It was the pain really. That was the toughest part of the journey. Pain everywhere; every joint, every muscle, in my lungs, head, throat. A constant gnawing, grinding, bone crunching pain. I stopped mentioning it eventually. It so quickly became the norm:
āIām about 8.5 on the agony Richter scale today thank you for asking, and you?ā
There were other things too. Constant infections, loss of voice, inability to think, I couldnāt stand noise of any kind or bright light, or company. I could go on but Iāll be here for a fortnight. Suffice to say I knew something was seriously broken, but I didnāt know what.
Life became closed. Like a redundant shop I had ceased trading.
It dawned on me that I defined myself entirely by what I did. (Donāt we all? It is after all the question we ask someone when we meet them.)
But what if all thatās gone? What if you donāt actually DO anything? If you are just existing and relying on others. If you have nothing. What then? Are you still valid?
Cue existential crisis of Armageddon proportions.
If I wasnāt going to be a world-changer, if I wasnāt going to function properly again, if my grandest achievement was going to be taking ten steps, then what was life really? Who was I? What did I have?
There it was.
The question that opened up an entirely new existence for me. An existence of silence and presence; a quiet, solitary place where a little voice I had done nothing but neglect could be heard:
āYou have meā, she said: āIām still here.ā
That psychic part of me, the one that used to get wheeled out at parties before being unceremoniously ignored again, finally had her chance to speak.
.
.
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