After more than eight years of using the derby name Vivi Section, I have decided to skate under my own name. Though very few people ever actually got my derby name without an explanation, I no longer wish to be associated with or make light of a word for a violent act. Vivisection is a practice that causes suffering to living beings, including humans during times of war.

In the early days of the roller derby revival there was something that felt radical about choosing a name and identity that evoked violence, toughness and the like. Even though that didn’t really feel like me, I bought into that idea. It seemed like turning societal expectations about women upside down and that spoke to my version of feminism at the time. I liked names that were pun-ny and I wanted something that could be shortened into a “regular” first name. I didn’t want to be called “Murder” or “Brawl” or something similar for short because it didn’t seem like the right fit for me. In fact, being called an innocuous nickname like “Vivi” for so long — in addition to the obscurity of the reference — is probably what allowed me to ignore the violence embedded in the full name.

Over time, what initially felt like a radical reclaiming has evolved for me. It now feels hollow and meaningless rather than edgy and fierce. I am at heart a peaceful person. I’m also tired of the blank stares I get when I explain vivisection — it seems especially crass to invoke such horror by way of trying to show how “clever” I am in having come up with such an obscure pun that sounds something like a “real” name. To give fair credit, my ex came up with the name and I adopted it after names that I liked — like Helena Handbasket and Lady MacDeath — were already registered on the Two Evils website, an unwieldy and pain-in-the-ass database that some of you derby olds will remember. It was stressful for me to come up with something unique and appropriate and fierce at a time when I had zero confidence in myself in the sport. I had to write a member of the Green Mountain Derby Dames — now Green Mountain Roller Derby, how much has changed over time! — named Di Section to get her permission to use the name because they were too similar for automatic approval on the registry. She said yes and Vivi Section was born. I have close friends who have never called me anything other than Vivi.

In closing this chapter of my personal derby journey, I want to add that I love derby names and my decision to abandon mine is not a critique of anyone who chooses to use one. I have defended the use of derby names over the years to critics who have asserted that we needed to use our real names in the sport to be “taken seriously.” (By whom?) There can be something extremely empowering about choosing a new name and I love that roller derby has provided that experience for so many people over the years. I support the act of individuals claiming new and meaningful names and identities in derby and anywhere at any time that makes sense for them. For me, it feels like the right time to move on from Vivi Section.

Derby names add an air of fun and humor to our sport and community. They suggest that we don’t take ourselves too seriously in a good way, that we can be fierce and competitive while also being light-hearted and goofy. They showcase our creativity and give hints to our fans about our personalities. If I had chosen a different name — one that didn’t invoke pain and suffering and human cruelty — I would continue to use it. I feel quite ambivalent about my real name, which evokes my patrilineage and is differently problematic for me. Yet I feel too old in this world and in this sport to choose something completely new. I will continue to respond to Vivi, a perfectly fine name on its own, as I transition to using my own name in an official capacity moving forward.

It was an especially exciting year at a tournament that tends toward the fiercely competitive. So many upsets and close matches occurred. I don’t think anyone expected my team to do as well as we did, but (spoiler alert!) we broke a bunch of brackets and went home with medals.

I had gone to D1 playoffs in Vancouver the year before as part of my league’s charter with the knowledge I wouldn’t play, so even seeing my name as an alt on one of those rosters gave me a little frisson. D2 in Pittsburgh was the first tournament experience in which I had a reasonable chance to roster, and I did. This is a cool thing for someone who has been Twittering along with the WFTDA.tv streams for years (shoutout to my #derbytwitter peeps).

So what else can I say about playing in the Big Show? It was like regular derby but with a little more thrill and polish — and more people watching. My friend took a picture of me set up with my pack for a jam start on WFTDA.tv, which was surreal. I’ve played this sport for so long that I don’t really get scared anymore. Not jamming also helps the nerves! The games didn’t feel a lot different than any other games. The officiating and announcing are certainly top notch. Shit starts and ends on time for the most part. The host league did a great job. 

Overall, there was a really friendly, collegial vibe at D2 #wftdaplayoffs. Great hosts, great teams. A+, would do again. Cc @SteelCityDerby

— Vivi Section (@callthejam) August 21, 2017

When I started derby, I didn’t have high aspirations. I wanted to do something physical and fun, and meet people in a new city. For real: I didn’t really even picture the part when I was actually playing, so it was a (scary) surprise to see my name on a roster for the first time. I didn’t expect to ever be any good. I didn’t expect to one day transfer to a WFTDA tournament-qualifying league. Even when I did that, it was still a long road to qualify for a roster at the Big Show. It has been eight years since I started learning how to play roller derby, almost to the day. It has been three years since I joined my current league. I am, some might say, a slow achiever.

https://twitter.com/callthejam/status/898286999517356032?

Tournaments have always been my favorite of all things derby. I love the physical and mental challenge of playing multiple games in a short period of time. In my experience, teams never get closer than they do during tournaments or other multi-bout events. It’s a great time to test your mettle, explore the different tools in your kit, make adjustments to contend with vastly different opponents and learn more about your teammates. It’s a lot of team-building in a short period of time.  The best and worst can come out in people. It’s usually the best.

I got to play in four games, and I’m sure I did some good things and some bad. I kept my penalties low. Importantly, I had fun, even during a really tough game against the team that went on to win the whole deal. The surprise came when I didn’t get rostered for the final game for the third place medal, a rematch with a fun, scrappy international team we had played earlier in the tournament. It was a shock, as you can imagine, to be told via Messenger: Thanks for your service, we don’t need you anymore.

It was like being asked to suddenly leave a party where you were having a good time, and then watching the festivities continue through the picture window from the dark lawn outside. Anyone who knows me personally will understand the deeper nuances of the party analogy. I’m not a person who often has a good time at parties.

I’m not here to object to decisions that were made, but present my feelings so that you might be able to imagine and relate and perhaps feel less alone with your pain in the world. And maybe I will too.     

The final game was thrilling to watch. My team did an incredible job and I was proud.

Photo courtesy of Massimiliano Giorgini

After posing for the official picture in front of the WFTDA banner, I put my medal in my purse. I’m not the kind of person who would really walk around wearing a medal, anyway — I mean no disrespect of course to people who want to show their pride that way. But I also didn’t feel that I totally earned it. I felt deeply ambivalent. My ambivalence continues today. I don’t know what to say when someone asks about my experience at playoffs. It’s not dissimilar to other milestones for me — getting into a great college and earning a degree, getting a full scholarship to a great graduate program and earning another degree, living and working abroad, seeing my bylines in print and online, moving on my own to a new city. Maybe it’s imposter syndrome, maybe it’s the effects of depression and anxiety. These experiences that seem like they should be joyful are shot through with strands of pain and a little happiness, like threads of light filtering to the murky bottom of a lake.

So this post is not only for the slow achievers, but to those for whom the magic of derby isn’t total. For those who have ever felt like maybe there was something wrong with them because derby didn’t transform their entire lives for the better like the last five minutes of a reality show.

Still, it was cool to finally get to the Big Show. Do it if you can. But if you can’t, that’s okay, there are so many other great things to experience in derby and life.

Sometimes trophies and awards and medals are complicated. Sometimes derby feels like a bad relationship — it hurts you and you keep going back. You hope the balance will tip toward the good in the end. I think it will.

I bought new skates near the end of the season. I’m taking opportunities here and there during the off-season to break them in, this last pair of skates I will probably have for roller derby. It’s been a long run. I’m getting older. I have my own business now. I think about centering my universe around something other than this sport. I want to write a book. I want to volunteer more of my time. I want to keep traveling. I want to know myself better. These are long-game pursuits, just like roller derby. But even after eight years, I’m not quite ready to close this chapter. Skating still gives me that little spark sometimes, so I will keep going for now, keep grabbing for the threads of light. One practice, one bout, one season at a time.

Two years ago, I made the leap from a league I skated with for about five seasons to an older, more competitive league in my town. It was a hard decision to make because I felt like I was abandoning my old league, which had given me so much over the years, and the friendships I’d made there. However, I was at a crossroads at that time. My passion for roller derby had started to dwindle and I was headed for retirement unless I changed something. I still loved the sport as a way to maintain an active lifestyle, be involved with a vibrant, social community, and provide myself with new challenges all the time. I felt I still had a lot to learn.

I haven’t written a lot about my transfer because at first I was worried about hurting other people’s feelings, but then because some aspects of it were hard to process. I also broke my hand twice, which made it physically difficult to type. But I did want to offer some advice on how to transfer with intention and kindness if that’s something that comes up in your derby career.

Obviously, if you have been the victim of bullying or find yourself in some other personally untenable position with a league, many of these suggestions won’t apply. I trust everyone reading can make a choice on what’s best for them in that regard. But if you have the luxury, like I did, of making the decision without hard feelings toward your old league and a sincere desire to embrace a new experience, follow these steps:

1. Follow the first rule of roller derby: Don’t be a douchebag.
2. Make sure you are transferring for the right reasons. In other words, don’t leave in a fit of anger because some invisible forces are “holding you back” or you don’t think you’ve gotten the recognition you believe the universe owes you or you want to teach someone else a lesson. Take a while to reflect on your reasons before making a final decision.
   

   I have been pivoting a lot this year. (Photo by Greg Dunn)

3.  Tell your soon-to-be former league that you’re leaving and why so people don’t wonder. It’s also a great opportunity to give your old league feedback on how to improve for skaters like you.
4.  Give friends who might be hurt a heads up, and reassurance it’s not them you’re leaving. I wrote several personal letters, and I’m glad I did that.
5. Wrap up your committee work and transfer your duties with your old league to someone responsible. (See Step 1.)
6. Make an announcement on social media to let people know that you’ll be skating for a new team.
7. Or don’t make an announcement on social media. I didn’t. It led to some confusion for a few months, however, I didn’t want to seem like I was trashing my old team by announcing a departure or press on the fresh wounds of people whose feelings I had hurt.
8. Learn about your new league — read the bylaws, get familiar with the tools they use for communication, and make sure you understand attendance and committee requirements.
9. Market yourself in your new league or, as some people call it: Make friends. I could have done better at that in the beginning, but I am socially awkward. At the very least, go to practice and participate in shit.
10. Be ready to play a new position, whatever your league needs. After five years of jamming, I learned how to be a better blocker and pivot. That was fun! Especially all the new strategy stuff.
11. Or, alternatively, insist on playing (or at least practicing) the position you have most played and love. Obviously, I didn’t do that, and I do have some regrets about losing my jamming skills and some of the confidence that went with them.
    

    I was primarily a jammer with my old league. (Photo by John Wijsman)

12. Check your ego and keep your expectations reasonable. In other words, don’t expect to immediately have the same status with your new league as you did your old, either in terms of the administrative hierarchy, making rosters and everything else. I actually enjoyed this aspect of transferring — I got to focus on skating and minimize my responsibilities after years of holding a board seat, heading a committee, being a captain and serving as a general information depot in my old league. You’ll have to learn the ropes and prove yourself again. But expect the experience to sometimes test your ego and confidence.
13. Take the lessons you learned from your old league and apply them. You’ll find different leagues do some things better than others, so use your experience and knowledge to help your new league.
14. Be a bridge between your leagues. Oftentimes secondary leagues spring up in the same city due to disagreements or animosity. Don’t contribute to bad blood or divisions. Don’t trash talk. I have helped schedule several scrimmage opportunities between my leagues, for example. As far as I’m concerned, we all skate under the flag of roller derby and are more alike than we are different. See Step 1.
    

    Having some fun with friends while cheering on my old league.

15. Support your old team. Go to their bouts and cheer for your old teammates and new skaters coming up through their ranks. Like their posts on social media. Be a mensch. I haven’t done as much of this as I would like because of my many obligations with my new league, but I make sure to attend a bout or two of my old league each season. It’s fun to just spectate and cheer!

In other words, there’s no one way to do the cross-town transfer, but I think I minimized drama associated with it and I have never regretted my decision. I agonized on the front end, but it wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be in practice. It’s true that I don’t get to see some old friends as often as I would like, but I didn’t destroy any friendships. Overall, transferring gave me new goals to work toward and renewed passion that will propel me for a couple more years in this crazy, exciting sport.

—

Have you transferred leagues? What went well and what didn’t? Do you have any regrets or wish you did something differently? Share your experiences in the comments. 

LOVE by Robert Indiana, The Whitney Museum of Art.

I doubt many would consider me a drama maven, but there were tears, there were serious threats to quit everything, there were fantasies of moving to a remote cabin in the woods. Part of this tornado of responsibilities and pressures led me to the decision to declare February a month of self-love. No, not in THAT way, though there’s nothing wrong with that! My focuses: making healthy food choices, ramping up my exercise routine and getting more sleep.

I tend to thrive on some level of pressure and busy-ness, but I can tend to take on too much and run myself in the ground. None of my responsibilities lightened in February, but I tried to make choices that couldn’t help but change my perspective. I gave up booze, a hard one for me because I love the craft beer and cocktails abundant in my city. I rarely overindulge, but I regularly grab a drink or two with friends. (And to be completely honest, I did drink on three occasions, including once when a fresh margarita came free with my meal. FREE, people! I am only human after all.) I abstained from all the little treats that appeared in my office — if you know me in real life, you know I LOVE donuts, for example. Huge donut fan. It was hard.

I absolutely love donuts.

Things that happened in February: I reconnected to my derby practice. I attended a LOT of practice, including the ones not required of me, in part because I needed to reset the balance of my time spent on administrative duties versus actually practicing. In another part because it was a way for me to avoid the temptation of drinking and tire myself out for a deep night of sleep. I’ve always been intrigued by the ritual of kengeiko, which I learned about from a friend who practices Aikido. It’s a tradition among martial artists, who — for a certain period of time at the beginning of the year or in the cold of winter — practice daily to revive and cleanse their spirits and refresh their commitment to practice. To this end, I attended all five practices the first week in February. With extra credit for working out, my total attendance percentage for the month was over 100%.

Other things that happened: I chose more healthy activities in my free time throughout the month. I did yoga every Saturday, I did 12 miles of trail skating with friends when the weather took a nice turn, I did a few workouts at home, I did even more yoga before bedtime. (I kind of suck at yoga, but it makes me feel good.) I went to more workout classes at work. I cooked a LOT, more than I’ve ever cooked before. I ate most of what I had in the fridge, throwing out fewer rotting veggie ends because of less going out to eat (another indulgence of mine). I rediscovered tea. I drank lots of La Croix fizzy water. I lost some weight, which is less important than the fact that I visibly lost fat around my midsection.

It wasn’t all bunnies and roses, though. I was irritable sometimes, especially in the beginning of the month. I got short-fused by the time Thursday practice rolled around on several weeks (sorry, teammates). I was less social by far. Cooking more at home means more dishes, which I have to wash by hand and I dislike. This became especially hard when I broke my hand again three weeks into the month and was relegated to a splint. I didn’t always sleep as well as I hoped — sometimes my body was amped and buzzing from all the exercise. But I really think I pushed the reset button on some bad habits I was falling into, like having to eat every donut and cupcake that appeared in the office kitchen, like feeling like a martyr to league work, like spending too much money on food and alcohol while out on the town, like comforting myself on a bad day with less healthy food choices. Even though I was denying myself some things I really like, I also felt like I was caring for myself, limiting my mental focus and being nice to my body. I just generally feel better about myself and excited for derby.

Please feel free to steal this idea or any part of this idea if it works for you next February — I like that it’s Valentine’s month and also a short one! (It’s also not January, when we tend to overwhelm ourselves and quickly abandon goals and good intentions for the new year.) Or set a goal that works for you at any time. I don’t think caring for yourself has to be a self-centered or narcissistic pursuit. A lot of us derby people give a lot of ourselves to other people, and I think we can do that even better when we take care of ourselves first.

I like this grandiloquent way of responding because it hints that the revival of roller derby was somehow inevitable, manifest. Yet it also nearly sidesteps the question by punting it into the realm of the philosophical, the metaphysical even. But I also think it’s a specific and correct way to answer the query. It points us to the next question of: Why was roller derby an idea whose time had come?

I wish I had a cash advance and the time and the training to write a book on that topic because I’d love to spend a lot of hours doing research, thinking and talking about it with other people. But I can make some guesses based on my experience and observations. I think there’s a confluence of sociological-political-historical factors at play, but also a couple of very basic, visceral experiences that suck us in, two of which I’ll take a stab at:

The community thing

The older you get, the harder it is to make friends. Derby may yet become a sport we see commonly played by schoolchildren, but so far, it’s been most important in the lives of women (and others) in their 20s, 30s, 40s and beyond. Unless you came right out of junior derby, you probably sailed into those post-college doldrums when everyone begins settling into jobs and coupling off and having babies … and suddenly no one wanted to go out for a drink on a Thursday night. Or maybe you hit those milestones but found yourself dismayed that your world had become so much more insular than it used to be.

Derby is one of the only things I can think of besides going to school that so instantly plugs you into a giant network of people. That’s not to say that everyone you meet in derby is someone you want to befriend. You will inevitably find yourself connected on social media to people whose political views you find repugnant. You will struggle over whether to hide or unfriend them. And if (like me!) you’re socially awkward in real life, you will surely still be awkward in derby.

But you will also have tons of things to do and people to do them with. And you will make friends, perhaps some of the best friends of your life. It’s a very real fact that derby gets us through some of the hardest times we encounter — break-ups and divorces, deaths and losses, cross-country relocations and even the injuries caused by the sport itself.

The other thing

We should all get to feel like a celebrity for a minute. (Photo by Junior)

You also get to be a celebrity. Well, not really a real celebrity by the standards of gossip magazines, though some of us have gotten to play on cable TV, or have been interviewed by local and national media, or have signed autographs and become idols in our sport’s community. At the very least, you mention you play roller derby and it elicits an impressed response, even if people don’t know exactly what it means. Some of us have played in front of thousands on an international stage, but even the thrill of competing in a skating rink for a couple hundred fans cannot be underestimated. Maybe you’ve never had that many eyes on you or that many hands clapping in your ears. Maybe no one ever told you that you are awesome and strong and worthy of attention. That experience is transformative.

Before derby, some of us were waiting to become the stars of our own lives. It’s sad, but true. We didn’t know how to do it or even that it could be done or even that it should be done, and our dominant culture does not work in everyone’s favor. It took coming to derby, where we regularly place a literal star on our heads, to figure out how to take center stage in our own lives. Derby opens this door for many and somehow makes us feel like more of who we are. I think that is particularly the experience for us women, who perhaps never had a sport that wasn’t a version of a man’s sport, who perhaps never had a sport that drew such specific positive attention, who perhaps never had a sport of our own.

Roller derby gave me a gift. That gift was relief from the constant stream of self-critical chatter in my own head. Well, the real truth of the matter is I gave that gift to myself, but derby was the medium in which I began to understand that my habit of negative self-talk was not enriching my life, nor the lives of those around me. Telling myself I suck didn’t help me learn a hockey stop, it didn’t teach me a strategy, it didn’t help me become a good teammate. Giving myself mental space to mess up and not beating myself up over little failures did, though. I gave myself permission to have fun without being perfect. A good life lesson, it turns out.

It took some mental acrobatics to get there. Derby attracts adventurous, high-achieving women who tend to expect a lot of themselves. And it’s not easy to be good at derby, which most of us find out the first time we put on skates and attempt a skill. So it’s natural to get down on yourself for the inevitable errors you make. But I quickly learned the less I let that negative voice occupy my headspace, the better I did.

But this is not another “derby saved my soul” story. I realized some time this season — one that’s been rife with injury and self-doubt — that I still hadn’t completely beat the habit of talking down to myself. I’m just more subtle about it. I come up with ideas of things I want to do in life and who I want to be. I’m still just never enough. If I don’t ride my bike to work every day in a week, I’m not committed enough to riding. Maybe I don’t cook enough and spend too much money eating out. Maybe I don’t prep enough healthy meals. I cross-train outside of derby, but it’s never enough. Look at this poor showing on my blog this year — I don’t write enough. I keep a busy schedule and don’t see some of my friends enough. I don’t meditate enough. Some days I don’t drink enough water. Most days I don’t get enough sleep. I forgot to send my friend a birthday card. I never read that book someone lent me.

Is it ever enough?

Derby generally surrounds you with so much badassery it’s hard not to compare yourself to others. Did you really give it your all in that drill? You made attendance, but did you practice enough? Did you cross-train, did you eat healthy, did you read everything posted on the league forum? Is your gear clean enough, do you have the best helmet to protect yourself against concussions? Do you have the right wheels to skate on that floor? Do you own even one scrimmage shirt that doesn’t look like a Goodwill reject? Do you watch enough derby? If you do watch enough derby, do you learn as much as you can from what you watch? 

I met a girl at a tournament one year. My team played hers in a single match. We somehow became friends on social media, and even though we have not seen each other since, we’ve gotten to see a little of each other’s lives play out online. Isn’t it amazing how derby does that? I have noticed in the pictures she posts of herself a tattoo that reads: “what I am is enough.” I think of that often — it’s such a beautiful sentiment. What if I could be, right at this moment, enough? Enough in derby. Enough in life. I don’t think it means abandoning plans to improve, but embracing the process. And yourself in the process.   

Doors open at 5 p.m. at Vital, 1022 Virginia Ave., Indianapolis, IN 46203. This is a FREE event. If you’re unable to attend, you can purchase this amazing book from Gutpunch Press or from Amazon.

• I transferred leagues.
• I broke my hand.
• I had surgery.
• I went back to skating.
• I played mostly for a B-team.
• I served mostly as a blocker.
• I got a concussion during a bout.
• I underwent physical therapy for my neck.
• I went back to skating.
• My derby writing was published in a book.

One of my prior Call the Jam posts was published in the new book Derby Life: A Crash Course in the Incredible Sport of Roller Derby, which is both super duper cool and also made me feel super duper guilty about not writing more here in recent months. Each of the above bullets could probably be a post in itself (well, the hand debacle got some love), but I think it’s been my difficulty writing about the first thing that has probably been the most responsible for my silence.

Part of it is the challenge of explaining difficult decisions that were made before a cross-town league transfer. Any of you who have done this probably knows it’s impossible to make such a move without at least a little heartache. And then almost immediately breaking my hand? You can’t help but wonder if the universe is trying to send you a message. I can say that one of my reasons for leaving my league of five years behind was because I wanted to be a student of roller derby again. I needed to be, otherwise I was headed for retirement and the frightening and ungodly amount of free time I’m sure I’ll have whenever I leave derby for good.

Me (right) doing different derby things. (Photo courtesy of Tom Klubens)

So, I got my wish. I’m a student of derby again, one of the skating masses, with no leadership responsibilities, no veteran status. It’s liberating … and humbling. Concepts like “has good footwork” and “demonstrates stellar track awareness” crumble in the face of new contexts. I have had a hard time finding my groove with my injuries, with playing different positions, with navigating a new social landscape. Even just learning the online forums, policies and requirements, and of course the culture of a new league can be daunting. Props to all you transfers out there!

It took me a few years to feel comfortable writing about derby in the first place. I had to develop a small feeling of authority in my thoughts, observations and emotions vis a vis the sport. I lost that when I started with a new league. I’m almost starting from scratch again. And it’s exactly where I wanted to be, though the collateral loss was some of that authority and confidence. No regrets, absolutely no regrets at all. But I have to remember that, no matter the circumstance, I still have authority in my own experiences and feelings, as everyone does. And I should at least try to write about them. Because that’s what I do.

Showering, getting dressed, fixing your hair, preparing a meal, washing dishes, driving, typing, writing, tying your shoes, sending a text message, sleeping, cleaning, doing anything involving water, exercising, getting the lid off a prescription bottle, filling out a form of any kind, scraping ice off your car … these are among the practical things that become difficult when you break your hand.

And when things become physically difficult, they become mentally difficult.

Just getting through some days was hard. Doing my job, which is normally not physically taxing, was hard. Anything beyond that and keeping up with

I’m smiling here, but it wasn’t that fun.

doctor’s appointments was mostly put on hold due to a lack of extra mental energy to spread around. Your life kind of shrinks around the injury.

To put a cherry on top of the shit sundae of just being broken, I missed my first bout with my new team and I got sick a couple of times while recovering from surgery, including a gnarly bout of food poisoning. It appeared 2015 thought it was going to kick my ass. But it won’t. It just won’t.

Things have begun to look up. I started going back to practice. I played in two scrimmages and a bout. I have another bout this weekend. When I came back, I couldn’t do much at first but I had to start skating again. I had to. I just had to.

The thought of not returning to derby had crossed my mind. It’s hard not entertain the idea that the injury is a message from the universe. DON’T DO THIS. STOP HURTING YOURSELF. DANGER. TURN BACK NOW. For a few weeks, all I wanted to do was cocoon in my apartment and watch episodes of “30 Rock.” I imagined myself staying more active in derby when I first learned I needed surgery — NSOing and observing practices to keep connected, maintaining a rigorous exercise routine — but you kind of power down all non-essential areas of life when trying to heal.

But it’s also not entirely true that your life contracts when you’re broken. In some ways it expands. Partially through the discovery of the kindness and generosity of friends and loved ones who help feed you, help you run errands, cheer you up and keep your home from falling into disarray. It also expands through the discovery of your own strength. The strength your body has to physically heal and also the strength you muster to muck through the weeds mentally. Because you need to. You just need to.

Welp, I finally did it. I broke myself. First time in derby, first time in life. Hence my recent relative silence. It’s not that I didn’t want to talk about it. Daaaamn, I’ve been wanting to tell you all about it and lots of other things! It’s just that it’s physically hard to type because what I broke was the fifth metacarpal of my right (dominant) hand. Weird derby injury, right? What probably hurt more than the actual break was my ego, though, because it happened during my first scrimmage with the top level players of my new league (more on that later). In fact it happened during the first few seconds of the first jam, me with the jammer panty on my head. And it wasn’t any kind of showstopper where everyone takes a knee and knows you done fucked your shit up for real. It unfolded with me unceremoniously passing the star, finishing up the jam as a blocker and hobbling back to the bench cradling my pinkie finger, wondering if I was just the biggest wuss in all of derbydom. I sat out for a few jams, trying not to succumb to tears of pain and frustration, and taped my fingers together to finish out practice. I even went to practice a few days later, gritting my teeth through the pain of bracing drills and a fall that landed me right on my injured paw.

It wasn’t until I posted this picture on social media at the end of the week that it occurred to me that perhaps something was really amiss:

If your hand looks like this, go see a doctor.

Ok, perhaps I am an idiot, looking back at that picture. I got more than a few “Uhhh, are you sure that’s not brokens?” I’m lucky to count among my friends a doctor of sports medicine who is also a roller derby player. When she recommends getting something checked out, I’m apt to listen. And since she’s my doc and knows the sport, I’ve been able to skate without restrictions so far. It’s just that typing is so difficult. It’s like all these words are piling up inside and I have no way to express them. That’s the most challenging thing of all. Since I’m a writer in real life, I’ve struggled to keep up with work. I’ve rigged up a system of typing with two keyboards — pecking on the right with the two fingers that aren’t immobilized by the splint — that looks something like this:

Yeah, I wear a cape at the office, so what?

It works well enough for now. When I went to get a wrist guard to fit over my splint, the proprietor of my local skate shop raised his eyebrows and praised my general positive attitude about the whole thing. (I realize how far I’ve come when someone accuses me of being positive!) Well, what can I do? I know I got off lucky. This is not a nice or easy sport we play. It could be worse. I saw someone break her ankle recently. I could at least walk away from my injury. And I try to remember that how I deal with adversity is at least, in part, a choice. So, I can’t fix my hair or wash the dishes too well. I definitely can’t change a flat tire. But I have people who can help me. And I still managed to awkwardly peck out this post. Wishing you safe jams in 2015, and I hope to be back with all the words soon.