running up that hill
a short rambling about my thoughts on recovery
I have this recurring dream that i am running through a woods and when i turn my head to the right i see a younger version of myself running beside me. We run side by side, trying to find the sunset a the end of the woodlands. but no matter how long we run for we never seem to break free from the looming trees, yet we know something great is at the end, something worth running towards. Something real.
If only we could just grasp it.
The last few weeks i’ve been really sick physically with something definitely covid/flu-adjacent, which for someone with a compromised immune system is never easy. I ended up on steroids and antibiotics for a nasty chest infection and im still fighting off the remnants of this sickness. I’ve found it all a bit triggering if i’m being honest - which i’ll delve into a bit more in my upcoming post about agoraphobia - as my physical ailments are yet another reminder that my body is broken and i am chronically ill no matter how hard i try to escape the label.
I miss the days i didnt walk with a stick or use a wheelchair. although i’ve always been ill to some extent, i miss the things i did take for granted. being able to walk unaided, being able to go outdoors without first assessing a place for being wheelchair accessible (which it’s usually not when you live out in the middle of nowhere). being able to stand for long periods of time, being able to nip out somewhere without it being a full-blown ordeal.
All this to say, these last few weeks i’ve been feeling increasingly hopeless. I’ve been struggling to attend to basic tasks in the way i always do when i’m struggling mentally, and yet every day i’m surprising myself by the fact i’m still here, and out of the psych ward.
It got me thinking, maybe that’s what recovery really is.
Maybe it isnt a loud declaration i’ve been waiting for, of singing upon rooftops a big song and dance about wanting to be alive and being cured of all my ailments. maybe recovery is quiet. maybe it’s the choosing to pick up a pen to journal with, instead of a blade in the moments you feel lowest. maybe it’s using coping skills in the bathroom while you have a silent panic attack during dinner or climbing into bed at 6pm because you feel so done with the day but don’t want to resort to your usual roster of harmful behaviours, even when you know they sometimes make you feel better. maybe recovery is realising that these temporary moments of release do not serve you or your life in the long run. At least that’s what it feels like for me. Recovery, i guess, is showing up for yourself again and again even when you don’t want to, even when you’re practically dragging your feet along the way. you oftentimes don’t want to be here - that doesn’t necessarily change - but you realise the one thing you always held as an option maybe isn’t as glamorous of an Out anymore. suicide is no longer the glistening exit sign above the door and instead feels like an option far less definitive of a decision for your life. yes, it still comforts you in the hardest moments but is no longer your first instinct whenever anything goes wrong.
maybe that’s what recovery is, learning that there’s no way out, but through.
And so i guess i’ll keep plodding along until i find that sunset.
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this one really resonated with me. adina we may be on completely different walks of life but it’s comforting to read someone else put how i’ve been feeling into words. recovery is stubbornly picking up the pieces because breaking yourself down isn’t the way to go. it’s really not as straightforward and easy as others make it seem. it’s like i angrily look after myself now. wishing you and ponyo all the best <3
Fave writer in Substack, you have no idea how much your writing is a boost in my day.