was not worthy of living a different way. Even so, understanding toward and support for athletes with eating disorders is difficult to come by.
The gym served as my second home and a refuge for the majority of my competitive career—not to mention, nothing beats the feeling of nearly flying. Yes, gymnastics seeded and perpetuated a handful of toxic beliefs and behaviors, but it also fostered within me positive characteristics and allowed me to better understand both myself and the world around me. When all is said and done, obsessive, compulsive, and self-destructive coping mechanisms are just that: obsessive, compulsive, and self-destructive coping mechanisms, and they did not and will not dictate who I was as a gymnast or who I am as a person.
***
When it comes to documenting my experiences with mental health, nothing I write ends up feeling complete. I guess that’s because mental health is ongoing and intertwined with so many aspects of my life, of our lives. The perfectionist in me begs for clear-cut answers, but that’s not how this works, and I’m learning that there is beauty in both the unknown and the in-between. Understanding that this piece, that “my story,” is not black-and-white and does not need an orderly storyline or a defined endpoint means that I have the agency to create, edit, and share it, and that is beyond freeing.
— Annie Christman
Major in college: English and Psychology
Current favorite music artist: Gordi
Favorite poem: “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver
Favorite city: Boston, MA
Something you can’t live without: Sweatshirts
Dream travel destination: Thailand & New Zealand
