Being closeted while learning Roller Derby has a special type of irony to it, given how intertwined queerness is with the sport, but throwing myself into learning this new skill still opened up a much-needed pocket of joy in my life at the time.
Drew was also learning to Roller Derby when she wasn’t in preproduction for the film, and we had a blast together. More people had joined, the sensational Zo? Bell, who learned to Roller Derby in what felt like five minutes. She was fearless and full of fun, her energy always joyous and generous. We sped around the track, racing and bumping and laughing and falling and getting back up. It was actually the falling that eased the trepidation. You have a few big crashes, realize it is not a big deal, the pads work, you got this.
Juliette Lewis came aboard, Eve and Kristen Wiig soon after. Everyone worked hard. All of us equally focused and supportive. Learning something new together, especially something as challenging as Derby, allowed us to bond quickly. It created a palpable chemistry, clear in the film. It was such an awesome group. I am grateful for those times.
When we were capable enough, actual Derby Dolls would join our sessions, adding more bodies to experience the sensation of an actual jam. Scrimmaging with them was terrifying. The first time real-life Derby stars came to practice with us, my hands trembled as I tied my skates. Making my way around that track had been hard enough, and now women twice my size were coming at me with their hip bones. I hoped my helmet and mouth guard were doing enough to hide my terror. There was no time to think. We swerved and smashed and as the nerves dissipated, exhilaration took the reins. Playing with them improved my abilities dramatically. The moment when you commit to trust your feet, no more looking down, head up, that is when you really start flowing. Shifting from thought to instinct. What a special opportunity to tackle fears alongside others—something I wasn’t so familiar with at the time—witnessing the work pay off and the camaraderie form. But despite that closeness and the trust, it would be a while before I shared that Paula was more than my friend and assistant. Not that they couldn’t already tell.
We moved to Michigan at the start of the summer to make the film. It took place in Texas but was shot predominantly in Detroit, Ann Arbor, Ypsilanti, and Frankenmuth, with just a day or two in Austin, Texas.
More people were cast, and the training continued. The days would begin with alternating yoga and calisthenics classes. It was intimate, all of us fully committed, laughing, tired, but having fun. However, I did feel inherently dissimilar, perhaps reminding me of the high school soccer days? Not just mismatched physically, but also energetically. Despite always being invited in, I buzzed around the fringes, unable to wholly connect.
When we’d been filming on skates all day and losing our heads from exhaustion, Kristen and I would work between takes on a musical we had spontaneously created called The Unidentified Beast. It was based on an article we saw online about an unknown creature that had washed ashore in Montauk. It was referred to as “the unidentified beast.” We’d gesture dramatically as we skated, choreography revealing itself through our emotion. We’d improvise songs as we looped around, delusional with fatigue. Our main go-to line was pretty straightforward: “The Unidentified Beaaaaassssssttttttt!” we’d belt, arms raised. It didn’t get old. At least for us, perhaps the surrounding cast and crew felt different.
* * *
We haven’t always kept in touch, but at certain, significant moments, when I really needed someone, Kristen was always there. She lights everything up. The first time I began communicating how I wasn’t okay to LA pals was to Kristen and Alia Shawkat, who plays Bliss’s best friend, Pash. It came out accidentally, the words just jumped out. I was huddled with them at a party at Drew’s house in Hollywood, many months after we had wrapped the film.
We stood chatting. They were speaking excitedly. I felt lost in space, disassociated. It was a period where I almost never left my apartment, and even in the apartment I could not operate. The TV would be on, I’d lie on the couch, but not watching it. I’d fixate on food. I felt too afraid to text a friend to make a plan, as if my presence was an endless burden. I was sinking in slow motion, like a nightmare where you go to scream but nothing comes out. Mouth wide, lips parting, wanting it, you try again … silence. And down you go.
I looked at these two wonderful people. I’d met Alia when I read off camera for her audition. Already a major fan, having watched all of Arrested Development, I was even more blown away by her in person. Sincere, risk-taking, and naturally comical, she made it seem effortless. Our chemistry sparked, immediately playful and free. Alia became one of my best friends in real life, too.
“I’m miserable.” It was as if someone else had said it. A new guest over my shoulder.
“What?” they said, attention shifting to me.
And it came out. I was hurting, the closet too much, my relationship crumbling, I couldn’t leave my home. I believed it unattainable to ever be out. Unthinkable the idea I could be where I am now. I would have laughed and dismissed the suggestion altogether, that this would be a feasible future for me. I’m not precisely sure why my feelings emerged in that moment. I do know I trusted them, felt cared for and protected, I knew they’d never judge me. Kristen and Alia were people I could be myself around, or at least work toward it with. They supported my truth, helping me shovel out the bullshit that covered it, wanting me to feel free. But despite people’s desire to help, it would all take me so long. False ends and false starts, me fooling myself, justifying suppression and self-harm. Rewarded for lying and punished for sharing the secret.
“You can make a choice and go or stay. But this is my reality, my life, I’ll never be able to be out. I don’t know what else to say,” I said to Paula in my studio apartment in Hancock Park, my first place in Los Angeles after making the official move.
I really believed this. And a couple years later, I still felt the same.
The anxiety never stopped. Pounds were dropping, panic attacks were preventing me from leaving the house. Many days I felt myself unsafe to drive. My lack of motivation alarming, my desire for nothing too big. It was my manager who got me to my first real therapist, a lifesaving introduction.
“We need to get you to a place where you can come out,” a new therapist said to me when I was twenty-three.
“No, that is impossible,” I replied without thought. It moved through my lips as organically as my queer walk.
When the topic of gender came up, I could not speak, I would just weep. It was too hot to touch. It would take another decade before I properly addressed it, until I was able to sit with myself long enough to listen. Until I was pushed so far that I didn’t have a choice. The last fork in the road.
13
BUCKETS
As the shoot for Whip It was coming to a close, the thought of bursting this bubble and going back to Los Angeles with Paula disturbed me. I wanted to get as far away from Hollywood as I could.
I had been fixated on the state of our environment and the catastrophic impact we’ve had on it. As I became more and more entrenched in Hollywood, I was traveling around the world constantly for work, staying in luxurious hotels, chucking the towels in the tub to be washed.
I searched online for somewhere I could go and learn about sustainable living, wanting to know what it meant for humans to exist in sync with our natural surroundings. I stumbled upon a place outside Eugene, Oregon, called Lost Valley. As described on their site, Lost Valley is a learning center, educating youth and adults in the practical application of sustainable living skills. We take a holistic approach to sustainability education, engaging students in ecological, social, and personal growth.
Looking into the various programs, I settled on the Permaculture Design Certificate Course. Paula was planning on coming, too. It would be a month of living and learning in an intentional community, far removed from the world of film, and I could wear whatever I wanted.
A week out from heading to Oregon, Paula decided not to come. She did not want to be away for a month. She’d returned home, and settling in Halifax felt nice for Paula, a coziness, a community and familiarity. She’d been following me around, tagging along, no real agency of her own. Out of a groove she wanted back in.