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Recalculate. Again.


I wonder if my choice to be city-side is wise, this winter. But I wonder, too, how well I’d fare in real dark and without friends up north.


I am still disquieted. I am disillusioned. Like many, with the state of the world, although not as shocked as some. My constant nightmare is that I’m on a plane and it breaks, stops, loses air. The scariest thing is knowing you’re fucked as you go down. This feels like that, sometimes.


And sometimes I’m just here, in this metaphorical white room, with depression. With several truths I never wanted to know.


I’m never not going to be side by side with this illness.

Humanity is inherently cruel and greedy and self-destructive.

Nothing matters.


The plane is going down.


So why go on?


I make my plans. Maybe I asked for it when I said I’d run Iditarod in order to raise awareness for those with depression. To show what someone who struggles that way can do. So I get to really struggle. I get to be faced with it squarely. Perhaps it’s an opportunity to do my best, against the rising tide. One story of success against all odds. But the odds cannot be ever in your favor if you are to overcome them. It’s a gift. Right?




Minneapolis, part 2. No, I’m not writing that here. I mostly forget what that even was: and the honeymoon of it is over. I was unmoored, disconnected, free for a while. Now I settle back down to reality and there still waits for me: depression. Reality. And the work. This hard work. To just… keep going. To get out of bed. To eat. Or even to just eat something healthy. To go to things I say I will.


Stuff slides. So easy to let it go. The dogs keep me honest, but then with too much ice to run we all slide too. I am still unmoored but weirdly tethered. I’m stuck between two things, I’m neither here and carefree nor there (Alaska!), working, focusing, training.


I can’t remember what my point is. Why I’m here exactly. I’m biding time. Until I can be in training again. But– why? Why do I wait? I AM in training now! Right?




Except it’s so easy, here, to let it slide. So easy to avoid the sidewalks caked in ice and strewn with trash. The trash troubles me so badly. I should go pick it up, right? But it’s too much, it’s literally everywhere, I could never even make a dent. And somehow this is equivalent to all the activism I ought to do, but it’s also too much, I just… can’t.


So instead I crawl… somewhere. Not even my to bed. Just. Into sweet anonymity. Consumerism. I spend money to make it feel better. Even a quarter! Even a dime. I try to be around people to anesthetize my ever running thoughts. I sink into meaningless shows. I read the news like it’s an intriguing book. I share posts and I know it’s profoundly ineffective. I march though I hate, hate to be so crowded and so overwhelmed.


That’s all… dour. So am I, I guess.


This is intended to be respite.


I think it was, before, and I think I’ve lost the intentionality of it. My intention before was easy: let go of intentions. But now is the time to put those back, in some kind of order of health. I haven’t. I’m struggling to just get up.


A small break to let some of that harshness go.


This is where I’ll land:


Sometimes the only thing you can do is move forward. Keep going. And without an adversary, what kind of fight would it be, anyway? So I will go forward. When all I have left is a little gristle and two goofy dogs, I can get up. I can go through the motions. And somehow this does seem to work, sometimes. This morning I ran, for the first time in a couple weeks. Maybe I will again, tomorrow, too.


So with not much left, I have this. The mantra. The ode. One step in front of another. Bird by bird.