Two Different Kinds of Pain

Ahh, the dreaded 2k. There is almost no worse pain in the world. You can compare it to nothing, well almost nothing.

“Sit ready, row!” 2000 meters. I get tossed into it with no sign of hope for living. At first the 2k really does not seem too bad. Holding my split seems almost easy, as if I could row like this for thousands of meters. The adrenaline rush keeps me moving, keeps my body pumping. I feel like a bird in the wind moving swiftly and freely, like I am on top of the world, and nobody can bring me down.

“Tonight we're going out to dinner as a family.” We loaded the whole family into my dad’s truck, my brothers and I in the back, and my mom in the passenger seat. Click, click, click, click, click. The sound of five seatbelts fill the truck. My mom reaches up to turn on the radio, then my parents immediately take hands and will not let go the entire night. Life is good, life is happy, all is well.

“Keep that split down.” 1500 meters. The pain begins to develop in my shoulders. Nothing but light pain, almost as if someone is poking me with a needle. I call someone over to make sure I have no possible way of escaping it mentally. Thinking of nothing but that next stroke. Making sure it is strong yet not all I have in me. Eyes on the screen, not to leave it for at least another six minutes, watching the meters slowly get lower and lower. 1500, 1400, 1300. I just have to make it to the 1000 meter mark, then I can break through. Almost there, almost there, I keep telling myself.

“Are they fighting again?” My brothers and I huddled on the top of the stairs. The three of us listening to our parents fight. About what? We have no idea. Where is all of this coming from? We will never understand. They will make it through this, they always do. They have to, don’t they? My brothers and I exchange small glances where we can read so obviously the little amount of pain in each of our eyes. It will all be fine soon, we tell ourselves. Most parents fight. It will all be okay.

“It’s all mental from here.” 1000 meters. Now I can really feel the pain. It crept up like a silent bomb, then exploded across my entire body. I have to stay focused on the erg, on my split, but the pain is so distracting. Just get to that 500 meters. Not much longer to the sprint, then I am done. I just have to keep telling myself to push it. It is all mental at this point, either you have it or you don’t. This 500 meters is the toughest 500 meters out of any race to stay on mentally. I have to get through this if I want to distinguish myself from good and great. Just stay on it, just stay on it.

“How will this end?” They seemed to stop fighting as much, or is that just my imagination? Have they stopped talking completely? Will this ever end?

“Remind me why I like this sport again.” 500 meters. The pain is so unbearable. It feels like someone has stabbed me in the hips and the shoulders with a knife repeatedly. On the left, I have one teammate yelling in my ear to keep my split low. On the right, I have another teammate yelling at me that I can do it. 500 meters left, I cannot give up now. Almost don’t, almost there.

“So that’s just it?” We are all sitting at the table, my brothers and I completely shocked. Why? Who knows! Why do I feel like someone has ripped out my heart, put it through a shredder, and placed it back into my chest? Tears develop in my older brother's and my eyes; my little brother is just too young to realize what is going on. Why are they doing this to us? How are thing going to change? I almost can’t think straight. I am so angry and upset at them for doing this. Why is this happening to me?

“Alright we're here, up two over two.” 250 meters- the sprint. This is it. I am here. I cannot feel my legs, my entire body is numb. I have been pushing so hard and for so long, and this is it, do not lose it now. Taking it by ten strokes. Ten strokes at a time. Ten stokes of pulling the hardest I have ever pulled. So close. I am watching my split drop lower and lower. 100 meters left, that is it ten strokes. Ten, nine, eight, I can hear the team cheering me on behind me, seven, six, five, the whole race leading up to these final strokes, how badly do I want this? Three, two, one...

“Well...” How are we suppose to respond to something like that? Nobody has said a word for three and a half minutes. Why are we so shocked? As if we did not see this coming, but still, why do I feel so numb? Is there nothing I can do or say to keep this from happening? I know they say it was not our fault, but I cannot help but to think it just may have been. There is nothing left to do or say, so we all sit there staring at each other as the minutes tick away.

“Great job! You PR’d.” Peace, that is all I feel now. All my hard work has aid off. I can finally relax, and be proud of myself for stepping up.

“How has it been since your parents' divorce?” Oh, the question I am faced with many times. This is what I tell people: Surprisingly enough, it has been a large blessing in disguise. Due to them splitting up, I have become closer to both of them. I feel as if I can tell both of them anything, which is something I know a lot of my friends cannot say. I get to spend alone time with each of them, that normally I would not. I feel as if my parents know me much better because of it. So yes, it is largely a blessing in disguise.

All the pain I went through was completely worth it in the end.