Everything about the skating rink screams irony, but yet I can not get myself to walk away. As much hurt artistic roller skating caused me over the years, it is my pain and ridicule. Everything about the rink is and always will be a part of me, as much as I hate admitting it. Skating wasn’t always filled with such animosity for me, it used to be my passion and drive. I still remember my first time walking into the US National Skating rink about five years ago. Exhilaration and excitement immediately coursed through my ten-year-old body, upon seeing so many skaters in one room with tremendous passion. The rink was everything I have ever dreamed of. The light blue bleachers about fifty feet tall and as wide as the width of the floor. A little farther to the right of the rink, a few skate booths laid with variety of skating dresses and jackets, I remember wanting to buy everything to treasure this magnificent experience. The rink’s floor looked as shiny as crystals dazzling in sunlight, probably being newly glazed. But the thing that really caught my eye was the national podium at the far back of the rink, appearing so incredibly tangible that I knew I had to stand on it one day. In all truth, the entire rink in general had a professional aura, and all I wanted to do was to skate on it, and skate I did. Even though that was my worst nationals by far, placement wise, I felt this new sense of hope, determination, and power within me. I believed I could do anything that I set my mind too.
I gradually won more and more competitions as time went by and slowly went to harder events. Winning at first felt exhilarating: the compliments, the attention, and the medals made me want to practice and skate more and more. At that time, I didn’t realize the burden that came along with winning.
Seventh grade was when I first started feeling the consequences of winning. I recall that practice like it was today. Starting off as any other practice, I was wearing tights with black, short spandex and a yellow cami. However, about half way through practice, my coach called me over. I just assumed it was to tell me something wrong with my technique, but no I quote her exact words, “You need to lose weight, if you want to go from a good skater to a great skater.”  Dumbfounded was the word to describe me at that moment. I couldn’t comprehend why my weight would have anything to do with my skating performance or ability. She then had the audacity to explain farther on how skating is completely a subjective sport and judges are inadvertently biased to thinner and more beautiful girls. If possible I think my mouth dropped further down. I know she wanted me to do well, but that was a step too far. I first told myself she was crazy and wrong, but whenever I looked in the mirror a voice in the back of mind told me I was fat and ugly. That was the first day I felt self-conscious about myself and my appearance, and that feeling still continues to this day. I wanted to be a great skater, I wanted to be perfect. No that is not the right words: I needed to be perfect. Winning and perfection became a drug to me by that time, the more I won, the more I wanted the perfection. So I believed my coach and lost weight the only way I knew how: eating less. I somehow convinced myself that everyone does it. It wasn’t until I lost my period, that I realized how unhealthy I was.
Although I began eating again, I still had this underlying desire for perfection. I started looking at fellow skaters as obstacles standing in the way of the gold, even my own teammates I had known forever. When I would meet someone, I would analyze them, looking for flaws and weaknesses. If I couldn’t find any, I would try to psych them out to forgot my anxiety because their apprehension would be greater. My heart told me it was wrong, that these girls worked as hard or harder then I did to be at Nationals. However, my brain told me if nerves consumed me, why shouldn’t it consume others too? I knew it was immoral, but I couldn’t help myself. It was just too simple, some girls were as naive and innocent as I was four years ago.
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My entire life completely changed because of skating, which I guess changed me as a person. Before I knew it, my drive and passion for skating became a drive for perfection and medals. The pressure and expectations to be perfect destroyed me. 
The US National Skating rink is not a place for hope, perseverance, and determination for me anymore. Instead a place with sorrow and pain. The blue bleachers on the left of the skating rink remind me of the audiences harsh and negative attitude to anything that isn’t exemplary. Sitting, eating, texting, while judging the skater on the floor. Saying she isn’t “good enough,” when in reality they probably cannot skate to save their lives. The skating dresses that before represented grace are now appalling - pointing out every flaw of a skaters’ body with the short skirts and excessively tight material. The judges sitting on the right side of the rink make me feel flawed and incomplete, always giving scores around the 50s, 60s, 70s and 80s out of 100. The National podium on the far back of the rink, which used to represent the ideal perfection and my dream, but now all I can see is how each time I stood on the podium, I got worse and worse as a person.
The only word I can use for skating is regret. The idea of perfection consumed me. I thought striving for perfection would make me great, but I was wrong. In truth, I am the only one who lost. I lost my passion to skate, jump, and spin. I lost my self-confidence, my health, and most importantly I lost my morals. All for undertaking a goal that is impossible. A goal of perfection, which no matter the amount of effort, nobody can achieve.