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[hemaphilia]

Free.

That's how I feel this weekend. Free.

There's no weight of expectation. No good brain/bad brain battle. No worrying about letting down myself or anyone else.

After all, how can there be? I've barely touched a sword in the last few months. I can't expect anything. All I can do is try to stay on my feet. On my toes.

So I just fence.

And I am free.

*******

I love competition, but there is a point where it becomes too much.

2018 starts well enough, but quickly I am overwhelmed. Matches I should have won but I didn't, techniques I should have pulled off but couldn't, moments I wish I had that escaped me.

In September and October I have four events in six weeks (and a fifth I am running). In six longsword tournaments, I manage to win two fights - out of around thirty. I feel slow and lethargic, like I have lost everything I've learned.

The emotions, the thoughts of inadequacy, pile onward and upward. My sword breaks at IGX and it seems a perfect metaphor for my emotional state. I make it through Krump Pow in the next week, but only barely. I mention to a few, I don't know if i can keep doing this.

When I come home, I put my SportTube with all of my longsword gear neatly under my heater.

It stays there, untouched, for the next three months.

******

Later on, after my fighting is done, I am talking to Sara when she says to me -

- "You have good footwork. You always kept moving."

I try to explain to her that this doesn't make any sense; after all I am not exactly known for good footwork, and you aren't supposed to suddenly improve after going three months without training.

"Maybe you just managed to turn your brain off," she says.

*******

Had I not committed to going to SoCal 2019 over the summer, I doubt I would have gone after last fall. But I am a firm believer that commitments once made should be seen through.

After all, I tell myself, I'm going because I want to see friends and go somewhere warm in February. The swords are just a nice bonus.

******

SoCal has a cutting qualifier for Open Steel. When I was here in 2015, I didn't manage a single cut. The last time I tried cutting in any competitive setting, back at IGX, I couldn't manage a left oberhau.

I don't expect to cut with any success this time. I don't have a great track record with competitive cutting, and I haven't been practicing as much as I should.

...So, of course, I manage the qualifier with more ease than any other cutting I've done. It is a sign of the weekend to come.

******

Before I leave for SoCal, Patrick gives me two goals - stay on my toes, and try a durchswexel.

The first is much easier managed than the second, but I am able to accomplish things beyond that -

I stay mobile. No one bullies me. I do not give up on any exchange, nor do I fight scared. I mange a sword grab (sort of), and I am even comfortable enough to try a krumphau. I am fighting aggressive fighters and physically large fighters, fencers who not too long ago would have dismantled me without trying, and I don't give in.

********

This weekend is the catharsis I've been yearning for. A re-set button, a draining of all the muck in my brain.

I dance and I enjoy each step, even when I stumble.

I don't always win.

I don't need to. Not anymore.

And I can't wait to fight again.

<3.

[hemaphilia]

In My Brain

It’s just a dagger tournament. Something to do without the stress of longsword, a chance to fight new people and experience a new weapon. I shouldn’t care. I tie two matches and lose one, which is nothing to be ashamed about with something I don’t actually know how to use, even if it’s officially a last-placed finish. And yet, the battle the plays in my brain afterwords is a microcosm - of my entire experience in competitive HEMA. There’s the good day brain, the one that tells me I belong here no matter what, that value isn’t dependent on tournament wins, that I am making progress and getting better and doing things I could not do before. That I don’t need to impress anyone at all, except maybe myself. That if I never win another thing ever again, the medals I do have are still more than I ever thought I would get when I started, and that ultimately there are things even in HEMA that are way more important than the cookie jar. Then there’s the bad day brain - my nemesis. This is the brain that is constantly telling me I suck, that I don’t belong here, and that I will never be good enough, never be anything other than incompetent at waving swords around. That I need to impress everyone else more than I need to care about myself.  Sometimes - like at Swordfish, and this year at Purpleheart, the good day brain wins. I am right there in the thick of it, thinking - and fighting - like I belong. It encourages me to keep going, to take more risks, to try different things, to be more aggressive in the ring and more confident as a fighter. Too much of the time, however, it’s the bad day brain that rules. This is the brain that tells me it doesn’t matter how hard I work*, in the dojo or the gym, but I am still not good enough and never will be good enough. Almost everyone else I see or fight can progress more and faster, so when I do make any progress at all it feels like a sham.  Trying to win this war in my brain is one of the hardest things I’ve ever tried to do. Harder than developing coping mechanisms for my ADHD, harder than stepping into the ring for the first time, harder than even trying to go an entire week without sushi (those that know me will understand how much I depend on traditional Japanese means of fish preservation). I have allies in this fight, people who offer me weapons of words, reminding me that I’m doing this sword thing because it’s *fun*, that you can be a member of the community and have value even if you don’t have competitive success. They are my current lifeline, keeping me from completely falling apart. I cannot sing their praises enough - they have kept me on just the right side of sanity.  Eventually, though, I have to find a way to win this fight for good; to find a way to train where I am not completely mired in self-doubt and uncertainty. Because only when I free my brain will I be able to train without feeling like I’m constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure I have someone’s approval. Because only when I free my brain will I also be free from hesitation.  Because only then will I really, truly, become the fencer I want to be. *here I am referring to longsword, not dagger.

[hemaphilia]

A Cut Above

What makes a sword a sword? Is it its shape? No, this can’t be, because sword shapes - cruciform, crescent, etc - lengths, and styles vary greatly, by both time and space. Is it based on lack of projectiles? Maces, clubs, axes, and spears don’t shoot projectiles, but no one would call them a sword. What does a 17th century rapier have in common with a Roman gladius? What does an Iberian montante have in common with the arming sword featured in the I.33 manuscript?

What do they all have in common? Swords, quite simply are long, bladed weapons, often (though not always) with a point, designed to kill. There are a few ways swords can do this in the hands of their wielders, but the two most common ways are via cutting - using the sword to hew - and thrusting. The medieval longsword,  used in Europe from about 1300-1500, has the best of both worlds in that it is a weapon designed to be able to both optimally cut and thrust an opponent.

In Cutting with the Medieval Sword, Mike Edelson pulls off the remarkable feat of getting at the very heart of what makes using a sword an art (as opposed to a sport), and does so in a way that is accessible to everyone - from those who have never picked up a sword in their life, to practitioners with years of experience.

Make no mistake - this is not a book for sport fencers; this is a book for those who wish to start or continue learning how to use a sword as it was used historically and martially - to maim or kill your opponent.

Assuming that your interest in HEMA and swordsmanship is at least partly martial, however, you will find this book an invaluable resource. The information is presented in a straight-forward, easy-to-understand manner, with copious illustrations and analogies that can be absorbed by everyone - even me, and I’m a notoriously slow learner when it comes to swords. There’s no need to be familiar with middle-high German, Italian, or Latin; when excerpts from manuals are included here, they have been translated (via the wonderfully talented Cory Winslow). 

***

The book is divided into theoretical, practice, and calibration sections, which I will address individually: Theoretical — This part can (and perhaps should) be a textbook used in all HEMA classes. It addresses all the concepts one should know when it comes to cutting with a sword (and there’s also a bit about thrusting, as well), and the appropriate body mechanics to make it work. Although the section is intended as a reference and does not have to be read chronologically, I’d still recommend everyone read it and then, for newer students especially, come back to it as terms and ideas become more familiar.  

Personally, I was surprised to lear about the importance of regulating one’s breathing - I don’t usually remember to breathe when fencing or cutting, but here Edelson has explained in detail why exhaling with the strike is extremely important.

In fact, with all concepts here, Edelson has found a way to explain not just why a certain concept is important, but how it relates to cutting as a whole - for example things such as grip and stopping the sword may seem to be minor details, but a poor grip or inability to stop the sword at the appropriate point can be the difference between a successful and unsuccessful cut.

Practice — Contrary to popular belief, you don’t need a sharp sword to practice (although you certainly can), but a blunt or feder capable of producing good sword wind can often get the job done - details as to how to choose a good blunt are in the text. Cutting practice doesn’t refer to cutting tatami or water bottles (that’s calibration), but to the thousands and thousands of cuts one should practice in the air at home. The tl;dr here is that you want to make sure you’re training to cut through your target, and if you only ever practice against a calibration medium, you’ll just train yourself to cut and only cut that medium. There are a wealth of drills in the practice section, many familiar to me as I train with the NYC branch of Edelson’s club, but some entirely new, and they are divided into foundational and core drills. Foundational drills are designed to get you the basic movements and skill sets; core drills further refine these and should become a regular part of your practice. Some the drills need a partner, but may can be performed solo, and some need only a wooden dowel to be performed.

Those new to HEMA or longsword instruction will likely find many of these drills helpful to do with their class, adjusting as appropriate to the experience level of their students.

Calibration - This is the section that deals with sharps and feedback materials.

First, Edelson goes into detail as to how to choose an appropriate sharp sword for one’s size - personally, I use an Albion Count and have just received an Albion Crecy - as well as what manufacturers to choose from.  The adage “you get what you pay for” is especially true here; your Renaissance fair wall hanger is probably not going to get the job done.

Edelson then goes on to describe how to properly sharpen your sword; although instructional videos exist (the links are provided), this is an activity that should absolutely be done under supervision for newer students, and practice on kitchen knives or other swords you don’t care about first is recommended. That said, more experienced students will delight in the interview with Peter Johnsson provided here, which was a pleasant surprise for myself.

As for feedback materials, tatami is the best material currently available for test cutting based on factors of cost, weight, and diagnostic ability (ie, the ability to understand what you did right or wrong when you cut it). Edelson also addresses the positives and negatives of cutting clay, water bottles, pool noodles, and newspapers - tl;dr, if you can’t get tatami, clay is probably your next best cutting medium but there are some serious drawbacks.

Edelson goes into great detail explaining how to prepare tatami, including where to order it, what tatami to get (new vs old), how to roll and soak it, and what your cutting stand should look like. For newer students, learning how to spike tatami is also an important skill - mats spiked incorrectly can be artificially hard to cut. This is followed by suggestion patterns and diagnostics, so that you will be able to see what you did wrong.

This ends with a section on cleaning and repairing your sword; the short version is that except for routine cleaning and the most superficial nicks, repairs should be handled by professionals - which is one reason vendors such as Albion are so highly rated, as they provide this service.

***

While many of us participate in the competitive side of HEMA as a sport, it behoves us to always remember that ultimately what we are studying is a martial art. As a community, we have come a long way in the last ten years - from having a surfeit of feders and sharps to choose from, to having multiple vendors offering HEMA-specific protective gear - and this book should be included in the lexicon of game-changers. HEMA is awash in primary sources, which is amazing, but there has been a gap in texts  concerned with cutting, as opposed to set plays and techniques, and appropriate sword care. This fills that gap, and should be a recommended text for those in the community for years to come.

Cutting with the Medieval Sword can be purchased here.

[hemaphilia]

From Sweden, with Love

You can’t be afraid to die.

This is one of the first lessons I’ve ever been taught, and one of the very last that I’ve actually learned. It’s not about dying – well, not entirely—but it’s about not being afraid of failure. To someone who is always desperate to be doing the right thing (like me), they often feel like much the same thing.

***

It’s been a long year. My demons, those little voice in your head you feel like you can never truly shake, go from gnawing at me to eating me up alive. You don’t belong here, they say. You are a Bad Fencer. It’s imposter syndrome, this notion that even despite all the hour in the gym and on the training floor, even despite all the expectations I have of myself, I’m just faking it.

At one point, I mention that I feel like my fencing is actually regressing, that I am getting worse in each match, and worse in each spar. The goal is to be a little bit better each day. I think I’m doing the opposite. Joe tells me that it’s common to fence poorly right before a plateau is broken, but I can’t make myself believe him.

I’m going to Swordfish, and in my last two events I fenced like I did two years ago – timid, afraid, without movement.

***

The first class I have after Swordsquatch, something in my brain turns on, or off. I’m sparring Toby when it happens – I stop thinking, and start to enjoy the fight again. Somehow, some way that I can’t explain, my brain has figured out how to hit re-set.

Over the next few weeks in September and October, I start to look forward to class again – not that I ever didn’t; it’s a rediscovery of why I’m doing this in the first place. HEMA can be pure fun if you stop worrying about what everyone else thinks and start fighting instead.

I’m going to Swordfish, and whatever happens, I’m going to enjoy it.

***

Swordfish doesn’t pull any punches - when I see my pool posted, it’s a mass of names I recognize as being top-rated fencers. I don’t really expect to win anything, but my hope is to at least score a few points and make my opponent work for it.

I lose my first match to Elena in convincing fashion—I still haven’t really figured out how to block on my right side—and I’m down by three in my second match with Minna, before I somehow pull out a last-second, deep target thrust. The match ends in a draw, but it feels better than that.

My third match is with Carla, and it is brilliant – she wins, but does so in a way that is just great fencing. I learn something in each exchange, which is really the best possible outcome of any spar or competitive match.

Next I fence Eva, and although we’ve only met a few hours before, it feels like I am fighting an old friend. Her zwerchaus are furious, but today I am just fast enough to gain the upper hand. At one point—(I think it was this match, but it may have been another)—we end up in a grapple, and I manage to land a pommel strike, which I’ve never done in competition before. It’s my first tournament win since June.

I am no match for my final opponent, Anna, who comes at me fast and furious, and without any break between them. I am simply not fast enough to keep up.

All told when my pool is done, I feel content. Not exhilarated, not frustrated, but acutely aware of what I did well, and what I did poorly. It’s the best I’ve fenced in months, and I’ve done it against incredibly talented competition. Eight weeks ago I wouldn’t have believed I was capable of doing anything other than maybe winning one or two exchanges; while there is so much to work on, I know so much more about myself as a fencer.

I went to Swordfish, and those demons have gone to rest. I can do this. I’m not afraid to fall. I can stop doubting myself now, and I can just fence.

[hemaphilia]

Three years ago today, I picked up a sword and changed my life.

***

I sat here for a good while trying to figure out how to explain what HEMA has done for me, both physically and emotionally, but it’s too hard to summarize, because how do you summarize a thing that heals you? How do you summarize a thing that makes you forget all of the bad things in your life, but instead makes you extra thankful for all the good? How do you summarize a thing that pushes you to your absolute limit - but leaves you wanting to come back and push that limit even further?

I remember watching the Olympics back in 2012, feeling wistful and envious because I’d never really been part of a team like that, never really known the feeling of pure joy that comes from personal athletic accomplishment (whether a personal best in training or in competition). I remember watching those Olympics while being so underweight doctors were asking me if I starved myself. I remember thinking about all those things I *couldn’t* do, and the many days I would wake up wondering what was the point of getting out of bed?

Now?

Now I look forward to every day at the gym and at training, as each day brings a chance to reach a new personal best. It’s not easy. There are moments of frustration, of yelling at a higher power, but there is never a moment where I wonder if I should stop doing this, or if it is no longer worth it. And every step of the way there are fencers who challenge and encourage each other to be the best they can be.

The last time I went to Europe, in June 2014, (one of) the highlight(s) of my trip was looking at the gorgeous swords on display in Stockholm and Copenhagen. The next time I go to Europe, this fall, I’ll be playing with swords for real. As at Longpoint this year, I may not come home with any victories. It’s okay, though.

Finding HEMA is the biggest win of them all.

[hemaphilia]

Fight Song

I am a mess of emotion.

Personal victories and accomplishments don’t mean anything to others, and yet I crave a standing I have not earned. I have dreams, I have goals, but they may be out of reach.

I am slow, slow to move, slow to recover, slow to learn. The world doesn’t have patience for those who struggle to keep up. It moves at a furious pace, demanding everything we have but even then that is not always enough.

I talk too much, I am told. I don’t have the results to back it up.

***

We all have a wall we reach, a point at which going any further seems insurmountable. For some, this wall may be made of straw, dominoes, or paper cards  - only a slight touch is needed for it to come crashing down. For some, it’s solid stone - no matter how hard they try it will not budge, and for others the wall may be so imposing that there is no desire to try.

For me, the wall is glass*. I can see through it - I can see where I want to get to, where the road ahead will lead. But contrary to popular belief, contrary to what they show in the movies, it’s not easy to break through. It is hard, and painful. Even a small crack can cause a bleeding wound.

It would be a lie to say that I was not envious of those for whom a wall is little more than a castle made of sand.

***

Every time I step into the ring I tell myself that this will be the time I break through in open competition. This will be the time I finally fence like I know I can, this will be the time I don’t finish in the bottom ten.

Every time, it seems, I am wrong.

***

I look for outlets. I spend more time in the gym, more time with other weapons, more time working on other projects. Enough time, in fact, that I am able to go from getting outright massacred in rapier/rapier and dagger to keeping all of my fights save one within one exchange.

And yet…

I always come back. You never really do get over your first love. It isn’t in me to stay away for long.

Maybe one day everything will click. Maybe it never will. My body was never supposed to do this in the first place, and yet here I am. I might never earn the credibility I wish I had, and yet I’m still here. I see that road ahead of me, and it creates a yearning in me I cannot describe. I will get there. I will be on it. And yes, I’ll probably talk a lot about the journey.

It is taking everything I have that I can possibly give - and that’s reason enough to keep at it.

*Look, I’m sorry, the pun was just there, okay?

[hemaphilia]

(photos courtesy Veronique McMillan)

“I think you’re leveling up right now,” Leanne says, as we are walking home from class on a cool mid-March evening. It takes me completely by surprise.

Thus far my tournaments in 2017 have led to mediocre results at best, and my sparring in class is nowhere near where I want it to be.

So, I wonder, what the hell is she talking about?

****

There are so many types of soreness. This is something that I become more familiar with as the time in the gym and on the training floor increases. There’s the ache of hamstrings and quads that have not been stretched properly. There’s the dull ache of the shoulders that comes when holding out Ochs or trying to build strength in my dagger arm.

Then, of course, there’s the soreness that comes from other people hitting you with swords. There are bruises in the places you expect, but then there are bruises you can’t remember getting, hits to the head that will leave your face aching for days, and hits to your hands you just pray won’t break your fingers. The gear you wear might keep you from dying, but anything more than that is just pure luck.

Yet I keep going back for more. No gain without pain, or something like that.

*****

Slowly I start to see it, what Leanne is talking about, in class.

For the first time I consciously pull off a haupstucke technique in sparring - I know the guy I’m fighting is going to attempt an oberhau; I meet it with a zornhau and realizing that I’m not being offered any resistance, thrust straight forward.

Tim notices that I’m starting to use actual footwork when I fight him, and although I still get my ass beat every time we fight, on the whole our exchanges last longer and they don’t always end in his favor.

Slowly, I’m starting to lose the self-doubt that had been such a monster in January. Slowly, I’m starting to believe again.

****

I’m not sure I want to go to Shortpoint at first. Not because I don’t enjoy it, but because it’s a five hour drive each way for a one day event, which means that unless I get extremely lucky I’ll spend more time commuting to and from the event than I’ll spend actually playing with swords.

Wait. Who am I kidding?

There’s a sword event in driving distance and I have no other commitments that day. Of course I’m going.

It turns out to be some of the best fighting I’ve done not just in a while, but ever. I fight Josh and Kendrick and Nicole and George and Patrick and John (who says I’m holding center much better) and Jake (who encourages me more the longer our fight goes) and Travis and Charissa and Alex (we play around with literal spears, which is way more fun than you think it is), and in all of these fights I feel amazing.

There’s no tournament pressure here, and without the adrenaline dump the fights slow down. I can think about what I want to do and how to do it; I can figure out exactly what I’m doing in one context and teach it to others. I feel that sense of belonging, that sense that there is no reason in the entire world I cannot do this thing and I cannot be good at it, too.

*****

When I return to training, it’s with that Drive again, that Drive I’ve so sorely missed the first few months of 2017. I know what I can do if I push myself, and I know what goals I’m setting for myself this year.

They’ll take me to Baltimore and Seattle and Sweden, but that’s okay. That’s what I want. I may not achieve what I set out to do - but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to try.

It’s time to go bold, or go home.

[hemaphilia]

Can I have some more?

I had almost forgotten what it felt like.

Not the adrenaline rush, or the Drive - these things have been with me always - but the Joy. Not necessarily the joy of winning, but the joy of the fight for the fight’s sake. This feeling that after you’ve finished the last fight of the pool you just wish you could have more. One more pool. One more fight. One more exchange. ****

It’s been a long, hard run since Seattle. Losses piling on top of losses make it hard to believe people when they say you’re fighting better, and you start to question whether or not this is it for you, whether or not you’ve reached that wall you can’t break.

At Flower Point I get an inkling of what I might yet be able to do, but it’s here at Queen’s Gambit that I finally feel like I have made progress. It’s slow progress, much more tortoise than hare, but all progress starts somewhere.

*****

I signed up for the cutting tournament here to see if the fixes I’ve been working on for the last two months can work. I am using a sword that’s not mine - I won’t fly with my sharp, and the TSA’s massacre of my Sport Tube makes me more certain that was the right call - and like driving a car that isn’t yours, it can take some time to be comfortable with it.

My first cut is a clean right oberhau, the first time I’ve had a successful oberhau in a cutting competition since last June. My second cut, a left oberhau, is unsuccessful. It’s disheartening for sure, but at the same time I know why it failed - and you can’t fix problems you don’t understand. My third cut, going back to the right side, very nearly succeeds - and I am given credit by the judges for a ‘piece hanging’. The piece hanging basically destroys any chance of success I have at my second left oberhau.

I walk away mildly disappointed, but this is the first time I’ve gotten even partial credit for more than a single cut. A poor performance in the abstract is still a poor performance - but a personal best is still a personal best.

*****

My pool is a roller coaster.

In my first fight with Aaron my goal is to last for more than one exchange (as the ruleset allows for a one-exchange kill). I make it to three before he lands a gorgeous, textbook zorn ort I wouldn’t have been able to defend even if I had reacted fast enough.

My second fight with Kasey gets off to a rough start before I start feeling like myself again. I don’t actually remember how I score the points I do, but the longer the fight goes on the stronger I feel.

Next, Ashleigh and I meet for our fifth tournament bout in a year. We go for nearly the whole time without a single exchange - her begging me to engage her and me not trusting myself to be fast enough to start a cut and meet her response. We finally have an exchange at the end - she hits me but leaves her head wide open for me to hit back - but it is called out of time. It’s a draw until it isn’t - the table staff tells us just as we’ve removed our masks that we still have seven more seconds. This time there is no holding back on her part, and Ashleigh nails me. It is, as Tom says, simultaneously both some of my best fighting, and some of my worst.

My last fight with Miguel is almost over before it starts - I watch him tear his way through most of our pool, strong and lightning fast. My wish not so much to win this fight as it is to just last for more than a single exchange.

Yet when our fight actually starts, something else happens. There are openings I can see, even if I can’t quite reach them. I get the benefit of a call that penalizes your opponent for pushing you out of bounds (it slightly feels like cheating), and our final exchange scores points for both of us. The end result is that instead of losing 4-0 as I had thought we might at the outset, we end up with a draw.

****

At first I’m somewhat disappointed - I wanted so badly to at least split my pool - but the further away I get from it, the happier I become with my performance. As far as Opens go, this is one of the tougher pools that I’ve had, and yet there is only one fight where I am clearly outmatched (as are most people when they fight Aaron).

My placement and my ranking won’t improve much, if at all, but that doesn’t matter - because for the first time in a long time, I finally feel like my fencing has.

And now I just want more.

One more pool. One more fight. One more exchange. *** I left my camera on my window sill at home, so alas I am reliant on others for pictures. As always, multiple stories worth reading, but they are for others to tell.

[hemaphilia]

The journeys are different but the lesson is the same - never give up.

Much love to you, Lotta!

Looking back

Yesterday we celebrated my clubs 10th anniversary. It was nice to watch old pictures of my team members and to see how they fenced back in the days. You could really see the development In HEMA during the last decade just by looking at pictures and old videos. It happened a lot during the years I’ve been a member, and that is not particularly long at all – in November I’ve been doing hema for 3 years. Before going to the anniversary party I was thinking about holding a speech, but I didn’t. I wasn’t prepared, the thought crossed my mind a bit too late. That is the reason why I wanted to write this text. So many thoughts came to me, and I feel that it’s important for me to share this thoughts with you.

The first thought that came to my mind was: Where was I ten years ago? I was 19 years old. Had just finished school. I didn’t know what I wanted at all, I had a very hard time seeing the future in front of me. If someone had told med then: Ten years from now, you will be doing martial arts with swords. And! You will be pretty good at it also. Oh my god. I would have laughed them straight in the face. Me? Doing martial arts? No fucking way! With swords? You gotta be kidding me! I am no one, not good at anything. Especially not at martial arts, I can barely take instructions on choreography doing theatre! That what was I was doing at the time, theatre. It took all of my time, rehearsing, rehearsing. That year, 2007, I played a role in Shakespeare’s “A midsummer night’s dream” in the summer.

I’m the one in the back, wearing that multicolored vest 

That was also the year my theatre group started to rent a local that we could have as our own, that was a big step for us. I think I was in three or four plays that year.   The years went on, still was into this theatre making. I loved every minute of it. It was my own bubble, my escape from reality. I had a hard time being a part of the society, I had a hard time finding myself and fitting in. Theatre was the perfect world for me to be in, it was almost like a drug. I never stopped, just wanting more. People still talks about a particular scene I’ve made during 2009, I played a five-year old. Today I have a hard time understanding that I really made all those things. Who would have thought that the shy girl from school could be able to stand on a stage like that? Not me, not anyone. But I did.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mJ3G7BSluU&t=3s Me playing the five-year old. It’s on Swedish ;)

The thing is, I never had an interest in playing theatre before I started doing it. I came into theatre because of my sister. She had a role in a play 2004, the year after they wanted her in another role. She didn’t want it, they asked me instead since we were related. I thought, sure. Why not? I did it, I got a role as a maiden named Lotta who had a little brother named August. We sang together at the stage. Looking at that video today is loads of fun, I am so tense! I’m saying my lines, but that is also it. What a difference just a few years later, it’s almost like I turned into someone else.

Me in my first play 2005. 

I did a lot of stuff, sure. But I felt lost in an everyday manner. I had friends, was productive and tons of energy. At least it looked that way. I still had days and periods I didn’t feel at home at all. That feeling of not fitting in was always hanging over me, I felt like I was in the way at my parents. Almost like they didn’t want me there at all. I worked at my dad’s friend’s place, washing chicken stables and also helping them picking all the chickens up when it was time for them to go to slaughter. Those days when I got home from washing the stables I was filled with birds spilling all over me. It got stuck in my hair and my clothes. I did this a couple of times in every month. We also helped other farmers sending their chickens to slaughter working night shifts. Not a glamorous job at all. Coming home all tired and covered in dust every time. I worked hard, like I always have. One day I got a phone call from another farmer who needed someone who could wash their stables, they had a pig farm. I went there, washed some of their stables and then I got stuck there for 2 years or so. Swords nowhere to be seen. If you don’t count a pitchfork for a sword ;). Somewhere in between those years my mum kicked me out from home. Leading me to making stupid decisions. I leant my sister’s apartment for a while, I was 21 at this time, felt like shit. I was unaccepted, unwanted and in my own eyes not worth the shoes I was walking in. I didn’t care anymore, I just wanted to get away from everything. I started to chat with a guy over the internet. We decided to meet on a date. And so we did. I’ve met him in the city, Örebro, and I remember I thought: No, not my type. But what the hell, I don’t care. I just want to get out of my situation. We started to see each other more. My lack of self-respect made me start a relationship with this guy, even though I didn’t even like him. I couldn’t get anything better anyhow, I thought to myself. I was way out of line, I had shut myself down. I decided to move to him in Eskilstuna on a very short notice. That wasn’t especially smart of me, but I was in a crisis. So much going on inside of me. Thinking: “Things can’t be worse than they already are”. Never think that way. Things can always be worse. They did. When I moved in I started to notice strange things. For example, I was there and put some clothes there one weekend. The next time I showed up (this was before I actually moved in but still) the TV and the lamp in the bedroom was missing. And some other things to. I asked him: Where are these things? - They are, gone. Me: But, how? A TV can’t just disappear. - It did! I had to push him, he told me after a while that it was his ex who came by to pick her things up. We talked through it, I accepted it. But still thought it was a bit weird.. My guts told me that this was bad shit going on but I held it to my senses. I pushed that feeling away trying to not think about it. A month later he received this message from her, saying that we had to move out. Then I realized that the apartment was hers, not his. God. What a mess. It was me paying the rent and all the bills from my savings. He didn’t do a shit. We moved out. Lived at his friend for a while. I managed to get another apartment. We moved in there. Lived there for a month or so, then he started to act really badly. I’ve seen tendencies to this before, him having this anger issues smashing things into walls, hitting his hand in tables and stuffs for what seemed to be no reason at all. I was always afraid for something to happen. My money started to run out. I was going home for a week to work, just some days before that he became so mad at me for hanging the laundry in the wrong manner. His eyes were all black. I ran into the bedroom when he became aggressive. I closed the door, and I could see the laundry basket that were made out of plastic, coming at the door through the air. I shut the door and heard a bang. I went down behind the bed. Scared as hell, was this the last minutes of my life? He came in. Screaming. Throwing something at me. Went out. I was shaking. I could hear him watching TV. I told myself I had to do something, just anything. I went out in the hall and into the kitchen. I started to make the dishes. I cried. He heard me. Still angry. He yelled: SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! I couldn’t handle it anymore. I sat down at the floor, managed to crawl in beneath the dishing bench. I sat there in this hole mad for a dishwasher. I never felt so lonely and scared in my entire life. He came out after a while. Calm. He told me in a calm manner: I realized something, we don’t need a laundry basket. I was out of my mind. What the fuck was he saying?! I told him he was a lunatic, he just nod against me. “Yes I know, but we don’t need a laundry basket” Oh my god. This human being was a special kind of human in the bad way. I got home, worked for a week. Hell break loose, he making weird stuff that he couldn’t afford. Being out with his gang, buying them drinks for money he didn’t have. I was pissed. When I finally got home after some troubles along the way (long story). I come into my apartment together with a friend. He is stoned. Starts to yell at us. Getting pissed. He getting those dark eyes again. I can’t really say what happened after that. I know he got out and hit both me and my friend, and that we managed to get him back in the apartment and run away to call the police. I told him to never get back. Never. I moved back to my mum and dad. Lived there for a year or so. Got my own apartment In Hallsberg. After a while I managed to get both a full time job as a personal assistant, I moved to Kristinehamn where I also had a boyfriend. I worked too much, slept too little. I hit that famous wall. Quit my job, started to study in Örebro. Told my boyfriend to get lost since we didn’t worked out so well together. After the first term on the university I got lost, I broke down so much I had a memory loss and started to hallucinate. I only existed one moment at a time, only remember who I was and what connection I had to people. I couldn’t remember things I’ve went through, things that happened were completely gone. I panicked, I freaked out. The time was running away from me, I couldn’t catch it at all. This made me see all the people around me getting old and die in front of me. I saw it, like it was for real. I couldn’t hold myself together. I screamed being so afraid of myself and what was happening to me. Somehow I managed to get through this, without help. I found the source to what was happening to me and dealt with it. I had to accept the fact that we are mortal. I was afraid of dying, and it stressed me out that I couldn’t handle time anymore. That it was running away from me. I found my own way through it and became my own therapist. I got back to school, never had to take a break from it. Then I started to suffer from insomnia. Slept like 2-3 hours per night. I still managed to study though, don’t ask me how but I did. I contacted a friend who helped me with a sleeping program, which helped but it was a hell to get through. I started to sleep normal again. Life became a bit easier. For a while. Through a friend I met this girl who needed somewhere to stay. She had a baby and a dog. I lived in a big apartment that I couldn’t really afford by myself, I let her move in. Of course, with my luck, it was a person with problems. She couldn’t handle her child, calling her 9 months baby an idiot. Yelling at her. Lifting her up and screaming at her when she just wanted food. You name it. I did everything I could to protect this child, I got up and gave her the bottle as soon as I could so the mother wouldn’t be angry at the morning. I took the baby up and walked around with her. She was a very calm child. Didn’t want so much attention. Slept during the nights (when her mother was away atleast) ate, and only wanted attention when she needed food, love or a diaper change. I almost adopted her as my own, when she was with me she was calm. Everytime her mother went away the baby slept early. As soon as the mother got her hand at the door, the child started to scream in panic. It was like this for some months. She lied a lot, it came to me that she had told others that it was her apartment and not mine. And other things. I decided to kick her out. My mum told me that this was the girl who had threatened to kill my bigger sister ten years ago. What the fuck life. What have I done against you? I thought. It felt like I was living in a bad movie. This couldn’t be real. Anyhow, I kicked her out. She was pissed. I didn’t care. I started to live alone. Had a friend that came over every other week, since he worked in the city. Things were starting to get back to normal, again. My dad had been feeling badly for a while. Having a hard time working as normal. One day my mum calls. I got this bad feeling. She tells me dad wants to talk with me. Dad never talked to me in the phone. Never. She hands over the phone. Dad tells me he got diagnosed with ALS. ALS is a disease that cut the nerve signals from your body out. Making you more and more paralyzed. I sat down. Didn’t know how to handle the situation. This big black hole started to fill up my body. Sadness. Frustration. Anger. During this time a friend of mine who I met through larping, tried to pursue me into this fencing shit. At least, I thought it was shit. I thought he talked about sport fencing, and believe me. He had to talk about it for 1,5 years before I actually tried it out. His finals word that made me go there was: We need more tough girls. My mind: Tough girls? I AM ONE! I came by in the middle of a term. Being a bit nervous. What was I getting my ass into? This was in the middle of November 2014. I had to meet a whole bunch of new people who already started in the beginner’s course that term. I felt insecure, had to stand in a corner by myself and a trainer. Feeling dumb and silly. I couldn’t even stand correctly in a stanse. Making a fool of my self. But I got stuck in it. 

Meanwhile my dad got so bad I dropped out of university to work for him as a personal assistant. I helped my dad with stuff that is normal for other people. I had to help him eat, help him to the toilet and so on. In the end he got moved to a home for old people who can’t take care of themselves. I did my best at training. I got new friends there, and bruises. A lot of them. I started to compete just 6-7 months after I started, getting my head into it. My dad got more and more ill. I couldn’t handle it. I got sick from seeing it. The last three months of his life I wasn’t there. I couldn’t anymore, it hurt me so bad seeing my dad becoming a wreck. Not being able to do anything at all, he was shutting down more and more. By that time I was ill myself. Couldn’t go out the door. Most of the days I laid in bed doing nothing at all. Tried to go out, got a panic attack from it. At the worst I had 5-6 panic attacks every day. I was a mess. I didn’t give in though. Every day I went to training. Refusing to give in for anxiety and depression. Some days that was the only thing I managed to do. I got up and got out. How hard it felt, I didn’t care. I got there. That was the only thing that mattered to me. Training, with swords. If it wasn’t for my trainer, Carl, I wouldn’t have continued at all. But somehow he made me got my ass up and go there. Every. Single. Time. Not like he forced me to, but he made me want to go there. No matter how bad I felt. My team members have seen me cry during practice. They have also seen me getting panic attacks both on trainings and on events we’ve been on together. I sometimes wanted to give up, I still feel the same way today. How much can you handle? But I never did. They never gave up on me, especially not Carl. I ain’t going to either, that is the easy way out. But shortcuts making it all much harder in the end. You miss a lot if you take them. Ten years ago I couldn’t imagine myself being where I am today. I even had a hard time imagined myself being 29 years old, life didn’t seem to be for people like me. But here I am. Having a job which I’m good at. Having a lot of experience in acting. Being one of the greatest women in Swedish HEMA fighting (hard to believe, I know. But the facts says so). Last, but the most important; having a big bunch of friends who been following me through those years, they are my family and I love every single one of them. Now I am actually looking forward to the next ten years in life, I didn’t back then. Never give up. xoxo Lotta

[hemaphilia]

There is rumor circulating that the US President has asked his women staffers to “dress like women”.   So I made a thing.

[hemaphilia]

“That’s the best I’ve ever seen you fence,” Kenny says, trying to comfort me. I hear it, but I don’t listen.

As I run off to find some place private, I plead with some higher power: I put everything I have into this, what else do I have to do? I couldn’t even win one fight?

I know the answer, but I don’t listen.

***

A week before, I’m sparring with Tim in class.

“You have to keep moving,” he says. I think I am moving, but I’m static. Just trying to ward off his attacks without doing anything to counter them. “One more,” he says.

So I give it everything I’ve got. I don’t let my feet stand still, and I don’t stop just because he’s hit me with the sword. For a brief moment, one I latch onto and engrave in my mind, I understand what he’s trying to say, and my body follows.

Later, when I mention I’m competing in both women’s and open steel, his response is laconic:

“You’re ready”.

***

I’m not sure how long I spend in the cold outside the hotel’s doors, sitting in a corner with my head in my hands. It feels like an hour, though it’s probably only been ten minutes - when I make it back inside, the second women’s pool is still fighting.

Turns out, it’s a lot easier to handle losing when you don’t expect to win.

***

I remain an emotional mess as the day progresses. Even as Travis says he noticed I was trying new things, even as Josh said I’d gotten rid of some of my habits, and even after others tell me to keep my head up, it’s only Ashleigh who manages to actually get through to me.

“Why do you care so much?” she asks, and maybe because I’m at my most vulnerable I’m also at my most honest in my response.

“Because the respect I want only comes when you win.”

“Rebecca,” Ashleigh says, in her straight-talk voice that’s always been able to knock some sense into me, “this doesn’t matter. All the work you do for HEMA outside of the ring - that’s what matters.”

***

On the way home from the tournament the next day, while sitting in some fast food restaurant off of I-95, I do the thing I’d been purposefully avoiding and watch the video of one of my fights. I get annoyed at my inability to close distance correctly, like I’m still afraid of throwing an oberhau from vom tag.

That is, until in one of the last exchanges…

“…Holy shit,” I say, “did I try a zwechau there?”

***

A week later I return to class for a cutting session. I’m not really expecting much of myself here, other than trying to test some of the changes I’ve made to my form - changing the way I hold the sword on my body on an unterhau, and finally understanding how to cut *through*, rather than just cutting to longpoint.

My first right oberhau is as good a cut as I’ve ever done. The one from my left side gets stuck in the mat, again.

Tristan tells me to try it again, but making the cut slightly more horizontal.

It works.

Similar things happen with the unterhau - the first cuts don’t have enough to get through, but eventually I make it through the mat with both cuts.

It’s the first time I’ve every gotten all for cuts on one mat, and the second time - ever - I manage crossed-hands unterhau.

I do a little excited jump before I realize I’m still holding a sharp sword in my hands.

***

On Tuesday I make it through the conditioning class same as I always do, but at the end, as he’s getting ready to dismiss class, Lu says -

“Rebecca is beating you”

For someone who could never pass a fitness test as a kid, this is high praise.

No sword in hand, I can do excited jumps at my leisure.

****

So what, then, is the answer I wanted to ignore?

This - fencing - is hard. You only get better when you challenge yourself, when you try and break through the walls that will invariably arise.

But breaking through them is not instantaneous. It’s a process, and short term pains can mask long term progression.

No, I didn’t win a single fight across three tournaments at DCHEMA 2017 - but that’s okay because there are other things I *did* manage to accomplish: I fought mostly out of vom tag instead of longpoint. I kept moving and attempted to follow up my strikes - even if they didn’t work. I could watch a fight and identify what I saw others doing - even if I’m still learning how to do that when I’m *in* a fight.

It’s only been two weeks since DC, but already I have the desire to step into the ring again.

Only, this time - for the right reasons. As always, there were many stories to write about DC HEMA, but most are not mine to tell.

[hemaphilia]

My instructor has been filming a wonderful series of fencing videos with one of my teammates. Please consider supporting them - so they can make more fun stuffs!

[hemaphilia]

The HEMA Alliance has launched an events calendar!  Submit your event here: https://www.hemaalliance.com/registerevents

[hemaphilia]

Losing to Win

You have to lose to win.

Our biggest lessons come not from our wins, but from our losses. It seems counter-intuitive, perhaps, but there are certain things that winning alone cannot teach you. Winning cannot teach you humility. It, alone, cannot teach you where you are deficient. It cannot teach you how to get up again after you fall.

So what if you didn’t make it out of pools in a tough women’s? You need to stop caring so much.

It’s hard not to care when you love something so much it becomes as inseparable from you as the color of your own eyes, but two events with no wins to show for either prove a stark contrast.

In Open Longsword, I am hesitant, slow, and angry at myself for not doing any better. It’s really not any more complicated than that - it’s my worst fencing performance since my first Open, even if you ignore all those other winless Opens.

In Conventional Rapier, though, I have no expectations. I’ve never even drilled with rapier and dagger before, and entered the tournament at the last minute just to try and change my mood. I score more points in my first rapier match alone than I did in my longsword matches, combined.

Rapier reminds me of the first-ever real tournament I did, and how I just had fun and ended on an emotional high that lasted for weeks.

See how relaxed you were? How others noticed you grinning under your mask? How you were aggressive and took risks? You need to stop caring so much.

When I am not competing, I have an amazing time. I have a personal coached sparring session with Tony, who helps me work through one of the biggest issues I have in sparring. Jess shows me drills I can do to help isolate my hips, and teaches me how to work a small, table-top loom. I see old friends, and make new ones. Stephanie, Tom, and Kevin not only give me a five minute rapier and dagger lesson, but encourage me to pursue it further.

When was the last time someone told you “this is the weapon you should be doing?” When was the last time you didn’t feel burdened under the crushing weight of your own expectations? You need to stop caring so much.

So what is the answer?  Do I drop longsword for a time and focus on something else? Do I take a break from competing and events?

No and no - longsword is and has always been my primary focus, and I won’t see those hours of sweat and (occasional) blood wasted. Even if competition itself weren’t important, the ability to go to events and see friends in far places is one of the things that make me look forward to getting out of bed each morning. Regardless of the result, I needed SERFO this weekend in a way that is best explained as self-care after a long, dreadful week, after an even longer hiatus.

The answer is far more simple - stop caring about tournament results, and start caring more about fencing itself. It’s okay to lose if you fence well, if you learn something, if you pick yourself back up in time for the next fight.

So I’ll do the only thing that should be done, the only thing that can be done to make sure lessons are learned and growth can occur -

Train.

[hemaphilia]

A month without swords will cause you to think about a lot of things.

There are little things, like how you still can’t get out of the habit of blocking too high, leaving your body exposed.

There are medium-sized things, like still relying too much on the Nach in a fight, and never being the one to set up an attack.

And then we have the Big Things. The things that exist on a HEMA existential plane, the thoughts that are Big and Deep and you are almost afraid to confront them, but you have to because they won’t go away unless you do.

Things like - going back to basics and asking yourself why you fight. Is it because it seems like a cool hobby? Because you want to get fit? Because it’s therapeutic? Maybe it’s all of these. Maybe it’s none.

Things like - what matters more, how you perform against your teammates, or how you perform against yourself from a year ago?

Things like - should you be happy that you’ve made finals in three of your last four women’s events, or should you be angry at yourself for still not being able to win a semi-final fight?

These things will eat at you. They will eat at you until you confront them, deal with them, and then let them go, forever.

I am not yet the fencer I want to be. I hit a plateau and could not see a way out of it until I confronted these things. It was being on the edge of burnout and seeing the abyss below, and saying, loud and clear, NO.

It’s needing to let go to move on, to stop caring about the things that don’t matter.

It’s me and a sword against the biggest challenge of them all - my own brain.

There’s a lot of work to do, so let’s get started.

[hemaphilia]

Really good post by Kaja.

[hemaphilia]

“What was your favorite moment” Zach asks, as we’re chatting at the Saturday night post-finals party.

I have to think about it for a moment. I’ve just lost the women’s bronze medal match and the adrenaline is still dumping. Waiting all day for one fight and then losing that fight isn’t a fun feeling - but neither is it a good idea to rate my experience based on that one encounter, especially when the other fencer happens to be a good friend. Soon enough, my thoughts lead me down a completely different road.

“You know, I think it was at the end of open steel, just to make it through two whole tournaments in one day, without a break.” There’s a pause, as some math computes in my head. “You know, I think Amanda and I had more fights than anyone else. That’s kind of crazy.”

****

The debate between doing women’s competitions and doing open competitions is one of the most hot-button issues in the HEMAsphere, but my motivations in doing both here were simple - I wanted to fight. I wanted to fight as many times as I could. I wanted to fight people bigger than me, people smaller than me, people faster than me, people slower than me, people better than me, people who have different styles of fighting than me, and so on.

More importantly, I wanted to encourage others to fight, and there’s only one real way to make that happen - you have to be the example. If I want others to fight, if I want others who may be hesitant to enter the ring to feel the sense of empowerment and accomplishment that comes with fencing, then I have to make sure I am fighting.

I was on the outside of the ring not too long ago, prevaricating about whether or not I even could step in the ring, terrified that I would be murdered at the hands of an unsympathetic opponent, but then I saw others doing the Thing, and it gave me the courage to do it too.

*****

The women’s tournament at PNW is medium-sized as women’s events go, but it is one of the hardest women’s events I’ve done. None of my pool wins were easy - I trail Callie for most of our match, and Olivia and Hannah both manage to run me out of the ring, and I got soundly beaten in all of my losses (in my three combined losses in pools, elims, and finals I managed a total of exactly one point).

The break I get between women’s and open steel is only just long enough for me to corner for Tristan for his first fight. It’s not long enough for me to eat anything, or to go pee, or to properly rehydrate. I know nothing about any of my opponents in open steel - I don’t know if they’re good or not, or if they are Big Scary Guys, or what. I don’t even have my coach for my first two fights - because he’s fighting in his own pool.

Thus it’s probably not surprising that I am getting decimated here - in my first three fights I managed only one point and a few double hits. I didn’t know it at the time, but the third fight I have in the round is with Shawn, who will later go on to take silver.

No, the surprising part is that it’s in my last fight that I start to breathe again. In my last fight, my tenth of the day, I manage to claw all the way back to a score of 5-4 and lose only by that single point.

Ten tournament fights. I can barely stand, but there’s still more to do.

*****

I spend most of Saturday and Sunday participating in the Bigfoot Brawl, sparring with whomever and *what* ever you can find, and prizes given to those who fought the most.

For the first time I spar with spears, with rondels, with a tomahawk, and a smallsword; I also spar with messers, longswords, sword and buckler, rapier, saber, sidesword, and I’m pretty sure I’m forgetting something. There was a dance-off with spears, a thumb war, and a birthday bear pit for Leigh. I fight many people for the first time, and some for only the second or the third.

I came to Seattle to fight, and I will not be going home disappointed.

****

Finals this time is something special. Ashleigh, Kimmie, Amanda, and myself are all friends, rooting and supporting each other throughout the entire competition. We’ve helped each other warm up and relax, but as Brent introduces myself and Kimmie for the third place match, she does something that leaves me floored.

In front of everyone who’s gathered to watch, without any prompting, Kimmie says that she is here because of my encouragement.

Every single win I’ve ever had, every single point I’ve ever scored - they mean nothing to me compared to this. After all, it’s Kimmie that’s been an inspiration for me, keeping me going even when my body is at its most rebellious. She doesn’t know it, but it’s her that got me to try taking a few (small) risks with my diet that, so far, are mostly paying off.

Our support for each other doesn’t end there - after our match is done and I’ve lost, I’m straight into Ashleigh’s corner, in her fight against Amanda for gold, and Amanda sportsmanship-one-ups all of us by refusing four points she doesn’t think she earned.

At the party, realizing that I am out of edible options, Amanda and Ashleigh help me abscond to find some sushi nearby. They don’t have to do this - as gold and silver medalists, they’ve earned themselves the right to enjoy the party - but they do.

The blood, sweat, and tears of HEMA is worth it for their friendship alone.

****

Swordsquatch showed us all what the community is at its best - supportive, caring, and empowering. I came for the swords, but this weekend exemplified very clearly why I stayed.