Stay Committed

Last year around New Year's, I bought myself a new workout shirt to celebrate the soon-to-begin roller derby season. It was a deep wine purple with gold letters that boasted, "Be you. Do you. For you."

It became an accidental anthem for 2019.

This past year, I focused on finding myself. I was more than ready to put 2018 far behind me. For 2019, I was going to become the person I wanted to be, and everyone else be damned.

I focused on conquering my fears: I played in my first bout, and then my second (I did not die in either). I sang karaoke. I sang karaoke in front of my boss. I sang on a stage in front of my entire town (for 10 shows!). I led a den of small children in Scouts. I faced a difficult professional change, and came out better for it. I hiked. I camped. I traveled.

I went back to counseling and began the long and emotional process of doing EMDR to reprocess some trauma that continues to poison me. I faced down hormonal and emotional issues and finally began taking an anti-depressant.

And I didn't do it for TJ. Or my mom. Or even my kid. Or my boss. Or that bully from sixth grade. Or even my team. I did it for me.

Today, appropriately on New Year's Eve, I purchased a new workout shirt. It's avocado green and has, emblazoned up the side: Stay Committed.

It's the perfect workout shirt for 2020. It encapsulates everything I've been feeling about this year.

This is my way of telling myself, Girl, you've done so much. You've come so far. Don't you dare give up now.

It also pushes me to continue facing my fear, as I constantly want to quit. This roller derby season especially I know will challenge and push me in new ways -- it's time to come off the bench, it's time to stop being "Stale Meat" and step up as a Vet.

It calls me to stick with my counseling even as my therapist retires and I have to start over with someone else. It pushes me to keep navigating my health until I'm satisfied with my results. It tells me to stick with the mindfulness techniques I've been studying in order to be a better communicator.

It reaches into every part of my life.

Stay committed ...

To becoming credit card-debt free.

To saving for a house.

To keep being you. Doing you. For you.

Stay committed.

Lakeside Clarity

It's no secret that my weight has been sort of an ongoing thing in my life. Up, down, up ... mostly up. My Facebook memories are kinda of this endless cycle of "I lost weight!" "I'm going to lose weight!" "I don't care about weight!"

On and on it goes.

I've been very intrigued by the body-positive movement, and this idea that all bodies are good bodies. That weight isn't as important as health. Let go of society's beauty standards. But ya see, that's so impossibly hard to do when you've had it engrained in you for 30+ years.

So the struggle goes on. And this spring, I've gained weight. And really, I've felt OK. I'm doing roller derby, I'm more active then I've been in a long time. And I'm sort of letting myself relax a little on the food front.

But occasionally, I'll see a photo of myself and think, "Oh geez. I've gained so much weight." And all I see is my tummy rolls and my thick arms and my round face. And then I think about starting the cycle of weird restrictive diets all over again.

This week I've been on vacation. A much-needed vacation. And it's been great. Today, we went to Round Lake, a lake I canoed and fished and hiked and ice skated on a million times as a kid. Clark and TJ and Grandma and I hiked two miles all the way around the lake, and then splashed in the water and collected rocks.

And TJ took this photo.

This is about halfway through our hike. I picked Clark up so TJ could get the lake in the background. I didn't look at the photo until later this afternoon.

I started this morning trying on a cute pair of jeans that are my mom's. They're my "normal" size, and I couldn't button them. So I sighed and pulled on my stretchy, elastic-waist pants. Somehow so much more "grandma" than the pants owned by an actual grandma.

And I threw on a tank top and looked at my tummy pouch and thought, "Well -- to hell with all this."

This afternoon, I looked at this photo.

And I don't see any of that.

I see how happy I look. And how happy Clark looks. I see how strong my arms are carrying this 50+ pound boy. I see that my legs are strong. I remember how good I felt walking through this woods with my family.

This is my favorite picture of all time. I don't see any of my fat. I don't see any of my body image issues. I just see a happy mom, with a happy kiddo. Enjoying a walk around the lake.

This photo felt like a small seismic shift. A moment of clarity and being able to just see me, without the baggage. Me, just as me. And wow. I look pretty damn good. More importantly, I look pretty damn happy.

And I'll take that over button-jeans any day of the week.

You're Never Gonna Keep Me Down

At the beginning of June, my derby captain skated up to me and asked if I thought I could pass my minimum skills.

I lied straight to her face and said, "oh yeah. Probably."

No. No, was my real answer. "Good, cause we'd really like you to scrimmage this month."

I took a deep breath in and said, "oh great!" I knew damn well that passing minimum skills and scrimmaging meant they wanted me to play in the July B-level bout. Because they thought I'd be good. Or they know it's my one chance to play this season. Or, hell, they were just desperate to pass people and fill out the roster. 

I spent most June talking myself into and out of skipping practice. They can't pass me if I don't go! Amazingly, I've never had better attendance than I did this June.

That's how, last Tuesday, I found myself skating on poured concrete in Tri-Cities, practicing with my teammates and getting ready for tomorrow's bout. They passed me. I mean, barely, but roller derby is among "horse shoes and hand grenades" with "close enough." Everything about practicing on the Kennewick track terrifies me. It's concrete instead of a gym floor. It's outside in the Tri-Cities heat instead of inside in the Walla Walla heat, pretending to be air conditioned. There are people there who can see you. Everyone on that team is better at existing in the world than I am. 

I volunteered to drive as extra protection against backing out.

So here it was with everything psychologically stacked against me that they announced a toe-stop drill. In theory, I can use my toe stops. In theory, I can also follow a perfect diet and lose 50 pounds. Neither of these works well in practice.

That's the point in which my left foot slipped, kicking myself in the ankle, and all not-50-pounds-lighter of me came down on top of my own skate. I scooted on my bum to the edge of the tracking trying to decide if I was breathing. The evening's coach skated up, "Are you OK? Do you need an ice pack?" And I think I said, "Yes." 

"I don't have one." she told me. 

It's funny except for how much it hurt. Somehow I stood up and skated to the side and sat on the bench. I took off my helmet and wrist and mouth guards and sat there willing myself not to throw up. I could already feel the angry welt on my upper thigh. "You OK, Pinkie?" teammates hollered from the center.

"I'm fine! Just gonna sit here for a minute!" I hollered back. "hurt my bum!"

The thing about your upper thigh is there isn't much fragile in there. The leg bones are among the strongest in our bodies. Mine has the added protection of a lot of fat and muscle around it. It was really angry, but it was also really gonna be OK.

But I still sat on that bench and cried. This is bout practice night! I fell down during the warm-up like an idiot! I knew I had to get my gear on and get back out there. 

My toe stops scare me. They make me feel tall, out of control. I feel like a giant. I feel like everything about my weight is precariously balanced over two balls of rubber and everyone can tell. 

But the thing is - I fought like hell to be in this bout. Not just at practice (let's be real - not even always at practice). This battle for me is less athletic than it is emotional. I have never been in an athletic competition even remotely close to this. Ever. For one solid hour, every three jams, my teammates need me to get out there and be stable and put my bruised ass in front of people and not be afraid of my own feet.

That's what a size 11 does to your thigh.

Tonight, I rolled up the rug in the downstairs room and practiced my toe stops on the wood floor. I watched videos. I read articles. I tried making them lower, then higher. I turned on Imagine Dragons and I tapped across the wood. 

There's a floor-length mirror in here and you can perfectly see my feet and my bruise. It's basically stopped hurting just by me existing, but still does when my kid bumps it. 

But it's also a giant physical victory symbol. This is what derby is for me. This is one solid year of me kicking my own ass. To get to practice. To keep trying. TO TURN AROUND, DAMMIT. To prove to myself that I can do this, that I'm worth it. That the investment in me is OK. That the critics are wrong. That I can do hard things. That I can not quit. That I can take a hit. Get knocked down. Get back up again.

And tomorrow's the night. I mildly want to throw up. My body is handling the stress by giving me a cold sore in the middle of my chin. But I don't care. We may win. We may lose. I may spend the entire game in the penalty box and not understand why. I may trip my own jammer. I may fall down. I may get hurt.

But no matter what, I'm carting my body on a victory lap around the gym when it's over. And when practice resumes, I'll drag my tired, sore, bruised ass to that gym and keep practicing my toe stops. 

That's the biggest lesson I've learned in roller derby. No one is going to keep you down except yourself. No one will stop you but you. You can do this, if you want it. You can make it if you fight for it. 

Don't quit. Take the hit. Get back up. Get knocked down. Get back up again.

You're never gonna keep me down.

Team Player

Be a team player.

I have always hated that phrase. Maybe it’s because I never had an example of what a “team player” looked like

We weren’t “team sports” people in my house. We weren’t individual sports people. We weren’t sports people, period.

But I tried. My attempts at team sports involved groups of girls in city rec volleyball and basketball, who would rather see me fail than everyone win. I rode benches. I left practices crying.

Be a team player meant “Let the other girls win.” Stay out of the way. Don’t try if you aren’t good. Be a team player meant don’t try to grow if it’ll hold someone else back. Let the natural athletes take it. You go read a book.

I’ve spent a lot of time hiding from new things out of fear of being bad at them. And while I maybe did avoid some public embarrassment of failing in front of others, I did something else, too: I built a shame reservoir that runs deep. I let myself believe that I am inadequate.

 I let all those mean girls win.

It’s almost my one year anniversary of joining roller derby. I joined on my 33rd birthday. And this season has been tough. I watched nearly all of my cohort pass minimum skills and move on to scrimmaging. Some are bouting. I’m still working on turning around reliably.

The first time I watched them scrimmage without me, I cried all the way home.

“I’m never going to be good enough,” I sobbed.

“You’ve come so far,” my mom told me.

“I’m so proud of you,” my husband told me.

I’m worried I’m holding my teammates back.

“Remember when you couldn’t stop?” My coach said

“I still can’t stop,” I countered.

“Did I ask for your opinion?” She said.

I’m worried the others think I’m terrible. I’m worried the girls are still judging me.

“You’re killing it, Pinkie,” my teammates shout. “You’re going to be a bulldozer!”

“When we talk about you behind your back, it’s to say what a powerhouse you are,” another said.

I am slowly learning a new definition of “team player.” I have roller derby to thank for that. It’s helping up someone you just knocked over. It’s congratulating someone who knocked you over. It’s skating slower next to someone new. It’s sharing tips on gear, and cheering someone through that last minute.

It’s knowing that we don’t make it as a team unless we make it AS A TEAM. While the speed of our journeys may be different, we’re all on the same track.

I’ve let mean girls live rent-free in my head for long enough. This is their final warning: Pack it up, ladies. My derby sisters are coming for you, and they aren’t about to put up with your negativity.

At 10 pm Tuesday I get home from practice. I smell weird. My arm hurts from my elbow to my shoulder. I know I took a hit, but I honestly can’t remember it. My right hip aches. I took a helmet to the lip. I’m exhausted. It’s all I can do to strip out of my sweat-soaked clothes and take a shower.

As I collapse into bed, my phone chirps.

“You did awesome tonight,” the message reads.

“How was derby?” My husband mumbles through his sleep.

I lay down and feel every joint and bone and muscle screaming.

“It was awesome,” I tell him. And I mean it.

Falling Small

I fell down recently.

Not a graceful pretty fall. Not an epic comical fall. A big, stupid, ugly fall.

I had placed a large box containing a heavy bookcase in my small office at the bottom of the stairs. "I'll deal with you later," I promised it. Not a half hour later, I carried an armful of shoes down the same stairs, and crossed the room to my bedroom door to put them away.

In my path was that box.

I hit it midstride, and sprawled across the floor, shoes flying. whomp. I screamed as I fell. "Are you OK?" Tj called from up the stairs. "Nooooo" I called back, as I rolled off my right arm onto my arm and starred at the ceiling. I took the entire weight of my fall in my right shoulder. A few weeks later, it's still jacked up.

You'd think after six months of roller derby, I'd know how to fall.

Earlier this year, I watched a friend experience personal tragedy. You could almost watch the shift of earth underneath her. For several days, she seemed wobbly. Unstable. As if at any moment that final piece of rug was going to be pulled out, and she'd go down.

Isn't it amazing, life's ability to take us out at the knees?