Autism and Athleticism

Hey everyone! This post is about my journey with sports and exercise and how I became physically active without caring about fitting in.

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My K12 school system focused heavily on sports.  Athletes were praised, rewarded, revered.  The high school football field was the cornerstone of the whole community.  It seemed as if you even put so much as your pinky toe on that sacred ground, you were a hero.

Sure, football was the main sport, the pride and joy of the district, but that’s not to say that the other sports were neglected.  If you partook in pretty much any athletic activity, you automatically rose in the social hierarchy.

I was short and underweight with barely any muscle.  My days were spent reading, drawing, and pretending I was anyone anywhere else.  I had zero coordination due to my autism.  Needless to say, I sucked at sports.

The first time it became apparent was when we had to run in second grade.  One of the staff members had a handheld speedometer.  He stood next to the lockers while we sprinted across the hallway, then read us our speed.  I remember watching my classmates dash past the classrooms, the pounding of their sneaker-clad feet muffled against the carpet.  My stomach lurched.  Running was hard for me.  It had always been.  I knew my classmates’ numbers were impossible to reach.

The staff member called me up.  I positioned myself at the beginning of the hallway, toward the exit doors, and waited.

“Go.”

The dash to the end of the hallway seemed to last forever.  It took every effort to push myself forward, to keep all my joints in line with what I had to do.  It was uncomfortable, almost painful.  The only thing holding me together was the slight breeze against my skin.  Even then, I knew my efforts were fruitless.  Anyone watching was probably snickering at me.  I stopped where I’d been instructed and panted.

“Six miles per hour.”

I was humiliated.  Only six.  But really, had I expected anything more?  I walked back as calmly as I could, desperate to disguise my feelings from the rest of the class.  As I watched them go, my heart sunk further.

A black-haired boy raced down the stretch of carpet.  It was astounding how fast he went.  He was like a cheetah.

“Twelve miles per hour,” the staff member said, pleased with the result.

The boy smiled as he walked back.  His friends praised him.

I felt horrible.  I literally ran half as fast as him.  How was I supposed to be an equal to my peers if I couldn’t even do something so basic?  The thought stung.

Anything athletic continued to be the bane of my existence as I got older.  I remember one time in gym class we had to test how many pull-ups we could do in a minute or so.  There was one girl in my class, a gymnast, who managed to do somewhere around thirty.  When I got to the bar, I just hung.  Another time, we had a substitute teacher.  He decided to do something different, a method that wasn’t typically used in our school, and pick team captains.  I felt uneasy, but confident that someone would be kind enough to want me on their team.  Friends chanted names at their respective captain, begging for them to be chosen.  My classmates went, one by one, beaming as they jogged up to their groups.  I watched and waited.  Five left.  Four.  Three.  Two.

And then I was the last one standing there.  Two dozen and some kids, all staring at me, alone on the painted line.  I shuffled awkwardly.  All dignity had been lost, and in front of a stranger.

I looked at the sub.  He was already watching me, a look of pity in his eyes.  Was he sorry?  I don’t know.  Certainly, he hadn’t thought too much about the fact that someone would be last.

“All right, go,” he said, gesturing for me to go to the team with one less person.  I was quiet as I caught up to them.  All of them knew I was bad at sports.  No one had said my name.  Not a single one of them wanted me.

I decided finally after the summer of seventh grade that I was going to force myself into athletics.  I would pick a sport and go with it, even if it was hard, just to say I did something, just to feel wanted.  My mom always had a brochure of summer courses in the district.  I took it and pored over it until I made my decision – cheerleading.

When I got to the building, it seemed that everyone already knew everyone.  This was their place and they felt comfortable in it.  There was no room for me there.  Still, I pressed on.  I wore the shirt.  I smiled at people.  I wouldn’t let anyone know that I was struggling, and so far, it was working.  My age group decided that since I was small, I would be a flyer.  Things were on the right track.

Then came time for stretches.  Not too bad.  You couldn’t go wrong with that.  But as I moved, my muscles strained.  My body just wouldn’t do what it was supposed to.  I shook, stumbled, did my best to keep my balance, to be flexible.  I had to prove myself to these girls.

And then it came time for the splits.  The exercise wasn’t mandatory, but we were still encouraged to try, so I did.  I followed the other girls’ moves and pushed myself lower towards the mat.  My hamstrings ached.  I didn’t care.  Even if the teacher said it wasn’t, it was still required.

Two girls from the high school group looked over at me.  I tried my best to ignore them, to focus on my legs and not their voices, but they were still so loud.

“Look at her,” one of them sneered.

“What a loser.”

That broke me.  I couldn’t handle this.  Even in a sport that encouraged joy and sisterhood, I was out.  Sobbing, I went to the teacher during the next break and told her I couldn’t do this.  She was agitated, saying that I just needed to try harder.  I told her I’d already done my best.  She called my mom to pick me up.  I hadn’t even made it an hour.

Over the next few years, even though I couldn’t do sports, I still craved the power that athleticism would give people.  I stared at social media, the girls with their abs and toned arms and slim thighs in their patterned leggings, and I couldn’t help but feel envious.  I had to reach that level.

Last year, my boyfriend (who is also autistic) got into weightlifting.  It made him feel amazing.  He encouraged me, a positive influence in this area for the first time in my life, to exercise not to fit in, but to be genuinely healthy.  He didn’t care what my abilities were or how long I could endure or what I looked like.  He told me to drink enough water, to take rest days, to stop if I ever felt sick or hurt.  It was up to me to decide if I wanted to do it and then what I would do and how much.

I started with following yoga videos on YouTube.  My flexibility improved so much.  There was way less tension in my body, and for the first time in a long time, I could take an actual deep breath.  My coordination and endurance were way better.  I was so proud of myself for what I was able to do.

Then I went big – a Chloe Ting ab workout.  To my surprise, I did the full two-week program.  And with my boyfriend encouraging me, it was easy.  I felt on top of the world.

Next, I started doing weightlifting.  It wasn’t too much, just smaller weights to tone and build a little muscle.  I also did a couple bodyweight exercises and brought back yoga for my rest days.  I took a walk or bike ride daily.  Now, I like to do the elliptical and swim, though I still enjoy the old stuff.

My boyfriend and I exercise together a lot.  Even though we aren’t usually doing the same thing, it’s nice having someone to be there with me, to mutually encourage and support each other.  We refill each other’s water bottles and spot each other when needed.  Exercise is our favorite ‘together’ hobby.Sometimes when I’m on the elliptical or doing Arnold presses, my mind flashes back to being that little girl all alone on one side of the gym.  I see that sub and the look in his eyes.  I frown, push myself harder.  And then I think to myself – Relax.  You’ve come so far.