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Perhaps this is misguided, but I believe that everyone around me is trying their best.
Mostly, too, I always hope that same courtesy is extended to myself.
I am always trying my best, probably to a fault.
I'm a bit of a tryhard
By B. Sakura Cannestra
The 13-year-old version of me reveled in success, always doing the best. In high school, I wanted to make everyone proud of me. If you weren’t going to be proud of me, then I at least wanted to impress. I didn’t have to win everything, I didn’t need to be number one, but I had to overachieve at the very least.
I always worked hard to improve. My grades through high school averaged in the A range. I joined the speech team, aiming for the state championships. In freshman year, I was called up to the varsity water polo team at the end of my junior varsity season.
When I was 13, I was already working against about six knee injuries, which ultimately took me out of sports that occur on land. The amount of pressure that gravity put on my body would make my leg hurt.
I never liked the idea that my body was physically incapable of certain things.
I fought against the very real problem of my kneecap not staying in place, as if I could make up for that limitation by just pushing myself a little harder. I didn’t want to confront it.
In the water, gravity was less of a factor, and I could move with less fear I had to improve as an athlete in the one sport that I could. I still forced myself to study harder, but I put more effort into water polo than into my grades because I needed to prove to myself that I could still be an athlete.
Water polo is a taxing sport. You tread water the entire time, and the only reprieve is when you get to hang on the wall between quarters or are pulled onto the bench. There are seven people in the pool for either team at any given time — six field players and a goalie.
To be clear, I did other things in high school, too. But all of my experiences were colored blue by my time on the water polo team, from doing homework on the pool deck at tournaments to putting on makeup before junior prom in the locker room of some high school I’d just played at.
I played the field, set defense and set offense, swimming back and forth across the whole pool every time the ball turned over.
My team on high school had ten people at its maximum, which left three people on the bench to substitute in and out during the game. I rarely got subbed out.
By my senior year, I was holding down our team’s defense and was one of our team’s top scorers.
The 17-year-old version of me was just as much of a tryhard as the 13-year-old version.
I had been good enough at what I was doing for a while, long enough that things that had been impressive became normal. I’d become a vital part of the varsity water polo team. It wasn’t enough, though. I had to get better.
I was also 17 the last time I dislocated my knee.
I had been at water polo practice. We were doing a “dry land” exercise on the astroturf lacrosse field, a workout that involved pivoting between sprints.
It was a surprise to be out on the turf. I didn’t own cleats, wearing my normal weight room tennis shoes.
My kneecap didn’t make it through the first pivot. It was twisted by how quick I turned and how firmly I jumped into my sprint.
For a brief moment, I couldn’t feel anything other than the searing pain.
This was what, the seventh time I’d dislocated my knee? It was familiar.
I crawled my way to the edge of the field and sat there for the rest of the hour, leg bent up but not enough to be too painful.
I didn’t want to tell my coach that I couldn’t finish practice. I didn’t want to tell my parents. This wasn’t the first time, what was I supposed to tell them? Sorry Mom, I broke my leg again?
It felt like it was my fault, even though there’s no way I could have controlled the smoothness of my tennis shoes nor the looseness of the astroturf gravel.
Once the entire team was done with the exercise, I got up and limped to my car, waving my teammates off with a shaky smile. The pain in my leg was overshadowed by my shame. I was disappointed in myself for injury again.
I didn’t want to cause any more trouble than I already would, so I drove myself home.
If I could just ice my knee to get the swelling down, then go to practice the next day, it would be fine. I'd get over it. I could still play.
My parents were far from faulting me. It was kind of a shock when I got home.
Mom was in the kitchen while I limped in from the garage and announced that I’d dislocated my knee at practice.
I hadn’t even actually announced it. She asked why I was home early. I just didn’t want to out and say it, I think. Couldn’t get the words past my teeth.
It didn’t occur to me that me needing help wasn’t an inconvenience, and that the only person who was disappointed was myself.
I’m 23 now. I haven’t broken my leg since.
The other day, I turned down an invitation to play with the graduate school’s intramural soccer team. I still love team sports, but I can’t risk hurting my leg again.
It wasn’t an easy call, but it was for the better. I’m still trying my best. I think everyone is, really. But doing my best best doesn’t always involve me being the best, and being alone.
I still have trouble asking for help when I need it, admitting that I need help, but at least now I have that mental debate with myself. ‘Is this something I should ask someone about?’ is not a thought I would’ve had when I was 17, let alone 13.
It’s a small step, but it’s something worth being proud of. Right?
While reflecting on these instances and worrying about not wanting to break my leg, I thought back to the 17-year-old version of myself.
I say I’m trying my best, but how far is trying my best from trying to be better?
If I broke my leg again, tomorrow even, would I drive myself home again?
Disappointingly, I think the answer is still yes.
I guess I’ll have to try harder to let it go.