Seneca:
I have long been silently asking
myself, my friend Serenus, to what I should liken such a condition of mind, and
I find that nothing more closely resembles it than the conduct of those who,
after having recovered from a long and serious illness, occasionally experience
slight touches and twinges, and, although they have passed through the final
stages of the disease, yet have suspicions that it has not left them, and
though in perfect health yet hold out their pulse to be felt by the physician,
and whenever they feel warm suspect that the fever is returning.
Such men, Serenus, are not
unhealthy, but they are not accustomed to being healthy; just as even a quiet
sea or lake nevertheless displays a certain amount of ripple when its waters
are subsiding after a storm.
I am
hardly a strapping fellow, but I will not get sick often. Yet when I do, it
will hit me like a ton of bricks, and it then takes me ages to return to form.
I do wonder if the period of recovery can be worse than the actual disease, and
I almost prefer the few days of sharp pain and delirious fever to the many
weeks of dull aches and draining lethargy.
As is so
often the case, the patterns of the mind reflect the patterns of the body. That
moment where everything hangs in the balance, where a decision will be about
far more than life or death, but about redemption or corruption? Yes, I will
face that, and while I know that it will hurt, I also know that it will define
my purpose. The meaning in it is clear.
But that
moment where nothing stands out, where it hardly seems to matter if I turn
right or I turn left, and all that is left is dullness and worry? No, I would
rather not face that, and while the hurt doesn’t seem nearly as bad, I have no
sense of its purpose. The meaning in it is not clear.
Yes,
there is that sudden and critical time, both terrifying and glorious, when all
else falls away, and I need to make my stand. Then there is the creeping
silence that follows, when the mundane has returned, and I need to maintain my
convictions. That second bit is not so easy.
There is
the temptation to doubt again, where those little nagging concerns come back.
Am I really any better? Wait, was that an old demon peeping around the corner? A
noble commitment must now be built into a lasting habit. I am distracted by
petty things, discouraged by every pang, convinced I am about to relapse. It
becomes clear that the long-distance run requires something very different than
the sprint.
It’s
funny how so many powerful things in this life have no name at all, perhaps
because we don’t actually wish to acknowledge them. This feeling is surely one
of them, where the word “recovery” seems quite insufficient. Calling it the “long
road of recovery” does it more justice.
Written in 5/2011
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