fighting the fight

After royally falling apart Friday night in an embarrassingly horrible way that involved crying uncontrollably on the steps of a halfway house while homeless people, etc., tried to comfort me and offer me food, I've decided it's time to get my shit together.

Also, my mom has threatened to fly up here and move in. (Imagine living with your mom at 35. Dear god, that is grief.)

So I am rallying. And I am ever grateful to my wonderful, amazing, beautiful girl friends here in Seattle. They've pretty much been passing me around like a relay baton in the Sad Michaela games -- everyone takes a turn making sure I don't lose my shit.

Hey, girl, hey: I'm totally not crazy, I swear.

And then there is triathlon. Yesterday Belle was baby-sitting me and I went to brunch, and after listening to me describe the brick workouts that have recently started appearing on my training schedule (I swam 3,720 yards yesterday and then got out of the pool and ran 3.5 miles), she asked me why I want to do an Ironman in the first place.

She's so kind to be seen in public with the hot mess that is me right now.

I've been thinking about this a lot myself. In fact, during the funeral, I actually started entertaining the thought of quitting. I was so floored by sadness that I seriously considered dropping out of IMAZ, leaving Seattle, moving back to L.A. and locking myself in a room.

But that's not what Erika would've wanted. That girl was a fighter. And I want to fight. And IMAZ symbolizes what that fight is about -- it's about being brave enough to attempt something you never in your life thought you'd be strong enough to do. It's about setting a goal and doing the work. It's about learning to think of yourself in a new way -- as a powerful person who can make things happen. It's about taking risks.

IMAZ also represents where I've been. I never write about this, but I've had a long history of depression and have been in and out of therapy for about 20 years. Endurance sports are the best way for me to translate that emotional pain into a physical pain that I can understand and overcome. And the act of movement clears my head -- it's almost like running is my prayer and the pool is my church. (Biking is probably my confessional -- I've had serious hysterical sobbing breakdowns on the trainer the past few weeks. Dear cancer: Fuck you.)

How to heal: Shamelessly admire my calf muscle.

I am dedicating IMAZ to Erika. When I cross that finish line in November it will be for her. This bitch is back, and I'm ready to rumble. Bring on the bricks.