Damsel to Dangerous 2
Myths & Realities: About Me & the Black Belt Almighty
Continued From:
“Hey, Bella, so since you’re a black belt now, does that mean nobody has been able to do you harm ever since?”
False. Not remotely. The belt guarantees nothing. Even excellent training guarantees nothing. Just ask my Special Forces and combat vet buddies. But it’s sure better than continuing to live my life as a Nice Girl Doormat and People Pleaser Punching Bag.1
Becoming a martial artist
does not make someone exempt from
the impact of violence.
It simply provides more options
for dealing with it.
There’s this myth about martial arts training that, “Ooooh, once I put on armor and became a fighter, I never cried again! Nobody could ever hurt me or take advantage of me from then on! Once I acquired the Black Belt Almighty, abusers were miraculously vaporized from my life by the merest glint of my evil-eye. Attacker-wanna-bes now can’t get anywhere near me! Upon wrapping that black belt around my waist, I magically learned how to discern liars and manipulators at their slightest whiff. Violent predators and head-fuckers became a thing of the past, because I became invincible! Unstoppable! RAWR! TAKE THAT!”
Um...
NO.
It doesn't work like that. It's a process, and when you start out as deep down the damsel hole as I was, it's a long process. It's the forever-kind-of-process. It's up and down like a toilet seat. For every milestone I achieve, I get my ass handed to me and booted back three steps. Of course I do. I’m still breathing.
So I circumvent. I leave communities. I make my own tribe by tunneling under the sidewalk and popping up on the other side like bindweed you just can’t get rid of. Or I learn how to walk through walls.
Only to get my ass kicked again.
But that old adage is old for a reason: Get knocked down 9 times; get back up 10.
“So, Bella, with how long you’ve been training, you have to be a supreme badass by now, right?”
Oh, my. That totally depends on how you define “badass.”
To watch me in sparring, half the time you'd swear I'm still that clumsy ox-hoof bumbling around in ballet. You’d swear I’ve only taken one cute little six-week “karate class” from a notorious McDojo.
Let it be knowne: I am not a sport fighter. Neither am I some perfectly strung walking-weapon in a velvet, bedazzled sheath.
I mean, yes, there are those random, oddball moments when some inexplicable force overtakes my body, transforming me into PHENOMENAL COZMIK POWAAAAH in an itty-bitty living space. I pull out weird, acrobatic feats of ass-whuppery nobody has ever drilled into me. I lay people out on the ground who usually run me ragged around the ring. Afterwards, I have no idea how I did it, and I’ve never figured out how to call it up at will. Usually it takes things like natural disasters, rapists, and having the wind knocked out of me to call forth this…
Creature.
Alas. SHE rarely shows up during a tournament or in class exercises, especially if those exercises are designed to make me feel like prey and then deal with it. I still freeze. I still panic. I still flinch. Not always. It's way better than it was.
I mean, sheesh. As a recovering Nice Girl, I was that purple belt who winced every time she had to blast her fist full-force into something with physical mass. No, no, not that! I could never do something so violent as wreak destruction!
I was that cringing blue belt who had to be stopped in the middle of class so my sensei could plant his feet apart on the mat and command me, "Girl. Seriously. Kick me in the junk. Right now."
Eeeeep and a tiny-cat, “Okay...” as I plinked his cup. He refused to continue with class until I hauled off and slammed my baseball bat of a shin up between his legs.
Then I was that green belt who lost her ever lovin’ batshit on the punching bag one afternoon while trying to force a strong kiai2 up her choke-chained throat and out her muzzled mouth.
Of course, once I got over “groin kicks are mean and I’m a nice girl,” I became that slippery little thing that certain big guys hated sparring. Since I couldn't reach their heads, I made mince meat outta their junk to help cut them down to my size. I’m that obsessive nerd who now owns a tall, cylindrical object specifically designed to have the snot blasted out of it, right here in this pretty-pretty dance studio. And kiai? SO not a problem anymore. Not for the former cheerleader and theater-trained projector.
Neither is saying NO.
Except on the days when it is.
I am notorious for holding back my power with the shortest death-grip on the reins because I'm terrified of losing control of it on somebody I want to train with tomorrow. You know, somebody I'd rather not accidentally injure, because it doesn't take much with such targeted techniques. Sometimes this propensity leaks into the mental/emotional aspects of self-defense, too.
I would rather have that problem than the other. So it’s common to see me choke, especially in sparring.
(And yeah, okay, in the dominant position while rear-nekkid. Badum-tssss!)
My hesitancy only bothers me for how it affects my reflexes, muscle memory, and progress in annihilating my flinch-and-sproing response.
Because I didn't get into martial arts for the trophies and medals (which I actually have won, back when I used to compete—I know, shocker). I also didn't start training so I could “whupp ass” or to get a quick-fix for my fears. This is a deep life practice so I’m okay taking my time with progress.
The greatest benefits I've received from training have been mental, emotional, energetic, and spiritual. These reduce the number of times I need to pull out the physical aspects—which is my preference.
“So if martial arts hasn’t turned you into an invincible badass, and you’re not there for the sport awards, do you really feel like it’s done you that much good?”
Absolutely. The training is all inside me. It simply doesn’t come out very often at the showy, award-winning moments. Instead, it comes out when I really need it.
SHE shows up when I'm battling to wrangle a speeding bullet of metal and burning rubber out of a trajectory that’s about to send me flying off the Uintah Street bridge.
SHE shows up when I'm in the middle of a campsite in Missouri and a tornado comes up out of nowhere. People freak out around me; I become Spock with catlike ninja reflexes, holding hands, guiding, and reminding people to breathe.
SHE shows up when a 6'5" man throws things at my head, then won't let me walk out the door, and again when a drunk in Mexico grabs and tries to manhandle me because I've told him, in my broken Spanish, that cornering and harassing my friend is not funny.
SHE shows up in the wording of my cease-and-desist letters, or when I tell a slimy, underhanded director that I and my troupe are quitting a show and he owes me a thousand dollars for the work I’ve put in. Which he pays.
SHE shows up when I’m backed against the wall with a would-be rapist’s noxious fumes curling my nostril hairs. It’s HER eyes and HER voice warning this fucker that he may not want to tangle with me after all. So he doesn’t.
SHE shows up when I am gawk-jawed and stunned by the unimaginable betrayals of the people I trust most. Like when my “best friend” levels a smear campaign against me that gets me blacklisted. Great. Fine. Very good. HER claws, jaws, and flanks catapult me over this barrier onto the international stage instead.
Or when an angry man catches me off guard and blasts me between the eyes so hard he puts me on disability because I told him NO one too many times about one too many things. SHE is right there with me when I have to continue fighting this attacker—in front of a bunch of children. SHE is also there for me when there’s no legal recourse for this surreptitious assault because of the parameters surrounding the incident.
SHE shows up while I battle a year of chronic seizures in the wake of that double-punch. Or when my doctors tell me I'll never be a dancer again after a drunk driver rams me. Or when I can't walk for a week because I've torn my meniscus after being told by another doctor that the problem with my knee is “just a muscle spasm.”
SHE definitely shows up to PT, cognitive rehab, and trauma therapy. SHE also shows up when my alarms go off multiple times a day to remind me that it's time for home PT and—wahhhh, I don’t wanna, I’m tired! But I do it anyway.
SHE shows up when big bruisers and little bullies look at me like I'm the most worthless martial artist they've ever seen because I'm a female. And because I heed my body's NO after it's been injured. And because I’ve been injured—read: “broken.” And because I’m over forty. And because I have neurological issues. And trauma-response issues. And depth-perception issues. And sensory processing issues. And issues with reading human cues…
So I dunno. Does that lovely cocktail make me a weakling and “not a real martial artist”? Or does it make me a badass because I refuse to let it stop me from learning how to defend myself? Both? Neither?
I’ll leave you to your own opinion about that.
Either way, SHE has my back, riding with me the whole way home when the condescending sneers and skeptical side-eyes won't quit poking me in the brain.
SHE reminds me that my detractors know nothing about the battles I've won.
The wars I’ve waged.
NOTHING.
Does being a martially obsessed fighter-chick mean that I have such a thick rhino-hide that those sneers and comments and looks don't hurt anymore?
Eh. Depends on the day. Depends on the year. Depends on who it's coming from, and if those looks come with a betrayal or if they're from haters I don't know. Depends on the state of my injuries and the current progress of my training and how I feel about it. Depends if I'm tired or brain-fried or hangry. Depends if I’m in Neo-Mode, Whipping Girl Mode, or badass Faerie Queen Mode. (Around here, that means dangerous, not prancing princess.)
(Okay, fine. It means dangerous while prancing around like a glittery princess.)
Like I said, it's up and down. Why? Because I'm not dead yet, and I haven't quit training.
“So, Bella, what kind of martial arts have you trained in?”
This is one of the most common questions that ever gets asked of me. Allow me to answer—actually, no. Allow me to mostly answer. I don't publicly share my full arsenal because I do sometimes receive death threats, rape threats, get cyber-stalked, get stalk-stalked, and experience people attempting to do things to me that I don't want them doing.
If you know much about me beyond the way I dance, then you may know how consistently violence has infiltrated my life. I actually find it quite astounding and appalling, considering the fact that I'm a white American, I'm not super famous, I've never lived in a war zone or a gang zone, and I didn't grow up getting backhanded from one room into another.
And yet I mark my life by the beats of trajectory-altering violence.3 Maybe you do, too. I hope you don't. It's quite bullshit.
When I first started taking karate, I avoided photos and video cameras like the Covid. The only recorded signs that I had resumed martial training after my first car wreck recovery were the ways it pervaded my dancing (and my fiction that I hardly let anybody see—shhhhh). Otherwise I wouldn't talk much about it, because I didn’t want to arm potential attackers with any idea of what I might or might not know for self-defense, so...
So this list isn't complete. But it'll give you the general idea:
Medieval Heavy Weapons Armored Combat
Kenpo
Kempo
Wing Chun
A brief stint in Krav Maga before I moved
Kombatan Arnis
Kickboxing
Brazilian Jiu Jitsu
Kali/Jeet Kun Do
3 amazing days of Judo before my back said NO
Weeping Style Jiu Jitsu (because I was still crying over Judo. jk)
A Boatload of Weapons
Using Household Items as Weapons
Transforming Shiny Objects Into Weapons
Deflecting with Asshattery
Kiss-Assery To Save My Ass
The Arts of Cut & Run
Leaping Through Glass Ceilings in a Single Sproing
Being As Tenacious As A Weed
Replying "Watch Me" to "You Can't/Don't You Dare"
Cultivating Mind Over Matter
Learning To Say "NO" Like Neo to Bullets
Tai Chi
Qigong
Yeahhhh…have I mentioned that I am a multipotentialite in each of my main areas of multipotentiality?4 Oh, I haven’t? This is why I require clones. 🤪
I make myself tired.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Here's the audio version blow-by-blow of the video for y’all who can’t see the shenanigans. You can, however, hear some of them at the end during the credit roll, along with the awesome music of course.
In case you can’t hear which songs I chose, it's "Vikings" by Adam Saban and "Never Give Up" by Sia. These lyrics get me every time.5
**Bonus points if you can tell me why my first white belt is the most sacred to me, not the hard-earned black?
© 2023 Hartebeast
I'm not the person to ask for advice about all those un-fun reasons I needed to learn self-defense. These people are. Remember that online activity can be tracked, so make sure you are in a safe place to click on these links before you do:
RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) -
Including the National Sexual Assault Hotline 800-656-HOPE
NATIONAL DOMESTIC VIOLENCE HOTLINE
1-800-799-SAFE (7233) TTY 1-800 - 787-3224
THE STOP BULLYING SITE with many resources
Or if it’s a really, really bad time: SMS 988 - THE SUICIDE & CRISIS LIFELINE
A FEW DIY RESOURCES:
One of the best books I have ever read in my life: The Body Keeps the Score - Brain, Mind & Body in the Healing of Trauma
Don't want to read the book? Here's the basic premise of what trauma does to the body and why talking about it, even in therapy, so often doesn't solve the problems: Short Version. Or Long Version by the author himself
Another one of the best books I’ve ever read - The Gift of Fear - Survival Signals That Protect Us From Violence
Why your boundaries are not welcome in an abusive relationship
Trajectory altering violence
Drunk or drugged driving incidents are not car “accidents.” The criminal term is “vehicular assault.”
When Women Refuse - a collection of stories about violence inflicted upon women who refuse sexual advances. Even a mere scan is appalling.
What Women on the Spectrum Want You To Know - including why we’re so likely to experience violence and abusive relationships.
Crimes Against Disabled People Are Rising - and females with disabilities are particularly at risk.
Lyrics to the music: Never Give Up by Sia
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