stepping the fuck out

Last night was rough. Sandpaper rough. Splinters in your asshole rough. To preface this, last weekend that good cry that I've been whining about wanting? It finally happened and I can't help but wish it didn't because I've apparently opened the floodgates and will now be crying and snotting over everything (there's a distinct possibility that this will be the case). I tried to divert the slippery mopey slope by having a one woman Justin Bieber dance party which ended in a seriously hysterical and pathetic manner; namely me sobbing to "One Time". No pride, just shame about that one. I ended up spontaneously driving out to my house in Peru for some quality puppy cuddling and bath time and just general solitude (spontaneously enough that I left the house in a pair of boxer briefs and an oversized lumberjack fleece).

Typical Bieber dance parties look very similar to this

This is pretty predictable for me...I was reading an old journal entry from October a few years back and the first sentence was "It's October which means I should go bat shit crazy any day now" (I'm so eloquent). The winters (especially these frigid soul-eating North Country winters) are never gentle with anyone but I, without fail, start having regular panic attacks, crying spells, and my skin becomes paper thin. While I might be able to tolerate it now, in a few weeks that may not be the case so I'm going to do my best to deal with it right meow.

Between being unable to attend as many practices as I'd like and my stupid crippling back pain, I'm not progressing as quickly as I'd like to be in derby. I can honestly say that at every practice I give 110% but it's so beyond frustrating to not see that pay off. I finally went to the chiropractor twice and the diagnostic tests of nerve activity, muscle activity and temperature confirmed what I'm feeling which is that the entire left side of my back, especially my lower back, is fucked. The tests looked like a red pen exploded on them. When I skate, my back starts throbbing and I lock up and get all sorts of clumsy and shaky, which means I fall, and after falling two or three times while trying to sprint, it gets increasingly difficult to get up because each time I fall, it's like a cattle prod to my back. Between the actual physical pain of skating and falling and the humiliation, it's hard not to feel immeasurably discouraged and useless.

But having amazing teammates like this sure does make it easier (photo by Peter Belanger)

So I cried. Again. Big embarrassing public tears which are the absolute worst. And when anyone asked me what was wrong, all I could do was open and close my mouth like a stupid fish. I couldn't come up with words and if I did I knew I'd cry even harder so I just drove home and tried to snap out of it.

Lately my insecurities have been running rampant but it isn't just about the days getting shorter and darker and the nights getting colder...I'm CHALLENGING myself, and it isn't supposed to be easy. I'm taking flying leaps out of my comfort zone and it'd just be naive of me to assume that it should be simple or comfortable. It's uncomfortable, it's scary, it's painful, it's sometimes disheartening, but I'm doing it.

I'm playing roller derby, one of the most physically challenging female sports in existence. I'm about to play a live show tomorrow night, something I've promised myself I'd do for years but could never muster the ovaries to do. I'm playing a crucial character in a play being put on by, in my opinion, one of the most brilliant Professors on this campus. I'm still learning how to be alone for the first time in five years. I'm trying to radically alter the way I perceive myself and simultaneously change habits that are ingrained miles deep.

It isn't supposed to be easy. But it can only get easier.

Oh, and speaking of things getting easier? I lost another 4 lbs. TAKE THAT.

persistence and progress

Dear Anonymous Commenter(s),
Thank you. You could be anyone. You could be one of my best friends who simply neglected to fill in their name; you could be someone I've never met in my entire life (which is becoming increasingly possible since I apparently have blog-readers from New Zealand). Regardless of who you are, THANK YOU...for demanding emphatically that I don't give up (in all caps, no less). Thank you for also demanding more posts (plz) because I am overdue (this is a genuine thank you, no sarcasm present).

For the record, I haven't given up. I've fucked up and slipped up, but I haven't given up by any means. If anything, since my last post I've been all shades and colors of inspired. My lack of blogging isn't because I've stopped caring---it's because I've been out actively caring enough to do something with myself. Also, it appears that the only time I feel compelled to blog is when I've slipped into a downward spiral of depression and Cheetos and want to talk about it. And there is only so much to talk about (it's cyclical.....Grey's Anatomy + take out + fetal position moping in bed with a beer or 6).

But really? This past week alone, I've done so many things out of my normal routine. Because let's face it, my normal routine sucks...it needs a face lift, liposuction and rhinoplasty simultaneously. It needs to be gutted. I've rediscovered the borderline cathartic power of aimless solitary autumn walks. In middle school, I lived in this beautiful albeit claustrophobic tiny town and I would spend almost every single night out taking walks in the cold with my walkman and Our Lady Peace cds. It was during that seriously downtrodden socially awkward and clinically depressed stage and I would just walk for hours and hours, long past when the street lights came on and sneak up the front stairs before my parents could assess what time it was. I forgot how nice it is to turn off your cell phone, turn on some music and take one step upwards and out of your life (your bedroom, the computer lab, your house, your car, your job) and turn your thoughts over and over in your mind, even if they never come close to making any semblance of sense.

Truth is, for the most part I'm still upbeat and confident. Those emotions just crest and fall like anything. Last Thursday night, I finally attended one of our off skate workouts which is like step aerobics on twenty stimulant drugs (we're talking crack and amphetamines). I was quickly reminded why I avoid group exercise classes...there is a gigantic wall sized mirror, reflecting back to you every single jiggle, every awkward movement, every little detail that you would prefer to ignore. It's moments like that, when I feel so humiliated and discouraged, that it's difficult to maintain that enthusiasm.

But in reality, within the past 6 weeks, I've radically changed my habits in huge ways---it isn't front page news anymore because they've become just that: habits. I haven't had a Red Bull in 6 weeks! (exception being when I attempted to drink one at the Zombie Prom and my friend Kim promptly stole it from me, held it above my head and then smashed it in her bare hands...she's a good pal) I've cut my daily caloric intake by 500 calories easily and I've fundamentally changed WHAT I eat. Lately, when I have caved to cravings, the guilty pleasure food I've eaten has physically made me ill---which is a good sign because something must have changed inside of my body so that it is now rejecting junk. I've attended derby practice and off skate workouts at least twice a week if not three times. My quad muscles are hulking out and feel like a frozen turkey after 5 minutes of thawing.

I wonder what the nutritional value of blood is....Zombie Walk 2010

While I may have only lost 7 lbs so far, my body is readjusting and I guess I just have to trust in it and remind myself that the goal of this process was not to lose weight---it's a goal so much bigger and more respectable than that, and that goal? The goal of health and self-respect and instating change? I'm actually achieving it. I haven't given up, I can promise you that.

PS: I've also done something I promised I would do years ago---booked an actual show along with the talented Rocki Rock and For the Kid in the Back on November 12th at 6:30 at the Koffee Kat (if you're local, you should absolutely attend and cheer me on)---Alison and I are officially debuting our fantastic duo, The Knitting Club, complete with cable knit sweaters, a dazzling rendition of 'I want you back' by the Jackson 5 and the robot...

 

If you were wondering...I sometimes make music and stuff. Feel free to admire my 1968 Playboy Cover t-shirt, I know I do.

PPS: I've also recently discovered how therapeutic Justin Bieber dance parties and verbal pep talks are. I think they should become standard protocol for cases of the blues.

Hot dogs and white bread

I've fallen off the bandwagon a bit, I'll admit it. It's been more of a slow and steady dismount. Like a gimpy tumble. When I started this blog, I was so hopeful and empowered...I was convinced that this time would be different, this time it would STICK and my life would be gumdrops and rainbows and rollerskates and size 12 pants. I lost 4 lbs in the first week, I stopped drinking Red Bull entirely, I started actually USING my fabulous tie dyed steel Nathan water bottle...but as the days got darker and rainier and significantly more dismal and disgusting, I fell on my sufficiently padded ass.

It's easy for me to procrastinate and excuse my actions----to tell myself that it's alright to hibernate in my bedroom adding movies to my Netflix queue, religiously watching Grey's Anatomy and drinking PBR---because it's just a funk, it'll pass and I'll pull myself up by my boot straps (uh shoelaces) tomorrow.

Well, news flash, it isn't excusable. Sure, it's okay to slip up and occasionally be an antisocial bum who sleeps with a Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal, but I told myself I would stick with this, for the sake of my own health and happiness. There are always going to be gray rainy days, sad days, so-discouraged-I-want-to-punch-inanimate-objects days. It's easy to make the right decisions on good days when the sun is shining and the birds are chirping and I'm absolutely chipper; I need to learn to do so on the days when I'm not. And THAT is the real challenge.

After work on Tuesday, I went grocery shopping for the first time in over a month. I've been subsisting on flatbreads on campus, Quiznos and residual left-over food like ramen noodles and chicken noodle soup. Typically, when I go grocery shopping I head straight for the 'Healthy Choice' frozen meals that taste like cardboard and the Rice A Roni whose preservatives are so strong you can feel them corroding your taste buds. I like food that I can make in less than five minutes and take out the door with me because I'm one busy lady, hence my atrocious fast food habits.

Megan, Sarah and Alison were constantly cooking and baking these culinary masterpieces last year. I would walk into the kitchen and it would smell like the stuff of dreams...stir fry, fucking delectable pasta dishes, homemade hummus, you name it...our pantry was like a whole foods store.

And me? Hot dog on white bread. I ate hot dogs on white bread.

 

And mind you, they never let me live it down and constantly laughed at me...because my eating habits were the polar opposite of theirs. Not because I actually ENJOY hot dogs on white bread (okay, maybe a little)...I love me some vegetables and soysage just as much as the next girl. No, because I never had (or took) the time or energy to valiantly attempt cooking. WELL, my friends, that is all about to change.

This time when I went grocery shopping, I didn't buy instant mashed potatoes, I bought a BAG of potatoes. I didn't buy instant rice, I bought a BAG of whole grain rice. I bought carrots and radishes and green peppers and cucumbers and apples and oh it was glorious, GLORIOUS! Anticlimactic, you say? When I came home from practice Wednesday and ate a fresh green pepper, THAT was climactic. Like orgasm in the mouth climactic. I was raised (mostly) in a house where fruits and vegetables were plentiful and my mom was constantly watching her weight, eating 100 calorie bags of popcorn, cucumber and potato skins to survive. You don't need to twist my arm to eat vegetables, it's just getting into the habit of having them present in the fridge when I'm hungry. It's getting into the habit of having ANYTHING present in the fridge when I'm hungry.

Truth is, I'm awful at taking care of myself. Sure, I bathe and clothe myself, I manage to pay my bills (albeit sometimes a few weeks late) and do my work like a good girl but somewhere along the way I missed the lesson where you learn to feed yourself adequately and nutritiously. My parents were both busy or employed growing up and other than the occasional delicious meal when my mom would get home from work early, I fended for myself which usually involved not eating or eating poorly.

When I was 16, I got a job at the mall and found myself gainfully employed with spare cash in the land of Taco Bell, Burger King, Quiznos and Flaming Wok. That didn't bode well, and that coupled with dining hall food freshmen year? Recipe for disaster, literally. I moved out on my own my sophomore year and had hardly any money to my name. I could barely pay my bills and I just ate corn nibblets, ramen and Banquet meals religiously.

Freshmen 20. Sophomore 20. Junior 20. And here I am.

It's never too late to grow up a little, learn something new, slice and dice and saute some shit...I mean, how hard can it be?

And for the record, I didn't buy hot dogs. Or white bread.

The Verdict

  

The pros far outweighed the cons. The decision has been made and a break is happening. A break which will hopefully allow me time to get steadier footing and take a deep breath before drowning in academia. Again.

(Yes, one of my pros is more time for procrasturbation...it's my forte)

The future is a scary place

Monday, I thought I had finally managed it...I had found the tears I knew were hiding somewhere and I was ready for a torrential downpour. I thought I had, but I didn't. I teared up, my chest tightened and my throat felt like there was a boulder caught in it, but they didn't come. Funny thing is, it wasn't some dramatic interpersonal conflict or the culmination of 6+ months of mope. No, it was because my 'future' is approaching at warp speed and I'm ill prepared to meet it.

I've been a colossal nerd my entire life. When I took the CAT tests, I scored in the 98th percentile or above for every subject. In 7th grade, I was offered the chance to take the SATs and if I achieved a certain score or higher, I could skip a grade. When I applied to SUNY Plattsburgh, I applied and interviewed for and ultimately received a full scholarship. Since I've been here, I've maintained a 3.8 GPA, been a teaching assistant for multiple classes and done research for over three semesters with three different professors. I've presented at the Eastern Psychological Association's conference in Brooklyn and will hopefully be presenting at the Association for Psychological Science's annual conference in D.C. this winter.

I'm not describing these things to brag or honk my own horn---I think it's become pretty salient at this point that regardless of achievement or reality, I don't feel particularly intelligent or attractive (who does?)---I'm describing them because it has become one of the cornerstones of who I am, the way I define myself, and at times that is difficult, especially now. I've always held myself to unrealistically high standards and if I don't reach them, I cut myself down. I live my life according to 'If...then' statements (appropriate for someone who lives her life in the world of hypotheses)...'If I get an A in this class, then I'll be satisfied'...'If I lose 20 lbs, then I'll be happy'...'If I ace the GREs, then I'll feel successful'. But the problem with those statements is that the stakes keep getting higher and higher---and I'm never satisfied.

I'm proud of my accomplishments and I love what I do. I love Psychology and there isn't a single doubt in my mind that it will be my field. Psychology never ceases to flat out enthrall me---when someone can discuss brain physiology with me, it's like foreplay. The first time I ran my own study that I designed, I felt like King Kong on cocaine. I was ready to go stop a train with my bare hands, cure AIDS and stop world hunger all in one fell swoop. I know that I want to ultimately work in academia, to teach hungover college students and also conduct research, but I don't know if I'm ready to commit to a 4-6 year PhD program in one field quite yet.

This gives me a boner.

On top of not being positive what specific field of Psychology I want to commit to, I don't have the time or energy to make my application count. For the first time in my life, I am a small fish in a massive pond---a pond populated by brainiac fish who were child prodigies, have publications under their belts and GRE scores above 1500. Students who crap out genius. And as much as I'd like to think I'm one of them, I'm really doubting it.

I'm rushing myself and forcing myself to make decisions that I feel unprepared to make. I've had this steadfast plan that I would immediately transition from undergraduate into a doctoral degree in Social Psychology. I picked out the schools, researched their credentials and requirements, and until recently never really evaluated what a monumental decision I was making. Reality has chased me down, and it's time to make a choice. Not a choice of whether or not to attend graduate school but a choice as to whether or not to do it IMMEDIATELY.

For the past few hours, I've been running possibilities in laps around my mind, comparing the pros and cons of taking a year break before enrolling in a doctoral program. I've had numerous friends and Professors tell me it isn't a bad idea---that in fact, it may be a great one, but I can't help but feel like I would somehow be failing if I did. I'm a raging hypocrite because objectively, I would never consider anyone a failure for doing so---but subjectively? I'm my own worse critic and I can't help but feel like I would be letting my family down, regardless of the fact that I'll still be getting my PhD. But that's who I am. It's who I've always been.

A break would allow me to study and raise my GRE scores without the distraction of school, save money for when I do move someone new and potentially expensive, get a decent job with my BA, focus on my schoolwork and psychological studies this year and beef up my application, continue skating and bout with my amazing derby girls and truly evaluate what I want with my life and future.

My brain hurts. I'll probably cry soon.

Crawling out of the bell jar

I'm overdue for a relevant post...but let me explain why I've been M.I.A.

I crawled into the Bell Jar this past week and curled up there. I've done nothing but sleep, watch Grey's Anatomy from bed (anxiously awaiting the episode where Callie releases her inner-homo) and halfheartedly study for the GREs. The past month or so has been serving up tragedies left and right and it seems like no one escapes unscathed. I've been lucky that the blows haven't hit closer to home and I feel almost guilty that they haven't. I realize that's silly---no one wishes these things on anyone, but regardless I feel bad for even discussing it as though it happened to me. It's just like this cloud of misfortune has descended upon everyone and everything and I'm hoping it passes.

Marry me?

On the bright side, I've crawled out of said Bell Jar, mostly aided by the fact that I (1) was able to attend derby practice yesterday and (2) was able to hit hard at said practice---oh, and the sunshine that has finally decided to make an appearance. I can't do rainy days....they're awful anxiety inducing asshole mechanisms that make me want to eat and drink everything in the fridge (inadvisable since none of it is mine and it's mostly rotting vegetables and beer) and sleep. Without Red Bull, I sleep...a lot.

But yesterday, I was able to make my first derby practice in TWO WEEKS. Two weeks is a long time without skating when you've designated roller derby as your salvation. Between work and rainy days, I was seriously jonesin' for some quality pack work, booty blocking and squats. Well, GUESS WHAT? We've finally started contact. That's right, I get to smash bodily into other girls and knock them on their asses, which, let's face it, is the best part of roller derby.

Oh my god, I love it.

Being 5'2" with a low center of gravity and a lot of junk in the trunk has never come in handy for me (except when I walk downtown late at night and men aggressively call me 'shawty,' which no one wants)...UNTIL NOW. I've been anxiously awaiting the skill in derby that I have serious prowess at. I'm no speed skater, my endurance needs a lot of work and my skills are pretty standard, but hitting? Hitting is something I feel like I can be fucking awesome at and I intend to. God, it's so fucking intoxicating----don't get me wrong, I'm not going to be caught in a downward spiral where I start punching strangers during stressful work shifts, but I can assure you I will be doing a lot of hitting on the track.

One of my favorite blockers, Annie Cockledoux of the Green Mountain Derby Dames, gettin' down to bidness

I think hitting is so appealing to me because I'm the antithesis of aggression. When it comes to conflict, I've always been passive to my detriment. I've let one too many girlfriends push me around (and throw laptops at my head) and that has never ended well. I would rather have tons of whiny inner turmoil than deal with the overt confrontation that would be much quicker and more satisfying. Recently in a counseling session, Christy and I were discussing the past 6 months and the fall out from Kate, along with the relationship itself, and she said to me, 'What I'm wondering is why you aren't ANGRY.'

It never occurs to me to be angry, to hold people accountable for their actions and just be fucking PISSED at them. I'd rather be sad or tired or disappointed or frustrated. In a lot of ways, I'm sure that's been beneficial, but in just as many ways it hasn't. And so when I have the opportunity to slam into another girl on rollerskates, I'm ecstatic, and I'm not holding back.

This month, we start having indoor practices twice a week and off skate workouts twice a week. I'm the happiest girl. I absolutely fucking adore my derby girls, they're my family, and seeing them regularly just makes me feel so happy and squirmy inside. Today, my whole body aches, including muscles I didn't know I had (I pulled a muscle in my throat...IN MY THROAT) and I feel like myself. It's been two weeks without a single Red Bull, I've kept off the initial weight loss and lost another pound, and hauled my ass out of the bell jar.

I'm doin' alright, how about you?

PS: 503 views in 2 weeks? BAFFLED. SAY HELLO!

GRE

 

Thumbs down to mathematical equations, geometry and the like

This is my generic excited face.

Thumbs up to the Pumpkin Spice Latte I'm rewarding myself with for not killing myself with a mechanical pencil after doing said math equations.

And even better?

13/15? I can accept that.

SUCK ON THAT, ANALOGIES! I'M GONNA MESS YOU UP SO BAD, YOU ALREADY TRIPPIN.

Wish me luck tomorrow as I venture over to Vermont to take the GREs. I hope I do well because lord knows my bank account will be significantly lighter if I don't. Yes, retail therapy. I guess I can't lose---great GRE scores or a new wardrobe. Healthy, I know.

Anxiety makes me hungry

I take my GREs (Graduate Record Examination, to be exact) on Friday. For those of you who don't know, although I'm fairly sure you all do, the GRE is like the big kid version of the SAT and it involves a labyrinth of vocabulary words no one uses in daily conversation, quantitative reasoning problems intended to deceive you and make you weep and cryptic reading passages. When I scheduled my GRE for October 1st a few months ago, I thought I'd have more than enough time to prepare; I promised myself that I'd follow a strict study schedule and pummel vocab into my brain and everything would go swimmingly.

Yeah, that didn't happen. Now, I have a total of four days to prep for this exam that plays a deciding factor in which graduate programs I get accepted by and it's too late to reschedule or cancel (and even that involves a $45 fee.) And these next four days? I work all but one of them. Yep, I'm fucked in an aggressive and painful manner...like, sit on a bag of peas and limp for a week fucked. Currently, I'm sitting in a carrel taking a well deserved break from studying to evade what I'm sure would be a bountiful anxiety attack.

This can't end well.

What with my general 'oh-fuck' mentality about this test and my work schedule, I can feel myself slipping up. Week one was a piece of cake, but once the seasonal depression, binge drinking and academic panic attacks come on? All I want is to pound back a Red Bull, stay up all night studying and then gorge on cheeseburgers with mac sauce and Chinese take out. I'm having trouble concentrating on studying because I feel so fucking lethargic, antisocial and exhausted.

Every year like clockwork, I feel myself starting to get depressed in September and it only increases as time goes on. September through February is a dark time for me and I spent most of my time crying, eating, sleeping, or just hermiting in my room like a bear cub hibernating for the winter. Most of the time I do a pretty good job of outrunning my depression but these gray days just kick me right in the teeth.

This year, as a preemptive strike, I've started taking the Celexa I was supposed to be taking for the past oh, year. I'm a psychiatrist's worst nightmare when it comes to medication---I never take it regularly, I self-medicate when I feel compelled to and rarely do I let my doctor know that I have never taken my medication consistently. My freshmen year of college, I took my dose of Effexor fairly regularly and then started to forget doses, as I always do. I wound up at my doctor's having an EKG done because I was experiencing the symptoms of withdrawal---who woulda thunk? I mean, my main concern at the time was that my doctor would violate her Hippo oath and tell my grandmother I had my nipples pierced but regardless, I recognized the severity of my actions. Did it stop me from doing the same thing multiple times? Of course not.

So I've been taking my multivitamin, vitamin D and Celexa daily now like a good girl, hell, I might even use my happy lamp for once if it will combat this mopey shit I'm feeling. Every day I feel like I'm on the precipice of a colossal breakdown and it isn't exactly conducive to a healthy lifestyle. If anything, it makes me drink copious amounts of alcohol and eat buffalo chicken pizza and quesadillas at 3AM.

The ever lovely Carlovely taking a hit from our incredible coach, Raggedy Antics.

I've been missing derby practice because of work also and that brings me down and is actually physically exhausting because when I DO make practice, I haven't skated for a week or so and my body is screaming at me, OH HELL NO. Yesterday, our team started contact and looking at the pictures, I was so envious and disappointed I wasn't there. Luckily, we're training a new employee at work and hopefully Sunday schedules will start rotating normally. October also means we practice twice a week indoors---I just need to keep my chin up this week and reassure myself that, yes, I will be there, and I can hip check the fuck out of my lovely derby gals.

I need to keep my chin up in many ways and not lose focus. I have so much momentum and stopping is not an option. I'm going to kick the living fuck out of this depression until it is hobbling in the opposite direction, crippled and ashamed.

Now it's time to listen to Kelly Clarkson and try to relearn and retain mathematical concepts I learned when I was 14.

Wednesday was a blue night. I think everyone knows what a blue night (or day, or month, or year) is like...where you just want to listen to the National (or Damien Rice...or Sia...or Chris Pureka) and crawl into this pit of melancholy and just vanish.

Next thing you know, you're naked curled in the fetal position in your bed watching romantic comedies in the dark for 4 hours, willing yourself to cry.

No? Just me?

Well, I didn't cry. I haven't had a good cry in a solid 4 or 5 months despite having ample reason and sufficient emotion. The last cry I had was the Great Sob of 2010 where Alison and I managed to drink a vat of rum and get kicked out of a house party within 15 minutes of arriving (this may be because Alison looks like she just attended her 8th grade graduation (but she is an adorable 14 year old, for sure) We somehow managed to stumble home and...well, I'll spare you the gory and most likely chunky details but the night ended with me sobbing pant-less on my bedroom floor, cradling a trash can.

I could use a good cry. You know that feeling where this pressure just builds in your chest and you can feel the tears surging up in your throat but can't will them to your eyes? I just want to relieve that pressure, I want to just wade knee deep into all of this overwhelming shit I'm feeling and dealing with and I don't know, let it swallow me up even for a night. Actually permit myself to be hurt and angry and hysterical and any other thing I want and need to be because god knows I haven't for so long and so very much has happened. I'm a little concerned for the day when it does happen because I'm pretty positive that day will actually be a week of snot fountains, dark chocolate, hard liquor and Bill Murray movies.

I don't want this blog to become a stage for my whining nor do I ever want to seem like I'm fishing for comfort, compliments or pity but I also don't feel compelled to censor myself considering this blog is ultimately for me---for my amusement, for my growth, for whatever I need it to be. So I will be honest here without much discretion or guilt for doing so.

I guess the logical question is why was I blue, why am I blue, why do I want to cry so badly (I mean honestly, who wants that?) I don't know if I can even adequately answer that for myself, not because I can't trace the reasons but because this particular brand of sadness is just the kind that tints everything a little darker. I'm single for the first time in essentially 5 years other than a brief stint my Senior year of high school. I'm a self-described recovering serial monogamist, but being single has been an adventure, although I had hoped for it to be more of one...involving general debauchery, shameless make out sessions, prolific cuddling and more sex. Granted, these things have happened but somehow I anticipated more...and then I remember, I'm a lesbian in Plattsburgh, and that is a fate worse than death.

I'm not sad because I'm single (although being lonely itself hurts; I'm a great big spoon and I think I'm wasting valuable talents) but more sad over the cumulative events for the past 6 months. I lost my girlfriend and my best friend all at once in what has been a long, painful and at times fairly ugly process. I'll exercise some discretion here because I don't think it's fair to air our someones dirty laundry on a blog accessible by the world but as with any 2 year relationship, there's a lot of history and a lot of baggage. I loved her very much and still do and I'm trying to deal with that fact.

Most of the time I think to myself, 'Come on, Erica...it's been almost 6 months...half a YEAR...put on your big girl shoes, write a sad poem in your journal and move on' but that's just the problem. I haven't really grieved over this, let alone written sappy cliche poetry about it...and sometimes that grief just hits me square in the chest and sends me spiraling into that blue place where I'm tearing up watching lesbian romance films from the 90s chowing down on lo mein.

Yes, I said it. Lo Mein. I drove my weepy ass to Jade Buffet and fought myself the entire way there...
'Should I be using 5,000 calories of fried food to comfort myself?'
'Am I letting myself down?'
'Does sadness entitle me to 10 crab rangoons?'

But I caved, and I chopsticked my sadness away and ultimately didn't feel like I deceived myself, namely because
1. Putting myself on an unrealistically tight leash won't produce anything positive...if anything, I'll lash out and eat 30 Double Downs in one sitting.
2. Comforting myself with food is only bad (for the most part) if it's the only way I know how to comfort myself. I know for a fact it is not.
3. It was dinner time...and 40% of my meal was constituted by green beans.

So I stayed in bed all night eating lo mein and watching old CSI: Las Vegas DVDs and waited it out for the morning when hopefully I'd feel better; which, I of course did. Sometimes that's all you can do.

Speaking of the morning, and feeling great...this morning, in my hungover stupor I stood on my scale and discovered something exciting and seriously encouraging: I lost 3 lbs! In less than a week! Considering a healthy weight loss rate is 1-2 lbs per week, I'm ecstatic, namely because it hasn't been obscenely difficult and I'm proud! Less than a week and 275 views and 3 lbs.

Who's making my ribbon?

Everyone has their vice

First of all, thank you Blogger stats for permitting me to track my visits with an almost obsessive precision; who knew I would have 160 views within less than a week or 20 a day? Now, for a prolific and famous blogger like my lovely friend and fellow derby girl carlovely, this number would probably seem devastatingly low, but for little (or not so little) old (or not so old) me? That's fucking exciting! Who knew my discussing my excess chub could be so enticing? (Globally, even....hello viewers from France, Ireland and New Zealand) Say hello, drop me a line, comment on my posts and laugh at my awful jokes.

Right now, I'm settled into a carrel in the library with a deliciously scalding cup of Green Mountain Roasters Pumpkin Spice coffee. Within the past week, I've resurrected my passionate love of coffee---but not without a nasty and physically exhausting breakup with my old flame, Red Bull.

I think we need to see other people.

Let me give you a vivid, realistic picture of how committed I was to Red Bull, how deep our love ran, how strong our bond was...

When my best friend Alison traveled to Halifax to study abroad for a semester, she caught a whiff of what she didn't know was Red Bull at the time and sought me out because she thought that it was the scent of my perfume. Until recently, cleaning my car constituted an avalanche of Red Bull cans cascading onto the pavement. My summer lady friend climbed into my car and immediately told me the entire thing reeked of Red Bull (or, the scent of melted smarties.) When I studied abroad in China this past Winter, I hunted down Red Bull. In China, and then almost wept when it wasn't caffeinated.

A gross disappointment

Mathematically speaking, over the past 2 and a half years, I've spent $5,000 on Red Bull. I just almost puked in my mouth as I did that calculation.

I wasn't always so enthusiastic about Red Bull (or reluctantly addicted.) The first time I drank the stuff I was 15 at my friend Alyssa's house for a pre-Tegan & Sara concert sleepover. Her mom came home toting tubs of Swedish fish, bags of Reese's Pieces and a 12 pack of Red Bull. Alyssa and Alex assured me that the stuff was the nectar of the gods and I believed them...until I drank some and wanted to spit the shit into the sink. It was the color of bile and tasted almost as awful, like melted smarties and battery acid blended together to form a can of sin.

I don't know how I managed to develop such a change-resistant addiction throughout college but rest assured, I did. Starting my sophomore year, I started drinking a Red Bull daily, which quickly became two Red Bulls a day, which quickly morphed into 2 Red Bulls a day, perhaps an Amp and maybe a coffee for shits and giggles. After a year, or even 6 months of that idiocy, Red Bull stopped serving as a jump start and quickly became a necessity just to haul my ass out of bed and stay awake past my first class at 10AM. I started gaining more weight, sleeping constantly and having pounding headaches, with or without Red Bull.

This is by no means my first time trying to stop drinking this evil poison. I've tried multiple times by going cold turkey, gradually cutting back and replacing Red Bull with coffee. I've lasted a month, two months, but I always came running back---what is so seductive about a can of battery acid and melted smarties?

Red Bull is banned in France, Denmark and Canada. Regardless of the urban legends surrounding Red Bull, truth exists regarding how goddamn awful it is for your body. According to a recent study,

"Researchers found that just one sugar free can of Red Bull raised the level of stickiness of the blood and could lead to the formation of blood clots."

Considering Red Bull has been linked to adrenal exhaustion, heart failure and the formation of blood clots---well, I think this relationship has become unhealthy and caustic, to say the least. But, as with any controlling relationship, the breakup hasn't been easy. First of all, the headaches alone are enough to make me want to punch a baby or small woodland creature. Second, I'm exhausted---my body is ready for bed by 3PM and during an 8 hour shift, I find myself yawning every three seconds in my customers faces. They don't like this too much, especially when I gleek on them. Third, at times I miss it. I remember our memories together, all of the good times we've had, the journeys we've taken (to different states and different countries,) but I know now it is time to be strong and hold my ground.

Coffee is much gentler with me and warms my tummy and heart. I think we might start going steady...

Pumpkin Spice

 

I'll never need another Red Bull again...

North Country Lumber Jills post practice

Today was exquisite. Do you ever have those moments where you consciously recognize that in that moment, you're actually fully content? Today was an endless string of those. This morning I was able to attend my first indoor practice with the team.

For a solid four months, we practiced outside on asphalt. As fondly as I'll remember those sentimental times, I won't miss the scent of sewage in the air (the parking lot is conveniently located next to the water treatment plant) and the overwhelming spattering of bird shit everywhere, nor will I miss road rash. If I've lost any weight from roller derby, it's because I left a quarter pound of my flesh on the pavement. I still have a solid 2 inch scar on my shin that will not go away. In retrospect, I should have used anti-bacterial ointment more consistently but my leg quickly turned into a sticky dog-hair-and-lint-trap. I could knit a sweater with the debris on my leg.

But I digress. Today's practice was phenomenal. Skating indoors somehow makes the entire situation feel much more legitimate and real, and skating on those polished floors felt delicious (except during the initial half of practice when I had to master shortening my cross overs and wiped out multiple times.) We did a drill called the Boston Driver where the team works as a pack to block one asshole jammer who attempts to break through the using completely illegal tactics...elbows, locking wheels and kicking skates, pushing, shoving, shirt grabbing and everything in between. It was AWESOME. I love any drill that simulates an actual jam because the competition, the teamwork, the aggression; it's all intoxicating. I love working fluidly as a pack, communicating with each other and booty blocking. I love it because in the midst of it, I forget that I'm drenched in sweat, my back is cramped and my legs are shaking. And it gives me the tiniest sneak peak of what I'm working so hard to achieve. I cannot wait until our first bout. I always leave practice with my gear slung over my shoulder feeling so overwhelmingly proud and inspired (and smelly.)

I'm surprised by my good behavior these past few days. For the first time, this process of self-improvement and literal cleansing doesn't seem so daunting or negative but completely feasible and exciting. I don't feel powerless; maybe because for the first time I'm not motivated by self-loathing----I'm not doing this because I'm disgusted with myself. I'm doing this because I'm fucking empowered and inspired and I feel strong and capable for the first time in years.

After practice, I rushed over to Hawkins for a rehearsal of Emeritus: An Academic Comedy, this mind-blowingly hysterical and simultaneously touching play written by one of my favorite Professors, Dr. Anne Tracy. I took an Honors Seminar with Anne back in the Fall of my sophomore year called Writing the Coming of Age Novella and wrote this humorous but seriously disorganized and chaotic novella. During the semester, Anne got a pretty heavy dose of my sardonic and sometimes caustic sense of humor which unexpectedly led to her contacting me at the start of this summer, asking me to play one of the lead characters.

Now, my acting experience is fairly limited...limited to my roles as

1. The Barrister of Munchkin city. During this particular production, I had to wear an over sized purple robe with a mile high collar. During dress rehearsal, I told my counterpart, the coroner, that I "felt soooo gay." I was miked the entire time. The ARC was there.
2. A postulant in the Sound of Music. Yep. A nun.
3. A crippled kangaroo. I sprained my ankle the week of the performance and dragged my thousand pound paper mache costume around with one foot.
4. A prostitute when I was 12 years old. The man who had to awkwardly pretend to try to pick me up for the sexing was 40 years old...don't ask me how this happened.

So by default I was hesitant to accept the offer, but I was reassured that the performance would simply be a reading, NOT a performance, CERTAINLY no paper mache costumes or choreographed dance. I was comforted by the fact that my professor told me the character essentially IS me, a 'pierced and brash' character who is regarded as the funniest of the play by many. The ego stroke goes a long way.

The story surrounds a group of retired faculty members of a private college in Maine who spend their declining years in an assisted living facility called Goldengroves. The characters are hysterical (example: Thatcher, the retired Anthropology professor who flashes his colleagues regularly and ultimately does so with his penis covered in blackberry jam; or maybe Lilly, who is a retired biologist of the aquatic sort and fantasizes about foreplay with the Giant Squid...she also tries to put her dentures in her vagina.) How could I turn this opportunity down?

As if reading this script for the college community at large isn't intimidating enough, Anne recruited actual Plattsburgh State faculty members to play these retired Professors...including but not limited to; the director of the Honors Center, the Dean of Arts and Sciences, the college President's wife, several department chairs, our resident librarian and numerous distinguished faculty I've had courses with. To be completely surrounded by them made me sweaty for the second time today. I think I may have sweat more during the read through than I did during our endurance drills...and I sweat a lot.

But after we read through the entire script, several people went out of their way to compliment me. I left that room feeling flat out triumphant and so excited to be part of something so amazing, despite it being miles out of my comfort zone. I can't wait for the performance Friday.

My blogs are epic. And for that I'm sorry. All in all, a fantastic, successful, fucking beatific day.

BYE

where I'm at

224 lbs

I've never owned a scale of my own, mainly because in my obsessive days, I would check my weight three to four times a day which is just silly, and clearly unhealthy. Today I headed over to Target and decided to go ovaries out and buy one; how else will I track my progress? When I stepped on the scale, I was seriously concerned I would break it (mainly not due to my girth but because the thing cost $8 and appears to be made of paper.)

224 lbs. This is officially the most I have weighed in my 21 years of life, but instead of dwelling on it and burrowing into an emotional hole filled with Chinese food and Seth Rogen films, I'll simply accept it and move forward.

My smokin' bod.

I'm 5'2" and I've always been petite. Most of my coats swallow my arms whole and any given pair of pants need to be cut, cuffed, hemmed or stomped on mercilessly until they fall apart. I'll always be grateful for my particular shape because I've always had an hourglass figure (slightly less so as my chub migrates upwards) and a defined waist. My hips do not lie, despite what you may have heard, and I've got an ass that just don't stop (I could describe my body entirely in prose composed of rap lyrics.) I will always be a thicker girl and I am beyond okay with it; if anything, I've learned to embrace every squishy bit of it and I'm equally attracted to girls who have something to hang onto. Just as a matter of personal preference, I prefer girls who are curvy or athletic.

As for setting goals, in my minds eye I have a clear idea of what my ideal weight would be but I'm trying to scrap that entirely and let my body guide me. If I can truthfully say that I'm making the right decisions for my body and that produces only 10-20 lbs of net weight loss, so be it.

Now I'm off to get a vegan burrito at Cheechako Taco and meet some Fresh Meat! I wouldn't mind if said meat was scrumptious. I'm just saying...

Andy Warhol

“Weight isn’t important the way the magazines make you think it is. I know a girl who just looks at her face in the medicine cabinet mirror and never looks below her shoulders, and she’s four or five hundred pounds but she doesn’t see all that, she just sees a beautiful face and therefore she thinks she’s a beauty...And therefore, I think she’s a beauty too, because I usually accept people on the basis of their self-images, because their self-images have more to do with the way they think than their objective-images do. 

Maybe she’s six hundred pounds, who knows. If she doesn’t care, I don’t.” 

-Andy Warhol

a little bit of history

When I was a kid, I was in the 10th percentile for my height and weight (meaning 90% of kids were heavier and taller than I was.) Funny enough, my cranium size was in the 90th. My parents used to comfort me by telling me it was because I was so smart but really I was just disproportionate. I looked like a bobble head and walked with my head hanging backwards off my my neck (it was heavy.) Despite my serious imbalance, I was never a chunky kid. I was active, I climbed trees and played soccer, I was convinced I was Xena (how my parents didn't know I was gay still baffles me...) It wasn't until 4th grade that I started to fill out...all over the place.

Puberty struck hard and early. I got my period in 5th grade and boys immediately started calling me 'cherry popper' and 'PMS avenger' among other things---so eloquent, so literate, these boys. My sister and parents had to sit me down and have a serious talk with me about bras...and the fact that I was in dire need of one, despite being 9 years old.

On top of having my body morph and expand before my eyes, puberty brought it's good friend clinical depression along with it; my hormones and serotonin levels went haywire simultaneously. I tried to kill myself for the first time when I was 10 and was a cutter for 4 years. I spent the majority of middle school drowning in all of these overwhelming and seemingly inescapable feelings that just seemed too old for me, too big to hold. On top of being irrationally, chronically depressed, I was bullied constantly. In retrospect, I'm confused by this because while I may have had a little excess chub, I was by no means obese or insanely unpopular. Regardless of why they did it, my classmates chewed me up and spit me the fuck out.

Back in 6th and 7th grade, AIM was the social networking tool (remember when you changed the quotes in your profile religiously and loved Comic Sans?) and those sweet adolescent boys used it to rip my self esteem to shreds---they would tell me I should just kill myself; one even told me I was so ugly he wouldn't even feed me to his dog and systematically told me why each of my friends hated me. Thank god Facebook didn't exist back then or they could have taken their bullshit to a whole new level.

Between being smothered by anxiety and depression and being perpetually bullied, I felt pretty awful about myself. At the time, my sister Jaimie was the image of teenage perfection; tall, blonde haired, blue eyed, and a cheerleader to boot. She was like a Barbie doll with all the right accessories, including but not limited to; pompoms, equally flawless friends and a seriously majestic perm. While my grandmother was telling my sister she could be a model, she was telling ME that I looked like a little Monica Lewinsky. I consistently gained weight until 8th great when I peaked at 200lbs.

It made my future feel filthy...was I destined to destroy a presidency with blowjobs and big hair?

At that point, I had evolved into this socially retarded hyperactive one woman pride parade who wore cat collars, platform boots, tutus and screenprinted her own men's Hanes t-shirts. I don't know when it was that I chose to do something about my weight, but sure enough I spent the next year or two exercising in my basement, watching VHS tapes and sweating my ass off. By my sophomore year of high school, I had lost 50 lbs. By my junior year, it would be 60.

My 17 year old ass. It was small and firm

My ass now. It's large and does tricks.

It was naive of me to think that losing weight would yield happiness. If anything, it heightened my awareness of my body and what people thought of it and I quickly learned that what people thought was that I was somehow better, worth noticing, when I lost weight. Each time I would gain a pound I would have panic attacks and run until I threw up because I was absolutely positive that gaining weight meant losing everything. Losing weight didn't make me feel beautiful or desirable...if anything, it made me a nervous wreck.

My senior year of high school brought a lot of new things...a mohawk, college applications, my first real breakup, but most importantly, a job. I was 10 to 15 minutes late on a regular basis not because I was caught in traffic or overslept but simply because I spent hours changing my outfit in front of the mirror, trying on shirt after shirt, pants after pants, convinced that nothing fit just right, nothing looked good. I would wake up in the morning afraid to get dressed because I was convinced I had outgrown my clothes in the night. I spent most of my freshmen year of college in sweatpants and oversized band t-shirts because I didn't want to deal with the anxiety associated with getting dressed.

During college, the stress in my life sky rocketed. Not only was I dealing with a more rigorous academic schedule, I was dealing with financial matters (being poor as fuck,) grieving over lost relatives and pets, trying to keep my head above water in an abusive relationship, all the while stewing in my self-loathing and general discontent. Over the past few years, I've successfully gained back every single pound I lost and then a little bonus weight, just for good measure. It isn't difficult for me to trace why it happened or how, and it's stupid of me to evade responsibility for it.

I treat my body with little to zero respect. I load it full of caffeine, alcohol and fast food. I drink two energy drinks in any given day and eat fast food at least once a day because I am incapable of cooking. I have so much animosity towards my body that I detach from it. For all intents and purposes, my body is just this bipedal sack that totes my brain around. I would rather pretend it doesn't exist than deal with the state that it's in.

My general disregard for myself isn't restricted to my body, it just oozes all over everything and affects everything I do; how I let people treat me, how I carry myself, the choices I make. It's like this toxic disease that just infects everything and I can't help but feel like if I could treat it, if I could just work out how to respect myself, I could change everything.

I've been in counseling for a decade now and sometimes that fact is discouraging but I'd be lying if I said I hadn't made progress. I single handedly pulled myself out of and survived through a deep depression before I was even in high school. I like to think that I've handled the obstacles life has hurled at me with grace and strength, and if I pride myself on anything, it's my resilience. Because despite my angsty inner turmoil and sometimes hefty baggage, I hope I manage to be a kind, funny, giving person, one who DESERVES respect.

I had a livejournal for almost a decade. Despite the fact that I used it mostly to write angsty poetry, talk about faeries and post socially awkward pictures of myself with lots of eyeliner, it truly helped me through some sticky spots and really allowed me to articulate the things that I was feeling (and lord knows I had a lot of feelings.) Right now, I'm in a very transitory period (although I guess logically life is always transitory) and I'm trying to use the momentum I've built over the past few months to keep me moving down a path to a place where I'm more positive, more assertive, healthier, and most importantly, gentler with myself.

The reason I chose the blog name 'rollerskates and reformation' is because (1) it serves as a testament to the very activity that has been both my inspiration and action regarding making a better me (roller derby) and (2) I'll talk about rollerskating...a lot. I'll save the salivation over delicious derby girls for my tumblr.

Back in April, we started our local derby league, the North Country Lumber Jills. Despite the fact that roller derby is this beautiful clusterfuck of everything I adore (beautiful tattooed women, booty shorts, fishnets and tube socks, rollerskates, and aggression,) I was hesitant to join, mainly because I was (and am) hyper aware of what awful shape I'm in. Climbing the stairs at the parking garage on Church Street was like an Olympic event and I wanted a medal when I made it to the top. Luckily, roller derby is a sport that is ridiculously body positive and being a bigger girl can be an asset (so long as you're agile and a great skater.) But despite my crippling self consciousness, I did it, and it was one of the best decisions I've ever made.

Roller derby came into my life with perfect timing. I had just ended a 2 year relationship which had grown to be unhealthy and unhappy and I was pretty broken up about it (think alcohol poisoning at 3AM, sitting on the floor with no pants on, vomiting into a trash can with a box of Kleenex in my lap.) Roller derby not only gave me about 10 new strong, talented, hysterical friends but forced me to step outside of my comfort zone of napping and binging on cheeseburgers.

My first practice was excruciating. I fell on the same butt cheek easily a dozen times and my muscles were in agonizing pain. We did push pulls and I tried my hardest to push a line of five girls around the track...the effort was visible (pictures posted in the local paper feature me looking like I'm shitting my pants.) But despite the pain and the fact that I was an awful skater, I went home feeling like a fucking superhero. Since then, I've become a considerably better skater, I have visible quad muscles and I wear spandex shorts without an ounce of embarrassment.

the North Country Lumber Jills...I'm the sweaty ginger on the right.

As much as roller derby pushes me, sometimes it bowls me right over. I have cried at practices, vomited, bled and sweat buckets. I've had to (and continue to) confront the same issues I've dealt with for essentially my entire life....namely, my awful body image and piss poor self-confidence. Each time I skate and make a mistake, it feels like I'm in 8th grade gym class doing sprints, tripping and landing hard on my 200 lb ass in front of snickering adolescent girls. Every time I put on a pair of shorts or a tank top, I struggle to feel liberated rather than humiliated and hope with everything I've got that I get there someday.

These issues are nothing new, they're just rearing their ugly heads in a new venue. But I am determined to keep skating, to push myself harder each practice and become the best fucking blocker Plattsburgh has ever seen.  And I'm going to push myself in other ways too, because this isn't just about roller derby or losing weight...

This is about radically altering the very way I perceive myself.
This is about being healthier, not thinner.
This is about making the right choices, not because I have to, but because I deserve it.
This is about wrestling demons.
This is about making lemonade out of shit.

I'll be using this blog to try to stay positive, to deal with the slip ups I know are coming and to really work through anything and everything relevant to being Erica v2.0.

So here goes nothing.