The Truth About Rehab

I wrote this late last week after a frustrating series of training days. I try to use this blog predominantly to talk about writing, with a side splash of updates about living as an Aussie expat in America. But today I’m going to break the mould a little. If you’ve read any of my work before, you’ve probably heard me offhandedly mention rehab. The story itself is a lengthy one, but hopefully I won’t get too lost in the retelling.

In early 2012, I injured my lower back. Due to a number of factors associated with work, I rehabilitated myself for the remainder of that year and into 2013 through a lot of static strength-building exercises and bodybuilder type training splits. This was my modus operandi during my Afghanistan trip in 2013 as well. Even during my deployment, I saw an army physio for my back cramping and pulling when running, but it was definitely improving. Post-Afghanistan, I started training at an amazing Crossfit gym in Sydney (called Crossfit Black). Despite dealing with a recurrent knee injury that originated in 2011 during my training at the Royal Military College – Duntroon in Canberra, it was probably one of the greatest training times of my life. I felt strong and confident. I became fitter, faster and generally more athletic than I have ever been. Despite being a swimmer through school, I had never trained as consistently, with as much modal variation and with as many beneficial outcomes as I did that year. And I was strong. I gained strength quickly and after starting to learn Olympic Weightlifting in Afghan, continued to rack up better numbers during 2014. When I left at the end of the year, the coach (Cookie), told me to think about giving up Crossfit and focusing purely on Oly: I had potential, he said, and I should devote myself to it for 12 months or so just to see where I could take it.

When I moved to Adelaide, I tried out a local Crossfit Gym for a while as well as a rowing club along the Torrens, but I eventually went and visited one of the (very few) weightlifting gyms just to see how it went. It was hard, but I enjoyed it and a few people raved about my potential, and I started hitting bigger numbers… So I kept going. Even when my lower back started to hurt all the time. I wasn’t satisfied that my technique was as good as it could have been and after an enforced 6 weeks break due to a military exercise (during which my lower back hurt constantly), I decided to change coaches. My new coach is a former Commonwealth Games weightlifter and an all-round great guy. Between him and his coaching offsider, my form began to improve… But my back still hurt. When I competed for the final time in November, I hit a solid 70kg snatch, a 93kg clean & jerk and a 95kg clean. At this stage, I consistently struggled against back spasms and strong pain when getting out of bed at the moment and trying to put on my shoes. Walking around the markets on a Sunday morning had become an impossible chore.

So I stopped.

I looked up at James one day and said, “I’m going to have to give this up.” That decision was hard. If you’ve ever wanted to be elite at a sport and have someone tell you that maybe you could be good, that temptation is intoxicating. Despite the pain, I felt strong when I trained. I felt powerful. I felt pretty badass really. But I decided to stop. I started seeing a physio and eventually I stopped Oly training, of any kind, altogether. It was fortunate that I had just changed roles at work and was no longer required to do military physical training; instead, I could do my own thing in the gym within the limits of my pain. I started seeing a personal trainer to try and reprogram my movement patterns.

I was so certain that this was short term.

Do you know what it feels like when your body betrays you? When you try so damn hard and you push and you work to do the right thing, and your body refuses to obey any more? You know what a lot of people don’t tell you about rehab?

It feels hopeless.

Maybe everyone gets that from time to time or maybe no one else does. I don’t know, but I’m not talking about feeling demoralised because it’s taking too long. I’m talking about the moments you feel sideswiped by a feeling of terror because you can’t breathe under the weight of the thought: what happens if this never gets better? Why does no one I talk to seem to have any idea of what we need to do to fix this? 

I stopped Oly lifting in November 2015, approximately nine months ago now. I’m still not sure whether I’ll ever be able to lift again and knowing that there are some things in life that may now be completely beyond me is difficult to deal with.

For me, rehab is walking into the gym some days and doing the same frustrating, repetitive exercises, trying not to cry as I do it because all I can think is “is this all there is ever going to be?” It means bitterly watching people training with poor form and lack of control, and feeling cheated that they’re getting away with it, when I worked my ass off to improve my technique and can’t do a tenth of what they’re able to. I look at exercises I could do and have to calculate the risk of it: if it won’t hurt while I’m doing it, will I increase my general muscular imbalance and make the problem worse? Will I, despite my best intentions, exacerbate the pain that is stopping me from doing the things I want to do?

Rehab means sharp stabbing, pulling pain in my hips, glutes and lower back when I’m walking with a friend, and being secretly relieved when it turns out the off-leash dogs have already headed home so instead of doing two laps of the park, we only do one. I know that when I agree to go for a walk or head out hiking with James and Kim, that there won’t be a comfortable moment when I do it… Sometimes I’m just hanging desperately on for the moment when I can sit or lie down and let the tension dissipate.

Attempting to rehabilitate myself means that sometimes I want to blame being tired, or hormones, or stress, but I think maybe what I feel is instead the persistent tugging of despair, like a rabid dog, or a constant ache inside that says this will never get better. It feels like it’s been a long, long time since I cried while writing anything, but I did today. I know that this is what I have to work with and that I’m lucky: I have the strongest, kindest, most supportive lover and best friend that anybody could ever ask for. I am well aware that I am fortunate to control over my body and full use of all my limbs.

I’m just saying that I can understand how sometimes it seems like there is nothing but darkness in that tunnel ahead.

To anyone else struggling along this path, may your way be as light and speedy as possible. To the rest of the world, I hope that this post has maybe illustrated some of the challenges faced by an athlete who is injured and undergoing a long, frustrating rehabilitation.