thank you

I don't know what the hell I've done in my life to deserve such good, kind, honest, funny, silly friends.

You guys are the best: The calls, the daily texts, the actual real hand-written letters, the late-night meals, the cat photos, the lack of judginess (yes, I'm making that a word) when I randomly just start crying, the many heart-to-heart talks, the offers to go to Capitol Hill and punch Salad Bar in the face and/or balls, the crazy swim workouts, the running in the rain in ridiculous green outfits, the whiskey, the last-minute flights to Seattle (seriously).

What I've learned in the last two weeks: Gratitude is more powerful than grief.

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.

how to heal

The past two days were the worst I've ever experienced. 

The grief came like a tidal wave. I tried to be brave, but it swept over me, and I lost all control. I was the stranger crying in the airport. I couldn't eat for almost 48 hours -- I can barely stomach anything still, it all makes me sick. I shuffled around, dazed, hoping this pain was just something I imagined in someone else's story.

But I made myself try -- during the wake, I spoke to the room about how when you grow up in a religious Filipino family, there's the self you present to the world and your real "dirty self," and how I never hid my "dirty self" from Erika. I reached for my friend Susan (whom I asked to go with me after Salad Bar failed) when they rolled the casket in; I cried so hard my body shook. And I stayed to watch everything, the men in green hard hats lowering Erika into the ground, covering her up until you could barely even tell that a blade of grass had been out of place, when all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and yell: No no no no no.

I came back to Seattle last night, and I am still crying in public. When people ask me how I am, I say: "Do you really want the truth?" You can only imagine what happens next.

But I am trying. I know it will take awhile -- this one-two punch of death and a breakup has very nearly destroyed me. But I want my fight back.

So I am making a promise to do one healing thing a day, even if I have to force myself out of bed, even if I have to call someone else and ask for help. I am trying so hard to learn to ask for help.  

Day 1: Wednesday

The day of the wake, the first day without Salad Bar. Awful to wake up in the morning and feel nothing but a rush of loneliness. I made myself go for a trail run. Those hills -- the way they tore into my lungs and made my sides hurt. I needed that.

Day 2: Thursday

After everything was over, when I had cried more than I thought was humanly possible, I went to Susan's house. I took off my shoes. And I played in the grass with her 2-year-old daughter, kicking a soccer ball. It was perfect.

Day 3: Today

When Erika visited me last July, we discovered Cederberg Tea House. I've since become a regular. So I went back today. And they remembered her. And I told her story. And tried my best to eat. 

And now this:

I feel like this city is giving me a hug -- it's March, and I'm writing on my balcony, in a tank top and sunglasses.

I'm still crying, but I will take this as a good omen. The loneliness can't last forever.

Right?

all kinds of grief, all at once

When Erika came to visit me in Seattle, one thing she said was: "I wonder what kind of guy you'll date here."

And then she told me to watch "10 Things I Hate About You" and try to find my Heath Ledger.

Salad Bar was no Heath Ledger. (Unless you want to call drunken karaoke renditions of Kelly Clarkson songs a serenade.) But his birthday was the same day I moved to Seattle, and it was a good story. Such a good story. Most of what we had was a good story. Until this week, when it was not.

We broke up last night.

Between this and Erika's funeral tomorrow, I am barely functioning. Voices are too loud. I can't eat. I am presently writing this on my phone and crying in the airport, waiting for my flight to L.A.

I keep telling myself that I've been through things that are just as difficult. I'm a tough bitch, I can deal, I've survived. But man, this hurts.

So if you're reading this (and hopefully you're taking a poo while doing so -- because I like poo and poo is good), can you please leave something happy in the comment section? Tell me a love story or a terrible joke. Send me your favorite cat video. Please something. Anything. I'd like to remember what it was like to laugh.

I'll start with this:

is it over yet?

So I'm anxiously waiting for the part when this is funny.

P.S. I'm currently in Minneapolis, where it is so frigid that the vomit on the sidewalk has frozen. It's after 2 a.m. here, and I'm awake not because I had an exciting night at the bar, but because I had to write a press release and answer e-mails.

P.P.S. The funeral is Thursday.