On the Long, Slow Road of Recovery
It’s been a long, long journey. Every day is hard, some easier than before, some harder. More days than not the black fire is extinguished, and I recover.
Describing recovery is among the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Crawling up the beach with shattered arms and legs as the tide pulls me back and erodes the sand beneath me. Explaining that I am sick and just living takes so much out of me. Worrying that the bad days are derailing my relationship, my work, the life I have worked so very hard to build.
What a worry it is! Not knowing if what you’re feeling should be acted upon, not knowing if it will pass in a moment, an hour, a day. I can know, intellectually, that I will probably be fine in an hour, but I cannot bring that rationality to the emotions frothing inside me. “Change something!” it cries, “Anything! Ease me!”, and I start to.
I flail about in my life looking for things to shift, thinking of what I think I hate or could convince myself to hate. What will changing it mean? Will I feel better? I start pushing dominos while thinking that yes, this will make things better.
In an hour, I regret having nudged anything. “Stay the course” is the rational response. Oh to have heard it over the cacophony of emotion but an hour earlier, knowing that it has only fed the worry and emotional peaks that will push further actions, desired or not.
With everything in tumult it is hard to write or think, hard to hold complexity of any sort. The complexity could be wrong, driven by an emotion I have yet to recognise, an endless worry that I am wrong.