Queering the Triathlete (and Other Discomforts)

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


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Returning to the Site of Our Failures

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.

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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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It’s My Suffering, and I’ll Cry If I Want To

It’s been a while. Again.

But I had someone kindly request that I write on self-pity. (A request!! So exciting! My first one! Unless we count J suggesting I write a blog in the first place. But a specific request!!)

It’s not even a difficult topic: I pity myself. POOR ME. I SHOULD DIE IN A GUTTER BECAUSE MY LIFE IS SO TRAGIC AND I’M SO AWFUL. But really. I’ve already picked out the gutter.  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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