Scared Sh*tless: March Edition

Well, friends, it happened.

I faced my biggest Scared Sh*tless moment of all time.  I took on something that terrified me to the point of nearly being in a medically legitimate panic attack.  I did something that made me want to simultaneously puke, cry, and run away.  And guess what?

IT WAS FREAKING EPIC.

Sorry, that was a bit of a spoiler.  Let's start out where we left off on Thursday.  Because I have been reliving Saturday morning in my head for the past 48 hours, and I fully intend to share every minuscule detail of it at this time.  So if you don't really care about my 17 minute introduction to the world of competitive CrossFit, you should probably stop right here.  I won't be offended.  This one, my friends, is for me.  Because I never want to forget how I felt this weekend.  Like, ever.  It was that epic.

Where were we?  Oh yes, Thursday.  On Thursday, we parted ways with my "scared shitless but hopeful" mentality after I'd (somewhat) managed to come to terms with the horror that was to be 13.1.  I'd decided that I was going to embrace the suck, do the best I could, and try to reconnect with the phenomenon I will hereto forth refer to as "Mountaintop Emily": the most confident, optimistic, passionate, and positive version of myself, who believes that anything is possible.  That's where we stood as of 3pm on Thursday.

By 3:15 on Thursday, I was freaking out again.

Ever since becoming a nurse and spending 40 hours a week assessing people's pain level by using the 0-to-10 pain scale, I've adopted a tendency to rate all things on their own 0-to-10 scale.  There's a WOD Suckage Scale (Monday's "Zeus" was a solid 9)... a How Badly Do I Want a Dirty Martini RIGHT NOW Scale (rarely falls below a 3 on any given day)... a How Badly Behaved Are My Dogs Today Scale (we hover somewhere between 4 and 7, as a rule)... and the good old Freak-Out Scale, which came into play a lot this week.  I spent most of Thursday evening in the 7-to-8 zone.  I honestly couldn't even tell you what I did that night.  I just know that the hours blurred together in an anxiety-ridden haze until I finally dipped into my emergency Tylenol PM stash and drugged myself into a fitful sleep at 10pm.

I woke up Friday morning feeling less rested than one would hope after an abnormally long 8-hour night's sleep (which, as most of you know, is simply unheard of for me... I average 4 hours on a good day, tops) and managed to get myself fairly freaked out before I even got out of bed.  Not a good start to my day.

Most of the athletes at my box who were competing in the Open on Saturday took Friday as a rest day, but I knew that if I didn't work off some of my emotions, I would be an absolute basketcase by lunch time.  So, I headed to the box, where an awesomely perfect WOD greeted me from the whiteboard.  I don't know if WODing on Friday was the best thing for my physical performance for 13.1, but mentally, it was absolutely essential in getting me back on track.  It was a met-con WOD with an ungodly number of sprints, and it felt great to literally run away from my fears for awhile.  I was able to sweat out a good bit of my anxiety, and left the box at a very manageable 3/10.  I decided to head home and spend the remainder of the day relaxing with some ice packs, some Motrin, and several month's worth of bad DVR'ed television.

Of course, being the neurotic freak show that I am, this plan lasted for about 20 minutes before I got bored with TV and chose instead to occupy myself with YouTube videos of people way more awesome than myself completing 13.1.  BIG MISTAKE.  By noon, I was freaking out again in true Emily style, entertaining horrific visions of burpee-induced cardiac arrests and dropping 75 pounds worth of weight on my head during failed attempts at a snatch.

Right on cue, on the verge of Epic Freak-Out Numero Uno of the day, I got a call from the lovely Alexis Layne Shaffer.  Lex had completed 13.1 the previous day, and I was eager to hear her take on it.  Despite being the girl who is forever scolding me for sleeping too little and working out too much, when push comes to shove, Lex is pretty amazing at knowing exactly the right thing to say to talk me off of a ledge.  She must have detected a rather frantic note in my voice this time, because she spent the next 20 minutes giving me what will go down in history as one of the best pep talks of all time.  She was honest and realistic, but reassuring and motivational all at the same time.  We talked strategy, standings, snatches (she loves them, I hate them), burpees (we BOTH hate those), the importance of positive thinking... and, above all, she reminded me that it's really only 17 minutes of my life, and the world will keep on spinning whether I can snatch 75 pounds or not.  Sometimes I get so wrapped up in my own crazy that I forget that life is going to go on, regardless of how much I do or don't suck at something.  It was a welcome and much needed wake-up call.  Sometimes we all need to be coddled... but sometimes you need a dose of brutal honesty and a kick in the ass to get your head in the right place.  Lex told me exactly what I needed to hear:  yes, it's going to suck.  A lot.  But I'm going to do it, and I'm going to do the best I can, and that's all I can really do, so there's no point in freaking out about it.  End of story.

After that desperately needed reality check, I reassessed my plan for the day and decided that keeping busy was key.  So I did just that.  I did some yoga.  I took the dogs for a jog around the creek trail and let them chase geese.  I went to the barn to spend time with my favorite living thing on the planet, my horse Paint.  I ran errands.  And when I ran out of errands, I came home and channelled my inner Martha Stewart by attacking several craft projects for an upcoming bridal shower.  For most of the afternoon and evening, I was able to maintain a shockingly reasonable 4/10 on the Anxiety Scale.  It wasn't until around 9pm, when I'd run out of champagne flutes to decorate and my house looked like a post-explosion glitter factory, that the panic started to set in.

When I was at the height of my competitve equestrian career, I once met with a sports psychologist prior to my first Washington International Horse Show to try to deal with my over-the-top competition anxiety.  She taught me some techniques for positive visualization.  She said to try to visualize myself completing the course successfully, over and over again until everything unneccessary left my head, and to set a tangible goal for myself: a clean round, a specific jump-off time, a win in a big class, et cetera, and to visualize myself attaining that goal.  She also taught me that, if I hit a block somewhere and couldn't visualize the entire course, I should just focus on whatever I could envision: getting over the first jump clean, or even just galloping through the starting timers.  Anything to keep my mind focused on the task ahead and not the anxiety surrounding it.  I decided to revisit that technique on Friday, and for the first time, allowed myself some time to focus rationally on the upcoming WOD.

I didn't really know what kind of goal to set for myself, because I honestly had no idea how much of the WOD I would be physically capable of completing.  I knew I could handle the burpees; slowly, perhaps, but I could do them.  I also thought I would probably be able to make it through at least most of the 45-pound snatches... 45 pounds is light enough that technique isn't entirely necessary.  But a 75-pound snatch does require some technique, and a bunch of 75-pound snatches requires a bunch of technique.  And as I've already expressed on multiple occassions, my snatch technique is somewhere between bad an non-existent.  I had never even attempted a snatch at that weight, and I had decided earlier in the week that I wasn't going to attempt it prior to the WOD.  I knew that, if I tried and failed beforehand, I would completely blow any shred of confidence I may have had going into 13.1.  Somehow, not knowing seemed better than knowing the worst.  So, as of Friday night, I had no idea if I would be able to get beyond Round 2 of burpees.

I decided to set a goal of 101 reps.  That would be the first round of 40 burpees, all 30 snatches at 45 pounds, the second round of 30 burpees, and one snatch at 75 pounds.  I told myself that, if I could successfully snatch 75 pounds even just one time, it would be both a PR and a huge victory for me.  So I made it official: I was aiming for a score of 101 for 13.1.

As I lay in bed that night, I tried to visualize that one 75-pound snatch, but I simply couldn't do it.  I couldn't even see myself getting through the 45-pound snatches.  So I settled for a visualization of me busting through my first round of burpees, and pictured it over and over again in my head.  Finally, after awhile, I found some peace, counting burpees instead of sheep, into a surprisingly restful sleep.

That was short-lived.

At 2:14am, I shot out of bed in a complete and total panic, cold sweats and all.  Saturday had come.  13.1 was less than 4 hours away.  It was time.  Ready or not.  Emphasis on NOT.  Shit shit shit.

Going back to sleep wasn't even an option.  I made the ill-advised decision to spend the next several hours watching more YouTube videos of burpees and snatches, snatches and burpees, driving myself into an increasingly absurd frenzy of terror.  By 5am, I couldn't take it anymore.  I needed the solace of the one place that always makes me feel better... I needed to be at the box.

I pulled into the parking lot right behind Tammy, and rushed into the comforting grey walls of CrossFit TPA.  At first I tried to make some light-hearted conversation with Tammy, but I felt so much like throwing up that I decided it would be better to just start warming up instead.  The repetitive motions and sounds of the rower had a calming effect, and for a few minutes, I was able to lose myself in the familiar movement and (almost) forget about the horrors ahead of me.  But then I heard the door open and turned to see Kate, who was also scheduled for a 6am WOD time, walking in to start her warm-up.  The panic hit me again at that moment, this time like a brick wall.  This was happening.  For real.  And it was too late to run away.

I was literally shaking as I stretched, jogged, and went through my warm up exercises.  With each passing second, the tension and emotion escalated, until I literally felt like I was going to explode all over the box.  I can't even describe how I was feeling as the clock ticked down to 5:55.  By that time, Pam, Toni, and Jess had arrived to warm up for the 6:30 WOD time, and Julie and Tricia had come to judge us.  5:56.  I dragged my bar and plates to the far corner of the box, knowing that I needed to be as far away from the clock, the door, the other athletes, and any other distractions as I possibly could.  5:57.  I loaded my bar, barely able to secure the clips because my hands were shaking so badly.  5:58.  I did a few last-minute pass-throughs with a PVC pipe to loosen up my shoulders.  Two minutes.  Two minutes until it began.  17 more minutes after that until it would be over.  In 19 minutes, I'd know what I was really made of.

5:59.  I squatted to the floor, buried my face in my hands, and fought back tears.  I'm not a big cryer, and I don't know why the urge hit me at that moment.  Whether it was terror or adrenaline or desire or a combination of the three, something hit me at 5:59, a tidal wave of emotion that caught me completely off guard and almost knocked the breath out of me.  That minute felt like a lifetime... wave upon wave of the most intense feelings you can possibly imagine.

Then the music was playing, and the 10-second timer started.

10... I can't do this.

...9... too late now, dipshit.

...8... what am I doing here?  I don't belong here...

...7... fucking burpees...

...6... breathe...

...5... OMFOMFGOMFGOMFG 5 SECONDS!!!

...4... breathe.  Seriously.  You're going to pass out before you even start.

...3... SHIT SHIT SHIT!!!

...2... FUCKING BURPEES!!!!

...1...

...complete blank.

And then, in that seemingly infinite second before the buzzer went off, a strange thing happened.  Out of nowhere, out of the complete panicked blankness, something flew into my head... something that Jeannie had said to me before my 10-mile race.  Something that had stuck in my brain and had picked this very moment to resurface:

"Want it.  Want every piece of it."

And I hit my first burpee, HARD.

Somewhere, in that instant, I had found my drive.  Burpees usually take me forever, with lots of pauses for breath, but all that was going through my brain this time was, "Want it.  Get it.  Keep moving."  I let my judge do the counting, banished all other thoughts from my mind, and surrendered myself to the painfully familiar motion of the Evil Fucking Burpee.  Squat.  Burpee down.  Push up.  Jump.  Slap bar.  Repeat. 

Before I knew it, I was busting through my last 5 burpees of the round.  Surprised by how oddly non-horrible they'd felt, my confidence was boosted slightly as I took a swig of water and set up for my 45-pound snatches.  I threw the first few up easily, but knew that with 30 reps, that bar would start to feel really heavy really fast.  I had lots of time left, so I decided to take my time, breaking them down into sets, slowly and methodically working my way through 5... 10... 15... 20...

...I was struggling by #21, so I started breaking them down into smaller sets.  Three at a time, slowly but steadily, I made my way through the last of thirty hard-fought snatches.  I glanced at the clock as I triumphantly threw my bar to the ground with a satisfying clatter... 7:46 had passed.  Just over 9 minutes left.  Maybe I could do this, after all.  Hell, I was doing it.  No stopping now!

I took a few deep, steadying breaths, cleared my head again, and started on round two of burpees. 

You'd think that 17 minutes would fly by, but honestly, it felt like eternity.  Far too much time for my brain to screw up what my body was trying to do.  Halfway through the second round of burpees, it did precisely that.  On #16 of 30, I glanced at the clock to see where I stood on time, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kate on the other side of the box, loading her bar for the second round of snatches.  That's all it took.  In that millisecond of distraction, I completely unravelled.  The walls of adrenaline that had been keeping me focused crumbled to the ground, and a billion thoughts flooded my head.  Kate is already starting snatches again?  Why am I so slow?  What am I doing wrong?  Am I going to even get through these burpees?  Will it even matter if I do, since I can't snatch 75 pounds anyways?  Why am I even doing this?  How did I get so far in over my head?  What would I tell everyone when they ask me my score and I'm too embarrassed to tell them?  What the hell am I doing here?!?!

I started to stumble on my burpees, and lost my rhythm entirely.  I got no-repped once for not touching the bar with both hands.  I was suddenly noticing how much my knees hurt, how shaky my arms felt, how horribly exhausted I was, how difficult every little movement felt.  The WOD, which had started out so surprisingly strong, was falling apart before my eyes.  I felt frantic.

Then, as I stumbled into burpee #22, I suddenly heard Tammy's voice to my left, quiet but firm:

"Focus."

Tammy always has a magical ability to say the exact right thing at the exact right moment, and this was no exception.  That one word was all that it took.  Because at that moment, I realized that she was right... this wasn't about what anyone else was doing, or how much time was left on the clock, or what the rest of the world thinks of my score.  This was about me.  This was about facing something that terrified me and doing it anyways.  This was about conquering that voice inside of me that tells me I can't.  This was about exceeding my own expectations and no one else's.  This was about getting out of my comfort zone, finding my limits, and smashing through them fearlessly.  This was about finding the girl on the mountaintop.  I wasn't sure where she was hiding, but something told me it was on the other side of a 75-pound snatch.  This was about proving to myself what I was made of... and whatever that might be, it wasn't the stuff that quits after 22 fucking burpees.

I wanted 101.

Every piece of it.

Another wave hit me then, this one made of pure adrenaline.  I found my stride and smashed out the last 8 burpees.  101.  Just get 101.

As I loaded up my bar, I once again found myself shaking, but this time with something closer to excitement.  This was it.  This was what it all came down to. Either I could do it, or I couldn't.  I was about to know one way or the other.  No more questions, no more doubt.  Just answers.  Yes or no.  100 or 101.

I paused for a second over my bar, reeling in my focus.  Then, at just the right instant, I heard Toni shout from somewhere to my right: "You've got this, badass!"  And suddenly, somehow, I knew she was right.  The correct answer was 101.  I bent my knees, grasped the bar, took a deep breath...

...BAM.  75-pound snatch.

101!

For a second, I was in shock.  I'd done it!  I looked over at Tammy... I'm not sure why.  Maybe I was looking for validation, or for someone to tell me that I hadn't just imagined that.  As a judge, she wasn't allowed to cheer or encourage me.  But from the look on her face, I knew, then, that 101 wasn't going to be my final score.

I had more.  I wanted 105.

102 came shockingly easily.  103, done.  104... no sweat.  And then, I was at 105, standing triumphantly with arms locked and a huge smile on my face.  But no buzzer.  I still had time.

Could I get to 110?

I didn't know.  But I'd be damned if I wasn't going to try.

106 and 107 were a little more of a struggle.  I had to drop the bar and breathe for a second before fighting through 108 and 109.  And then, with the sounds of my friends' encouragement all around me, I went for 110.

And there she was. Mountaintop Emily.  She'd been waiting there for me the entire time, just out of reach of what seemed possible, testing me to see if I'd fight through to meet her.  I felt like my heart was going to explode with pride and excitement as I paused there a second longer than I had to, with that feared 75 pounds locked up securely over my head.  This was it.  This was what it was all about... this moment, this triumph, this validation of all of my work and fear and love for this crazy thing called CrossFit.  This is me.  This is who I am now: someone who may be afraid, but who takes a big deep breath, keeps pushing, and stands tall at the end, no matter what.  This time, I happened to be standing tall with 75 pounds worth of weight over my head.  Next time, I might be standing at the base of a pull up bar with a score of zero... but I'll still be standing tall, because it will be the hardest-fought zero in the history of zeros.  And if you go out fighting, can you ever really lose?  At that moment, losing didn't seem possible.  Not with a win this big still in my sweaty grasp.

I couldn't have stopped then if I tried.

The bar kept getting heavier with every attempt, but I was too elated to think about quitting.  One at a time, slowly, carefully, I kept snatching up that bar.  When I heard Tammy call out that I'd hit 115, I saw 43 seconds left on the clock.  Was this really happening?

116 almost didn't make it up.  117 took two efforts.  118 felt like I was lifting the weight of the world, but by some miracle, it ended up where it needed to be: locked up overhead with feet together, standing tall and proud, and as the buzzer sounded, I was once again hit with the overwhelming urge to cry.  But this time, I was fighting back good tears; tears of joy, pride, relief, and elation.  I don't think I've ever been as overwhelmed by emotion as I was at that moment.  The cheers, hugs, and congratulatory high fives from my coaches and fellow athletes made everything I was feeling a million times better... there is nothing like sharing a moment like that with people like them.  It was amazing.  There aren't even words.  I have goosebumps right now just thinking about it, more than 48 hours later.

It was, by definition, EPIC SHIT.

My first ever Open scorecard... 13.1: CHECK!

My score wasn't epic.  Not by any means.  In fact, last time I checked, I was currently ranked #25,131 out of 46,642 female Open competitors worldwide.  Not exactly newsworthy.  And the weight wasn't epic in the least... some of my more badass lifting/CrossFitting friends are probably laughing their asses off while reading this, because they can snatch twice that much weight twice as many times without breaking a sweat.  So if you're thinking, "Who is this ridiculous person and why is she so stoked about a mediocre score, a placing in the bottom half of the world, and a lift that I can do in my sleep?"... well, you just totally missed the point.  You want to know what's epic about this?  I did what I set out to do.  For 17 minutes, I gave 13.1 everything I had.  I left it all on the mats.  I conquered a crippling, horrible fear, and came out stronger because of it.  I know I talked a lot about wanting to hit 101, and about wanting the 75-pound snatch... but what I was really looking for that day was so much more than a number.  I was looking for inspiration; for proof that I'm stronger than I let myself believe; for the focus, drive, and sheer love of the sport (and of life) that had been wavering over the past few weeks.  I was looking for myself, the version of myself who climbed a mountain in September and was never the same again.  I was looking for something to be really, truly proud of.

I wanted that.  Every piece of it.  And I found it.

So much better than a snatch PR and a score on a leaderboard.

The entire day was just incredible.  Kate killed 13.1, too, and I was so glad I could share the experience with her.  After Toni, Pam, and Jess helped me get through my 17 minutes of pain, I was beyond excited to cheer them on as well.  All three were amazing.  I'm pretty sure all 5 of us got snatch PRs, everyone exceeded their expectations for scores, and every single one of us gave it absolutely everything we had.  The energy in the box that morning was beyond incredible.  I know you all probably get tired of hearing me say this, but I am so incredibly thankful every single day that this box and these people came into my life.  I don't think I've ever had my entire existence changed so profoundly for the absolute better by any activity, place, or group of people as it has been changed by my time spent at TPA.  It is truly incredible to watch these friends, who have become family, throw their hearts and souls on the line for something that so many people just can't understand, and to want it as badly for them as you want it for yourself.  Technically, we are all competing against eachother.  But at the end of the day, we're a team.  And I can honestly say that I was every bit as excited for my boxmates on Saturday as I was for myself.  It was one of the most exhilarating, uplifting, unbelievably gratifying experiences I've ever had in my life, and I am so thankful that Tammy, Tricia and Julie pushed me out of my comfort zone to be a part of it.  Despite all of the fear and panic, I wouldn't trade 13.1 for the world.

See?  Epic.

The Snatch Sisters: finest snatches in town. ;-)

The adrenaline didn't seem to fade as the morning went on.  In fact, I felt so awesome that I decided to stick around for Primal Mayhem at 7am.  Toni and Pam also decided to get in another workout, so we decided to be a team of three for this nice little ass-kicking:

And I must say, all things considered, we pretty much killed it.  Although I'd be lying if I said that 75 push presses weren't ridiculously painful after the beating that was 13.1, Mayhem was a perfect ending to a perfect morning.  The sun was shining, there was lots of running, and I got to enjoy the fresh air with my friends after some truly intense moments in the box earlier.

Still smiling... BADASSES!

At the end of the 30-minute AMRAP, Toni and I still had some burpees left to do.  So in an act of true Snatch Sister solidarity, we continued to burpee after the timer went off until we got in all of our reps.  No burpee left behind!

After Mayhem, I still wasn't quite ready to leave the box, so I stuck around the cheer on the boys as they took their shot at 13.1... and again, I was blown away by the strength, determination, and sheer awesomeness displayed by the TPA athletes.  Everyone absolutely killed it.  A special shout-out to Gabe:  I know you were not too psyched to see snatches in that WOD, but when push came to shove, you freaking DOMINATED that weight.  Truly badass.  It was awesome to watch.  And it was really cool that so many of the Mayhemers stayed to cheer everyone on.  The atmosphere in the box that morning was truly unforgettable.

The adrenaline has faded at this point, but the other effects of 13.1 continue to keep a smile on my face.  I feel a new level of focus and determination at the box that surpasses anything I've ever felt before.  Whereas I used to pretty much feel like this after every WOD:





...I have bigger goals than just surviving these days.  I want to strengthen my weaknesses and enhance my strengths.  I want to figure out double unders.  I want a damn pull up.  I want to feel like I threw my whole soul into every workout, not just the ones with scorecards.  I want it more than ever now.  It's amazing what one perfect morning can change.

I know that they won't all be like 13.1.  I'm fairly certain that there will be things in all of the upcoming Open WODs that I can't do.  It is inevitable that one of them will contain chest-to-bar pull ups, and my old enemies the handstand push up and toes to bar will almost certainly make an appearance.  The time will come, this Open season, when I am physically incapable of completing a WOD.  And I know that, when that day comes, it will be horrible and crushing and miserably disappointing.  But now that I've experienced the good, I think I can handle the bad.  It just makes me want it more for next year.  And you never know... maybe I have a pull up in me somewhere that is just waiting to make its debut at an epic moment.  And maybe when the pressure is on, my double unders will come together and I'll be able to get my damn toes to the damn bar.  Maybe not.  I don't know.  We'll just have to wait and see.  We are 51 hours away from the announcement of Open WOD 13.2, and I'm sure that by Wednesday night, I'll be back to 8/10 freak-out mode.  I'll be scared shitless all over again.  And you know what?  I'm okay with that.  For so many years, I avoided the things that scared me... and, in doing so, I gave up on a lot of things I loved.  You see, most people think that the opposite of fear is courage.  I'm beginning to think, the more I learn on this crazy journey, that the opposite of fear is actually apathy.  Only the things we truly, genuinely want or care about have the ability to instill fear in us.  (Exception: sharks.  Those mothers are terrifying, period.)  I wasted a lot of years going through the motions, too deterred by fear to go after the things I wanted in life.  But for the first time in way too long, I've found something that I care about deeply enough to literally give me panic attacks.  And if fighting back pre-WOD puke and having the occasional overly-emotional meltdown before a competition are the price I have to pay to fully embrace this new life of mine, then I say... bring on the fear.  Maybe fear is just life's way of telling us we're on the right track.

Or maybe I'm just rambling because I haven't slept for two days and I'm delirious.  I don't know.  But one thing is for sure: I can't remember the last time I felt as alive as I felt on Saturday morning.  Open WOD 13.1 might have been my first CrossFit competition, but it certainly won't be my last.  I'm hooked.  Look out, 2014... I'm getting a pull up, and I'm coming for ya.  Ready or not.


*Congratulations to my friends and boxmates on your amazing performances in 13.1... and good luck as you tackle 13.2 next week!  I can't wait!*