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Logo of the 2006 Special Olympics USA National...

Logo of the 2006 Special Olympics USA National Games (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My vagina’s angry and I need to take myself to a time out. No Austin for me this weekend, no.
I’ve been crazy all week, starting with leaving the country music bar and yelling at Tim on Saturday night in an alley way while he withdrew money for me to go and spend elsewhere. I don’t know if it’s because I went off my cleanse, suddenly, in a big way with all sorts of booze and Mexican food (oh and yummy chocolate and cheese at Wholefoods) or because I’m tapering off my antidepressants that make me sleepy or because I just got a super early dose of PMT starting right in the middle of my cycle (Tim LOVES that) or all three. I don’t remember being this crazy before the meds – just sick, sad and really exhausted.
But I’ve been like really unhappy with EVERYTHING, unable to appreciate anything and with this huge, overwhelming, what feels almost psychotic drive to be famous, live in the limelight and get HEAPS of attention. Jesus Christ I’m not 21 anymore.
But it’s not just that. My appetite has returned, I have a voracious appetite for food and for my life which is a good thing.  Back in Australia, I didn’t care what I ate or even did most of the time – almost all of the sweetness of life seemed to have gone.  But it’s just hard now balancing my enjoyment of life with being healthy (and sane).  I’m having all these urges, appetites that perhaps in my former life I would’ve shut down as they weren’t healthy.  But the problem was, I shut down my spirit at the same time.
I do know one thing though, will all this newfound energy and passion I’m experiencing since recovering from cfs, I need to go back to dancing a couple times a week. I’m already at the gym every day and Tim and I joke about sending me twice a day.
The beautiful thing is that we can tell Tim’s friends why I’m not coming to Austin this weekend and, not only do they get it, they don’t make me wrong for it. Here in America, the feminine doesn’t seem to be suppressed, it seems more understood and in general people are given more space to express themselves authentically.  In Australia, we always have to pretend we’re just like men and aren’t allowed to have any emotional or hormonal issues publicly.

Special Olympics
Speaking of people expressing themselves authentically, I’m on the treadmill looking over the running track that looks down onto the basketball courts where the special Olympics are going on and I’m moved, almost to tears by the athletes. In ancient cultures, people with disabilities like down syndrome etc were viewed as special and valuable because they offered wonderful qualities and gifts that others didn’t.
Every time I look up from my screen my eyes fill with tears and I’m struck by an overwhelming urge to volunteer at the next SO. I cant look at them too much because I’m getting embarrassed crying at the gym and thinking this is further evidence of my craziness. There’s just such a “go get ’em” intensity on the faces of the athletes that is so balls out genuine. They don’t seem to be concerned with looking good or even achieving success as we know it. And seeing all their parents and friends cheering for them, they look like they experience a different kind of joy to other sports fans. Boys and girls play together and the boys have their last names on the back of their shirt but the beautiful girl playing in this game has her first name, “Samantha” on hers.
The happiness of the kids doing their stretches with their coach, we just never seem that joyfully happy.
Tim just came up and I told him I’m so moved and inspired that I’m crying. And he said “Oh it’s ok to cry at this. When I volunteered at the Special Olympics, a guy tripped in the 100m sprint and all the athletes stopped and waited for him to get up before they continued.” I’m now a weeping mess of moved inspiration and tears trying to stay on the treadmill. So much beauty and love ❤
This was the best workout ever, way better than reading my Vanity Fair magazine on the treadmill. I’m not so angry anymore…

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