As a creature of habit, I find myself railing against reality whenever I’m away from my natural habitat. You know, I feel like a bearded dragan thats lost her heat lamp.
I live in Far North Queensland, and at this time of year I always contemplate travelling even farther north—to the very top of Australia, where it is temptingly warmer and, crucially, never, ever cold.
But I digress. The purpose of these journal entries is insight, not a diatribe about the weather. Suffice it to say, we are all different. This is especially true when it comes to living with a chronic condition: the literature does not tell the whole story—or, at least, it does not tell everyone’s story.
For me, the cold is more limiting than alcohol, poor sleep, bad food, stress or the ongoing decline.
And my point?
It’s fucking cold.
That’s no way to treat an athlete—especially not this athlete.
