By Joe Putignano
Follow the writer as he is going on a harrowing trip from the USA Olympic education heart to homeless shelters to taking pictures heroin at the activity to being declared useless. This tale is going past habit. it really is in regards to the fragility and tenacity of the human spirit and the way that spirit can redeem every one in every of us by means of aiding to push us in the course of the darkness, even if the darkness is from demise, divorce, or the affliction of addiction.
Acrobaddict is a narrative in regards to the shut dating among athletics and drug addiction—how an analogous strength, obsession, and commitment that could create an Olympic athlete may also create a homeless drug addict.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (Starred evaluation) After studying former Olympic gymnastics hopeful Putignano's sinister but intoxicating memoir of habit, restoration, and extra dependancy, you finish up feeling like one in all his closest neighbors. The first-time writer, who now portrays Crystal guy in Cirque du Soleil's touring production...
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I couldn’t articulate it, but my body knew long before my mind did, and it felt like I was uncovering ancient hieroglyphics. Like an addict needing his fix, I would sneak downstairs and do gymnastics. I thought I could figure it out on my own and be successful. I tried doing a backflip, but fell on my neck. I got up and tried again, and the same thing happened. I did it again and again, and I kept landing on my head. My brother and sisters would come downstairs to see if I’d hurt myself yet and yell, “You are going to break your back .
The apparatuses looked hazardous, beaten, and weary, reminding me of old-fashioned torture devices used in wars hundreds of years ago. These structures stood like tombstones jutting out of an archaic graveyard, sanctified and solid. The equipment had absorbed the souls of all the athletes who had performed and trained on those devices—each spirit giving the gym more character and stability, transforming the space into its own thriving organism. I walked into my very first gymnastics class knowing I wanted to be a champion.
The bed and walls were covered with thick moisture. A machine pushed air and medicine into the space, and it felt soothing. Slowly my breath returned, and I knew the medicine-filled air was killing the beast that had taken residence in my lungs. I lay there, exhausted from my fight, but once again feeling immortal and strong. I was still sick, but the storm was over. I watched my mother on the other side of the tent looking in at me with concern. She looked beautiful through the plastic, like a goddess.