revelation

revelation: a surprising and previously unknown fact; the making known of a secret or the unknown


I had a strange revelation tonight.  Well, less of a revelation, and more of a final clear understanding. Which is almost satirical considering it was explained to me, no unveiled rather, by a heavily intoxicated individual.  We were on our way home from Quinn's, a local bar in Boise that hosts our "post bout functions" for roller derby (a.k.a. after parties).  It was 2 am and I had successfully gotten my roommate, Highway, into the car without tripping or puking.  The streets were dark, except for the occasional ominous red glow of a stop light, or the flicker of a passing porch. The night air was rushing in through the windows, chilling my cheeks.  I was quite, Highway was sleepy, but chatting up a storm.  In her slurred speech, she started to talk about how our next bout is on mother's day weekend and how she was bad at mother's day.  "How do you mean?" I asked.  "Well I hate Mother's day, because I grew up with thousands of mother figures who all feel worthy of a card or a gift or a gesture."  Now remember, Highway, similar to me, was abandoned by a parent at a young age.  In the brief moment of silence that followed her explanation, everything clicked. The light in my head had turned green and I empathized, "yeah, as a kid who has been abandoned at a young age, you have to grow up quickly and as a byproduct adopt this mantra that the only person that cares or matters in your life is you...even if the other people in your life don't feel the same way." Highway nodded her tipsy head and replied, "It's a cold cold coping mechanism, but it sure as hell works, look at us, we're fucking amazing."  True.

Considering our lives, statistically we should have had a child at a young age, been addicted to some sort of substance, had an eating disorder, a gambling problem, or a number of other debilitating troubles by now.  But no, when you do things for yourself and by yourself, when you are your own world, you can accomplish a lot...like putting yourself through law school, like being the youngest historical records archivist in the inter-mountain west, like kicking ass at skating derby, like overall generally being amazing, beautiful, strong, confident, courageous, and intelligent women. I'm proud of who I am and know that I owe a large part of this to, well, myself.  Living life like this way is effective.  Individualism is fantastic means by which to protect yourself from disappointment and all the other shit life tries to through at you. It makes you resilient.  But it wasn't until tonight that I realized that individualism and resilience aren't always valued by other people, nor understood by them.  I have struggled to explain this to my mother, for example.  Through words, I couldn't ever tell her fully why I don't need/want any "help" or why I can seem "coldhearted" sometimes.  And surely, my "selfishness" and "intensity" have been an ongoing battle in every relationship I have ever had.  But now I get it, I understand why they don't understand.

So now the question is, do I change? Uh. Will I ever value codependency?  Or, do I simply need to come, prepackaged, with an asterisk explaining who I am and why I am the way I am. Ha! Like a tag with wash and wear instructions.  Best invention ever.

no use crying over spilled milk

no use crying over spilled milk: an English idiom meaning that dwelling on or being upset over past events is not productive

This is a silly idiom, like most idioms.  One that seems most silly considering the following post that I have been wanting to write for awhile now.

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There is crying in derby.  Lots of crying. There isn't supposed to be, but there sure fucking is.  As a derby girl, you hear this idiom a lot.  You hear it while getting ready for a hitting drill, while huddled up after a shit-show jam, while in the locker room coddling an injury, while quelling your nerves before you face that first relentless whistle.  But don't let this phrase fool you.  Those words can be said over and over, repeated like a mantra, but they still won't change the fact that there is crying in derby.  In fact, some of my most beloved derby moments involve crying, and I'm not talking about one small tear, I'm talking about breaking down and flailing around on the floor like a listless fish.

The first time I cried in derby was the single most cathartic experience I have ever had in all my life.  It was scrimmage night, mid August.  Our practice space was hotter than fuck, I had just barely drafted as a league skater. Despite my novice skills, they jammed me three jams in a row. I back-blocked walls that did nothing but shut me down, stabbing me with hit after hit.  Determined, I kept getting up, and kept getting up, and kept getting up. When I finally broke through, the jam was called off and I hurled myself to the side of the track. Collapsing to my knees, I started bawling tears of release, tears motivated by that feeling of utter death.  I had given every fiber of my body to those three jams, all I had left to give were tears, so I gave those too.  A fellow teammate came over and put her hand on my helmet, "no more jamming for you tonight, okay?" All I could do was remind myself that this was emptiness I felt, I wasn't dying, I simply felt empty for maybe even the first time in my life. It felt amazing. Empty and amazing.  It was unlike any experience I have ever had.

The second time I cried in derby was after I broke my ankle during yet another scrimmage.  But these tears were not of pain.  In fact, they weren't even shed when the break occurred.  After I got hit into a concrete wall, my ankle dangling there, I knew I had broken it, but I didn't feel pain, I didn't cry. Instead, I convinced myself it was nothing, I was resilient, superwoman even.  No no, the tears didn't come until I was in the ER room the next morning and the doctor told me I would be off skates for at least four months. Nooooo! Fuck you, not four months, I would surely parish.  I cried in front of the x-ray technician, cred like a small child who just lost her desert privilege.  Worse, I cried like a grieving widow in anticipation for the guilt and depression that was building, only to crash like a giant tsunami.  How would I ever survive without skating for four months?  In that moment, all I could do was cry, anticipating the darkness.

Over the course of my healing ankle break, my tears of loss turned into tears of anger and frustration.  These tears sometimes return at the silliest of times.  I recall one crappy practice, when my ankle would not behave for the life of me.  No matter what I wanted to be able to do, my ankle was not ready, nor willing, and then is when I cried for the third time in derby.  I am still not completely heeled, so it is frustrating to desire a certain level of skating, to set standards for myself, but be limited by a crap-ass injury.  After practice ended that night, I had come off the track, sat down on the bench and stewed in my emotions.  Two of my teammates made a light-hearted joke, trying to converse with me.  I chuckled once and then started crying, angry. "Don't cry, why are you crying?"  My fucking ankle! "Oh. We understand. Cry all you want sister, but it will get better."

The fourth time I cried in derby was out of hysterics.  The kind of tears that come when you laugh so hard your stomach hurts and you almost pee your pants.  Actually, this has happened more than once, and I am sure it will continue to happen. Once was during a black and white scrimmage, I was jamming.  Sometimes when I jam, I get into these particularly sneaky and evil moods, were my strategy turns shady and I get a crooked look on my face, a look that can easily burst into maniacal and tear-educing laughter.  So, there I was, I had just broken through the pack, awarded the title of lead jammer.  The other jammer was hot on my heels and I knew that if she were fed back into the pack or if the pack would simply slow down, I could get one or two points and call the jam off.  So, what did I do, I yelled to the opposing team, "hold, Black! hold, slow down!" And sure enough, it worked! I came off the track, clam and collected. Then the other team's bench coach pointed out what had happened, and I damn near broke my face giggling, I was laughing and crying so hard, I fell backwards and my skate hit my ass.  Karma is a bitch, but at least I got two more points than the other jammer.

These are just a few of my own tears.  Ask any derby girl, she'll confirm that there is crying in derby, that she too has shed tear after tear. There are tears of joy, of sorrow, of anger, of triumph, of depression, of love, of damn near anything.  Crying is one element that makes derby so real, so powerful.  Without crying there wouldn't be tens of thousands of passionate women (and men?) out there, rolling around on eight wheels, kicking ass and taking names.  Fuck idioms. There is crying in derby. Fuck tons of it.

on my mind...

Earlier this week I was headed down Fort Street, past the VA hospital campus on my way to work, when I noticed an odd sign at the entrance to the Elk rehab facility and VA outpatient care. It was a large sign, a giant boulder actually.  Etched in stone it read, "The Price of Freedom Can Be Seen Here."  So here's a question, what idiot didn't think this through?  To me the underpinning message says, "look over here at all or poor, broken, decrepit veterans.  We have to fight wars and ruin all these peoples' lives and then give them shitty retirement and medical/mental health care in order to be free.  Aren't you proud to be an American?"  Bad choice in wording, I must point out.

Also, why is it that most contact sports are male dominated?  Hi, my name is Monique, I am a woman, I play a semi-professional full-contact sport.  I am not a delicate and rare bird, stop staring, and don't look so surprised when I tell you off for the following...I made my way out to Ice World to but a pair of waxed hockey laces for my derby skates at their pro shop.  When I got there, I went up to the counter and asked for a pair of yellows, and inquired about the difference between the red and white laces (they keep the laces behind the front desk).  The attendant (a male) answered me by saying, "well, what size skate does he wear?" Oh no you didn't! Snap. I squinted my eyes, raised one brow and told him, "first of all, they're for me and my derby skates, second of all, just when did hockey become a sport that only men play, and why the fuck would I be buying my man hockey laces? He can buy his own damn hockey laces. and who the fuck are you to answer my question with another question." Grrrr. I am woman, hear me roar.  Funny thing is though, at men's practice the following Monday, I told Luke this story and he didn't sympathize because he feels that the same thing happens to him as a men's derby player. It's a twisted world people, don't assume anything.

moxie

moxie: Force of character, determination, or nerve

Typically our two year old lab, Mender, has oodles of moxie.  He is strong willed, energetic, and determined to play fetch twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.  If you have ever owned a lab you know this quality I speak of.  And you know that when you do sit down to rest or avert your attention elsewhere, they whine, "plaaaaay with me, come on, play with me! Look I have a ball, and a Frisbee, and a rope! I can get the little dog if you want. Pleeeeease play with me. sad face. come on, just play with me. Oh, idea! play with me!!" This is extra true, until you are unpacking from a trip out of the state, and a melatonin tab escapes onto the floor...rolling...rolling...rolling...spinning round to a stop and whooosh, in dives Mender, licking up the tab. TRRRRRREEEAAT!

Oh no. So, then I shout to my roommate, "Mender may or may not have eaten a melatonin tab just now. Don't worry though, it's perfectly natural, it will just make him sleepy."  Sleepy, that's an understatement!  When it was time to go to bed, we reached the stairs and he turned and looked at me, his eyes said, "are you kidding me, I'm not hiking that huge mountain, I can barely even wag my tail." He turned to lie down right in that very spot, and instead, crashed into the garage door. Bang, his head hit, but he was too cracked out to even notice. We, yes both of us, had to push 80 pounds of tired up the stairs, lift him into bed and hear his snoring for hours.  Apparently, we learned this from doggie WebMD, melatonin is used as a sedative for pet with debilitating anxiety.

on my mind...

I've been actively trying not to fall in love, but I think it's slapped me in the face, again. I hate my heart.


Interview / The Hunger / Beat Your Heart Out / Drain the Blood
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