Recovered

After years of battling mental illness, sprained wrists and fractured ankles, I was back. Nicknamed The Powerhouse, my robust thighs were known for forcefully vaulting me into the air, and yet also reliably catching me on my way down. They didn't think I would make a comeback, I was certain of this. I was certain of something else, though, which contradicted their gossip; that I'd be ready to compete at this year's Regional Championships.
--
I've spent the last week preparing for my arrival in Detroit, Michigan – a city well known in its figure-skating excellence. The training regime, of course, was intensified; the stress level, amplified; and the anxiety, distended.  
Months of training aside, however, all too quickly we parked the car, difficultly, in the over-crowded arena lot and before I knew it, I was striding through the door with my head held high, feigning confidence, in preparation for my last practices.
--
A few late-night practice sessions and cups of caffeine later, the menacing ring of the alarm clock thrust itself into my dreams of failure, prying my eyes open and awaking me with a jump. Carpe diem, I thought to myself, although not regularly one for optimistic affirmations, needing comfort. Seize the day, seize the day, seize the day, I repeated this translation three times, for consistency, however this unusually-positive mindset was short-lived. Amitte diem, I replace my thoughts with. Let the day slip by, I translate with a moan, as I roll over and bury my head under my pillow.
The responsible voice in my head nags until my hotel bed is made and hair is brushed. I glance at the pile of practice clothing on the armchair, and my eyes widen. As I realize those dirty clothes should be thrown back into my suitcase, I also try to grasp the concept that there is no more practice. Today is the day. Carpe diem.
--
The beige, strapless bra is covered by the custom, sparkling dress. Both pairs of tights have no holes, this has been double-checked. The black warm-up knit sweater is tied perfectly, covered by the jacket from my rink at home. For the past hour, I have delicately recreated my face by way of layers of make-up, and contained my sleek hair with clips, spray, and a hairnet. With my iPod in pocket and lipstick nearby, I collect my bags and trusted yoga mat, and soon I am striding down the hotel hallway, passing by younger skaters and their parents, a slight smile plastered upon my alluring face.
--
Arriving at the rink, accompanied by my buoyancy and, although contradictory, artificial arrogance, I check in with great poise. Handing over my music to the volunteer behind the counter, I receive my lanyard, labeled 'COMPETITOR', in return.
My bags have been secured in a remote locker room. Distractions are not welcome. With music blasting in my ears and a yoga mat under my arm, I find a spot outside to perform the pre-competition rituals; jogging, sun salutations, air rotations, and stretching.
I arrive back in the locker room, anxious to reapply any smudged makeup and re-plaster loose hairs to my head.
Minutes later, following my nervous pacing throughout the locker room, my skates are on. Back out in the cold of the arena, walking towards my couch, I watch little eyes hypnotized as I continue on. The skaters I know from home gaze affectionately, and those unknown stare in admiration.
I have worked hard prefacing this day. I am ready for the warm-up to begin. I am nervous, but I am invincible.
--
My eyes rolled into the back of my head, face turning to the ceiling, teeth clenched, as my own skate blade sliced into my thigh. Seized by pain, I am numb. In the matter of a millisecond, the music doesn't stop, but all is silent. I see the crowd gasp and yet I hear nothing. Thoughts are racing; the sarcastic, pessimistic voice I've worked so hard to silence is back,'and there it goes, all hope for Nationals...', it trails off, smirking. 'You're right,' a sudden hope remarks, 'it's slipping away, and I won't let that happen again.' I find myself on my feet, hearing the music, muscle memory in tune with the beat. I'm trying to collect the facts, repeating the simplest knowledge to myself in hopes I can continue on in this program. The audience and judges are told a story, through my emotions and the music. The strained violin sings, and the pain from my leg throws passion into my choreography, displaying sentiment I've never felt before to a crowd I've never met. I have been reborn.
--
Two minutes later, I freeze, purposely, as the last note reverberates to a silenced audience. The pose is held for five counts, as I've been taught, and the stunned spectators erupt in applause. The crowd didn't suspect a recovery on my part, from this fall, or the injuries in my past.
I take the customary bow; facing first, the appalled judges, and second, the rest of the audience. I skate off the ice with my head held high, dragging the bleeding leg behind me.
Regardless of the outcome, I continued on. I proved them all wrong.