Queering the Triathlete (and Other Discomforts)

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


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A Short Rant on Cheering Me Up

Just don’t. Is that okay with everybody?

I’ve been really sad for the past day. Rather, I’ve been apprehensive for nearly a month and extremely sad for just under 24 hours because now she’s gone. And I love her, and I miss her.

So, no I am really not okay right now. But some people have gotten it into their heads (okay, just the one) that I need cheering up most of all and ASAP.

No. 

What is so unsettling about other people being sad about normal shit? Frankly, I’d be more disturbed if I didn’t feel like this, if I didn’t go off on crying fits and sit heavily listening to some of our songs, reading our letters, remembering our conversations. This is supposed to be sad. I’m supposed to feel grief and fear and despair and other mishmops of clusterfucked feelings because she matters. We together mattered. And things that matter are worth mourning properly. 

So, no I don’t want to be dragged out to some random event to “have fun!” and “smile!” and “don’t think about!” No, I don’t want to listen to placations of: “there will be other people!” and “it’ll get better!” and “you’ll move on!” There are other people. It probably will get better. And maybe I shall move on. I know these things. And I don’t care because that’s not where I am right now, and I’m not ready to be there yet. I don’t want this grief surprising the fuck out of me weeks or months or years from now because I didn’t pay attention to it and didn’t it do its normal and painful thing.

I won’t dishonor the real heartache of this situation because it makes other people uncomfortable to see it. If you want to help, listen to me without giving advice or trying to downplay how I’m feeling and how draining it is. If that’s not in your bucket, go build sandcastles on a different beach. 

 

Okay. I’m done pissing into the digital void.


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My First DNF: I Had to Pee, Okay?

DNF. Did not finish.

Ew.

At the end of the day, the best explanation remains that I came prepared to race with my head, not my heart. So when things went to shit in a leaky bucket, my head was smart enough to call it a day, and my heart wasn’t there to override it with impassioned stubbornness.

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Race Report: According to “The Committee”

It has taken me a few days to get around to blogging a race report- I didn’t want to write the knee-jerk (and effectively jerk my knee into something’s metaphorical testicles) or write something put into an overly-positive perspective. And of course, I cannot simply write a race report! Blasphemy! What about the deeper meaning?!

Ergo, thus proceedeth a highfalutin and abridged recapitulation of Honu 70.3  Continue reading


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Slip-Crack-Pop and T Minus 32 Hours

When I walked into my chiropractor’s office yesterday for a pre-race tune-up (more like an overhaul) and taping, she looked at me for a moment, slumped a little, and said, “You don’t look like yourself. I can tell something is wrong. What’s going on?” She was about to cry. Freaking empaths. Stick two of us in a room…

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Exercise Isn’t a Cure-All… also The Queen Joan Ferguson

I’ve talked a few times about how exercise saves my pants. (Actually, no. I’m sure my pants are not pleased with the constant sweat saturation and then soap-bath. They probably would rather simply be pants.)

Yet, every single session isn’t an auto-mood boost, alas. For the first time since January, I quit a training session early, intentionally, and not from Bad Pain. I just couldn’t stop panicking and crying. I’ve had moments in training before, and I’m sure I’ll have more in the future. But I will say that the universe has a twisted sense of humor about these situations.

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Dastardly Shin Splint Raining On My Parade

This post has sat on my desktop for days; I think I was waiting until today’s appointment when, once again, I would hear a doctor tell me not to run.

And once again, I would ignore him.

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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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