My Gymnastics Journey - Part 3

"A Reflection on Mirrors" is a short story I wrote during my time at university, which went on to win a university writing competition. The story draws deeply from my own life experiences, with Alice, the main character, serving as a reflection of my younger self.

There was only a week left in Russia, and Alice still saw no hope of joining the team. She’d had enough. She wasn’t going to stand back, left wondering why she wasn’t good enough to be a member. So, after training one day, Alice sheepishly approached Vina-san, as a mouse would walk over to a lion, and asked, in English, “Vina-san, could you tell me how I can get on the team?” Vina-san looked her once over, from head to toe, and smirked a little. She obviously understood what she had been asked. She took Alice by the hand; Vina-san’s hand was so plump that the rolls of her fingers, like waves in the sea, almost completely enveloped her expensive rings. She spoke with an accent so heavy that it was almost incomprehensible. “Alishka, you work hard, yes, but you are too plump.” As she said the last word she drew a deep breath, filling her cheeks with air, as if impersonating one of Willy Wonka’s Umpa Lumpas. Alice was taken aback. This was not what she had expected to hear. Vina-san, all but dragging her into the ballet studio, told her to take off her clothes and stand on the huge, rusty scales in the corner of the room. Alice did without protest—she tensed her muscles, hoping of lifting her body ever so slightly off of the scales and reducing the number the rickety device would register. But the reading appeared just the same. 56kg. For Vina-san, this was all the evidence she needed. She gestured smugly at the scales and walked away, leaving Alice naked, surrounded by the mirrors of the ballet room. Plump. She could not escape her own reflection. That night, Alice left the training hall and went straight to bed without joining the others at dinner. 

2 years later

The alarm rang at 7:00 a.m., yet Alice had already opened her eyes a few minutes before the buzzing began. Her stomach's painful rumbling had woken her, as usual. Quietly, trying not to wake up her roommate, Alice quickly changed into her training attire and made her way to the public bath. After 2 years of living in what now felt like a prison, the only comfort she found was her routine, her daily habits willing her out of bed each morning. These days, Alice never really went outside. Her world was confined to the corridors and rooms of the Village. The lack of sunlight had turned her skin translucent and grey. It drained her from the outside in—Alice had started to feel just as pallid on the inside as she did on her exterior.

Looking at her half-naked reflection in the mirror, she could no longer recognize who she was or what she wanted. She analyzed her body like an addict, poring over each imperfection, forever dissatisfied with the mirror’s depiction. Today she could not fight the urge. Her throat burned, a sour taste lingering in her mouth from her previous attempts to purge the flaws she saw reflected in the mirror, to satisfy that ever-growing hunger for perfection, to finally silence that dark voice inside her mind. Plump. After hurting herself, Alice always felt an overwhelming wave of shame. She hated this habit—the intrusive thoughts, her compulsive self-abuse, and the subsequent guilt. The disease crippled her mind, telling her that she was never good enough, skinny enough, or wanted enough. To the world, Alice was the perfect cover model. The epitome of youth, she was slender and beautiful, impressionable and naive. Not old enough to fight the system, yet old enough to survive under the spotlight. However, the spotlight had now brought her to her knees. Alice was unable to break free from the shackles of her mind, trapped in the nightmare of her multiple reflections. 

Alice's secret relationship with bulimia persisted, and after only six months, coaches, friends, and family had started to praise her for her weight loss and hard work. She discovered her collarbones and her cheekbones for the first time, and she relished in the toxic joy of putting on clothes that no longer fit her. Measuring and checking had become a way of gaining more control. Using her fingers to gauge the circumference of her wrists, thighs, and arms, she would feel horrible anxiety when she could not reach her thumb to her middle finger. The satisfaction she felt by doing this was fleeting, and yet addicting; Alice wanted more, she needed a way to sustain the periods of pleasure. When purging no longer gave her enough satisfaction, she turned to counting calories, and then stopped eating altogether. Alice had already become accustomed to hiding her secret, and it was easier to just tell herself that it didn't matter.