Queering the Triathlete (and Other Discomforts)

A Melancholy Zebra determined to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Returning to the Site of Our Failures

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This Christmas season, like the Christmas before, I returned to the town of my greatest happiness and crappiest failures. Granted, I ended on a low note, so it’s fair to say that the visits are distinctly masochistic (with a couple exceptions– notably visiting my cycling friend, my scholar friend, and my Not Normal friend. I add this addendum because at least one of them reads this blog at least some of the time. It’s not painful in the slightest to see all of you lovelies.)

However, there is something to be said for returning to the places where you felt the most pain, grief, and regret, to feeling those awful emotions again at their greatest potency. It’s a very solid reminder: Never Again. Never Fucking Again.

I won’t share what happened. That’s between me and a short but solid lineage of therapists. Bad decisions were made. The wrong medications were administered by the wrong people. Your devoted narrator didn’t defend themself when they ought to have spoken out. Their friends did not believe in them when everything was in the air, ready to be shot by skeet-enthusiasts. In hindsight, it was a long sequence of lies of omission from nearly every party involved, and silence is deadly.

… it’s always the silent farts that stink up the room and poison everyone’s nasal cavities while the audaciously loud farts just embarrass everyone for a minute and then are laughed away. Suffice it to say, that situation was a coordinated expellation of silent farts, but few were willing to own up to their own posterior’s contributions. Including me, for a time.

And so I return around Christmastime to do some internal flagellation for mine. Time eventually permits poignancy to fade, but I refuse to forget. Fuck you, Time. I swore, “Never again,” and I’ll be buggered if I let that assertion lose its power, even if it means knowingly sucker-punching myself in the kidneys. Yes, both kidneys.


Yet, I don’t need both kidneys to go grab some lunch with M or “coffee” with J. (I do not mean to imply that anything more than beverages were involved, but somehow either of us ever order coffee, so it’s inaccurate to say that we met for coffee.) And I usually walk out of lunch feeling pleased that M and I slide back into fun cycling chatter and J and I have deep conversations about bathroom hacks.


You're welcome.

You’re welcome.

For the Love of Metta,


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