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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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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The Top Six. Thanks, BPD…

I’ve had this blog for a little under two years, and I’m going to brush off my own shoulderpad and take a look and what has been racking up the hits.

Honestly, I could use a boost: I thought of at least four face-raging topics before deciding that I didn’t need to go off on certain behaviors of my esteemed colleagues in this endeavor (i.e. Life) or, even better, go off on myself. Unless someone wants me to go batsh*t keyboard-smash on some universal atrocity– just say the word! (Hint: the word is “Go.”)

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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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A Borderline’s “FP”

FP = “Favorite Person”

I recently learned about this term when I started browsing Tumblr again (“The horror! The horror!”) While tumbling through the various tags looking for some camaraderie, I kept seeing this acronym. Fp. Fp. Fp. What the shit is an Fp? Fart pancake? Flabby pancreas? Flirty parakeet?

And then: Ooooh!! Favorite Person. I have one of those. … I have a ton of those…  Continue reading


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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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