My Tumultuous Relationship with Swimming

"A writer must be in it; he has to be endangered by it. The best work that anybody ever writes is the work that is on the verge of embarrassing him, always," -Arthur Miller

Back in maybe fourth grade, I had my heart set on being an Olympic swimmer. 

Good thing that didn't turn out well. 

Long story short, I've been swimming since I was eight, and, between third and fifth grade, I got really competitive with my winter team. I was . . . really good for my age. I was young and strong and ate all the right proteins and carbs. 

But then, fifth and sixth grade happened. Which meant puberty happened and I gained a lot of estrogen weight, and I got into writing, art, and theater. This realization of my abounding creativity, combined with the added stress of competitive swimming 11 months out of the year, I started disliking competition. A lot. But by that point, I had abandoned the pipe dream of being an Olympic swimmer. I just wasn't cut out for it. 

I slowly eased off competition, until I only competed a few times during the summer, and this was a happy medium for me. But still, a part of me wanted to taste that gold, see those blue ribbons. However, the way my body developed (and the way I chose to develop it) and my work ethic weren't synonymous with always winning. And, nobody wins all the time, right?

But with the help of my amazing swimming friends (shoutout to Morgan, Sabrena, Donna, and Tess, etc.), I was able to accept that I swim just for me. I swim for the endorphins, for the feeling of the water like silk, for the hot summer nights and great friends. 

But to this day, I still have this cognitive dissonance inside of me.

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I still want to win at the strokes I'm good at. I still want to push myself to the max all the time and be first in the lane I'm in. 

But when I don't win, and when I push myself too hard, it's not fun. I hate it. 

I want to have fun, to swim. I want to be carefree and just hang out with my friends, because hell, it's summer. 

But my ego gets in the way. My ego, my striving for perfection, makes this hard when coaches, and most importantly, myself, expects this out of me.

~

And I think I understand why this cognitive dissonance exists, and why I'm having such a hard time shaking it.

 It's because swimming is entirely objective. There are strict techniques, and a number determines good or bad, fast or slow. 

However, I am a creative soul. My brain just doesn't work like that; it can't comprehend the fact that I can still be 'good enough' and have success in such a rigid, objective space, for better or for worse. 

Very few things in my life, and in art itself, are objective. Someone can love a piece of my writing, but someone else can not understand it. My painting can win an award at a show, but then not get anything at another. 

Art, any kind, isn't really a win-lose situation. It's just art, and 90% of one's feeling of success or being 'good enough' isn't about a ribbon or praise, it's about creating something beautiful, something that resonates with you and someone else. And that can't be measured by a number.

~The WordShaker

Smells Like Teen Spirit | Olivia J

"Writing is really a way of thinking - not just feeling but thinking about things that are desperate, unresolved, mysterious, problematic, or just sweet," -Toni Morisson

Black with a touch of yellow, like the mustard on a grilled hot dog. Unless you're one of those heathens who drowns all their food in condiments. Four little letters that mean everything to my future. 

New books and old books have a different smell, and I can't tell you which one I like better. Minimum wage can add up fast. 

White like sunscreen, black like the lane lines of a pool. White like a screen, black like text. Gray like a hodgepodge of all of the above. 

Oily pigment ground into my skin, making the whorls blue and purple and green. Audio books and sweet tea can't cure even the worst artist's block. 

Smells like being stupid for the memory, for the photo. 
Smells like ambition and the cool of a summer night. 
Smells like relapses and feelings that don't make sense.
Smells like sugar and dog days and evanescence. 

Smells like teen spirit. 

~The WordShaker