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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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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The Zone is a Lie; My Brain on Running

I’m not one of those blissed-out runners who flies over the pavement like someone spiked their nutrition gel with particularly excellent ecstasy.

Nor shall I ever be.

Fear keeps my feet turning over for miles down the road. I’m completely terrified. (And lo! Another indication that I am not entirely normal. Go figure.)

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Tri-ing to Survive (A Focal Shift)

So, I’m outing myself.

Rather, I’m shifting the lens of the blog a little. As I transitioned out of a stagnant and wistful time of my life and I rejoined the human race again, the inspiration for blog posts here waned. I’m pleased to be back on track, but I’m not pleased that I’ve let this blog wither, and the Muse does not descend just because I want her to, the wretched bitch.

After a time of careful deliberation, I’ve decided to “change lenses” (as they might say in an obsessively methodical English class) while maintaining essentially the same topic: how the hell to survive when things are going Just Great. 

I’m stalling…

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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