Queering the Triathlete (and Other Discomforts)

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


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The Gift Within My Diagnosis

For at least a year, I was not allowed to eat cheese. I was not allowed to go jackknife into a fabulous round of brie or, god forbid! goat cheese. It was the worst culinary year of my life, not being allowed to indulge in that magical coagulated milk.

This terrible fate was thrust upon me in an effort to quell the wretched fiend known (idiotically) as BPD. And for the years since, I’ve struggled with this son of a bitch and made every effort possible to kill off his stupid hydra heads that grow back in slimy multitudes. With great thanks to this whole mindfulness nonsense, I’m much calmer, wiser, and stronger than I was several years ago.

Still, some days are better than others.

But not until today have I ever thought of BPD as a gift, and maybe it is.

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The Resonant Frequency of the Heart

Again, I defy my own label and present a less snarky post. I want to explain in my terms what it’s like to have the emotional sensitivity of an anemone. In a poem!! I wrote a poem. Lord help us.

Yeats’ poem “Earth, Fire, and Water” reads:

We can make our minds so still like water

that beings gather around us, that they

may see their own images, and so live for

a moment with a clearer perhaps even a

fiercer life because of our quiet.

I am reflective, but not at all like still water. Continue reading


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Critiquing DEAR MAN. (Dear Man, Give It Up.)

Anyone who has undergone a DBT skills class has no doubt heard of the dreaded DEAR MAN. (Oh, excuse me, the DEAR MAN GIVE FAST.) For those lucky suckers who have never sat through the countless worksheets that make up DBT, DEAR MAN is a mnemonic device meant to help you ask people for shit. Allow me to say that it is unnecessarily complicated and generally annoying as hell. Here’s why, in an example.  Continue reading


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Metta Practice as a Borderline

Many different sorts of meditation retreats are available to the sadistic folks who want to spend several days alone with their own mind: vipassana, jhana, zen… the list goes on, and some are more specific than others.

For example, I attended a retreat this week focused especially on cultivating metta. Translation: Love Everything.

Well, it was 99.99% successful! Continue reading


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I Hear You, and Thank You For Your Input. Now @*#& Off.

I gave my first dharma talk today, the substance of which was:

“Hello, fear. I hear you. Thank you for your input. Now please eff off.”

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Mindful Speech and Modern Flakes

“Yeah, of course. I’ll call you this weekend.”

You smile a little to yourself, pleased that you and Cool Person will finally get the chance to hang out and that you’ll certainly be getting out of your apartment this weekend. When your pool friends ask how your weekend went, you’ll respond, “It was great!” instead of the usual forced smile and half-shrug with “I just relaxed, watched some TV, caught a breather” when you know damn well that you’ve been taking that breather for quite some time.

So you keep your phone a little closer all week, but it refuses to buzz. You send an innocuous text on Thursday afternoon of: “Hey! So, what are you thinking for the weekend?” No buzz. Not wanting to be a pain in the ass, you wait. It isn’t until Sunday afternoon that you give up and throw some pizza bites in the oven.

They forgot.

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I Screwed Up My Retreat

How does one screw up your own retreat, you may ask? Well. You can’t.

A retreat is an act of withdrawing. Nobody says how that withdrawing is supposed to work or what it’s supposed to produce. It just is. One withdraws and sees what happens. (Or, more specifically, one meditates.)

But I did screw up: I went into my meditation retreat with expectations. (How dare I?!) And I ended up experiencing one of the top ten most shocking moments of my life to date.

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