Throughout my high school career, playing varsity team tennis and solo USTA tournaments to build up my sectional ranking before college, I continued to battle undiagnosed and untreated anxiety. The anxiety had bled into a variety of different components of my life – sports, school, interpersonal relationships, and music (I played the oboe), but tennis was the biggest trigger. At some point, I began to develop and engage in rituals to calm the unrelenting obsessive thoughts during matches. Before each point, I would walk in a counter-clockwise circle, knock on my head 3 times (to unjinx myself), tap my racket on the ground once while I swayed back and forth in “ready position,” and bounce the ball 3 times before serving.
Tennis, specifically singles, is a solitary sport. You’re the only person on your team. There’s no one else to sub in if you’re having an off day or to coach you into staying mentally tough. When you play well and win, this is great – you get to take all of the credit for your victory. But on days you play poorly and lose, there’s no one else to blame but yourself.
As I got older, it became less and less socially acceptable to start crying in the middle of a match (or even practice!) because I wasn’t happy with how I was playing – something my dad made sure I knew. There were absolutely players who were much more skilled, but often I’d feel like I was playing myself instead of the person on the other side of the net. I wouldn’t physically lose to my opponent – I’d mentally lose, unable to prevent my catastrophizing mind and uncontrollable emotions from careening off the deep end. Every match became a battle against a building anxiety attack. When I won, I’d feel only relief. Relief that I’d defended and preserved my dignity. Relief that I was a winner, instead of a wimpy, emotional failure. Just relief. Nothing more.
