Merriam Webster defines recovery as follows:
1: the act, process, or an instance of recovering
especially : an economic upturn (as after a depression)
2: the process of combating a disorder (such as alcoholism) or a real or perceived problem
What a small definition. What a teeny tiny explanation for something that’s really so major.
This morning I ran for the first time after running a half marathon last weekend (it’s Thursday, for reference). I was truly convinced that my legs would not work. I’ve walked on them in the days since, but I was under the impression that if I asked them to move faster than a very leisurely pace, they would reject that notion, altogether. They would refuse, and cease moving.
Actually, if I’m being honest, it felt like more than that. They would break. Shatter. My legs would fall off my body and I would lay there, in an unmoving heap. I know this sounds ridiculous and perhaps, even disrespectful to those who suffer from handicaps or physical impediments that prohibit the type of movement I’m referring to. I promise you that there is no part of me that is being either disrespectful or dramatic.
I was afraid. Anxious.
I asked myself several times why I felt the way I did, and then more times than that, I told myself that I was being ridiculous and I didn’t HAVE to do anything. Who cares if my coach told me that today was my day back to running? I never had to run again if I didn’t want to.
Of course, then I tortured myself with thoughts of never running again and decided that the best thing for me to do, would be to just give it a go. Try it. If my legs fell off or it felt generally unbearable, I could just about face and find my way back home.
I don’t want to sugar coat anything here, as there is a point to all of this. It didn’t feel great. First I was faster paced that I was supposed to be running, and then I was too slow. My legs were light and buoyant and then, one thousand pounds. I felt wonderful and also, was convinced my Achilles tendon was going to snap in two.
It was roller coaster ride of emotions, but I saw it through- to the end. And I finished, and I was glad. I was happy I finished and also, thrilled that I was done. I did it. I ripped off the bandage. I know, having been through this before, that my second run would be equally as terrifying, but also, easier. Slightly, but still, better.
Why am I talking about this?
Well, I think most things in life are just like this. I think that recovery is something we don’t talk about in the honest way that perhaps we should. When we talk about recovery, we use loads of cliché phrases. We talk about it being a long road. We reference staying on that path. We encourage those who have fallen astray to find themselves back on track.
All. The. Catchphrases.
We don’t talk about what it’s really like to overcome. What does it mean when we’ve experienced a trauma, chosen or otherwise, and then, we have to find our way back to ourselves?
Am I comparing running a race to other, more significant traumas?
No, but also, yes. I am.
There is something incredibly uniform in the way that we approach recovery. Mostly, we think that it means waiting a prescribed period of time, and then, being “better” and finally, getting back on the horse.
When we talk about the difficulty, we use broad strokes in a way that woefully neglects the nuanced, much more painful details.
Push through the fear, we say.
You got this, we encourage.
Take your time, we soothe.
It’s going to be a battle, but you got this, we cheer.
There are so many ways in which we rally around those who are recovering to make them feel better and empowered and like they are capable of sorting it all out. I don’t know if we often acknowledge that despite the desire to recover, or the need to do so, sometimes it feels like the very thing we want to run from. And the recovery is not always the worst part, even though we desperately want it to be.
Sometimes the worst bit is the after. It’s that time that comes after the recovery. It’s the reintegration. It’s the hopping back onto the horse. It’s the first date after heartbreak. It’s the very first holiday after loss. It’s the first social gathering after addiction. It’s the first run after the race.
I’m going to share something crazy, but I know it’s true as much as I know anything. That’s still recovery. That bit. The part that I just said comes after- that’s all part of it. We think we are done. We think we’ve healed and figured things out and found our way, and then BOOM- we have more to learn. More to do. More to overcome. And we think that’s the aftershock, but it’s not. It’s all part of the gig. You can’t recover fully until you figure out what recovery feels like in the context of reentry.
I know that sound incredibly counterintuitive, but I promise you it’s true.
Why?
Well, that’s the test. That’s the notion of the thing. That’s when we figure out whether or not we are really and truly recovered. And it’s not to say that we should provoke or tease or upend. It’s to say that we have completed a recovery cycle when we figure out what it looks like wearing the cloak of the after.
We have to know what our new normal is and that’s not yet post-recovery. Post-recovery is when you’ve cleared that hurdle. Post-recovery is when you know that you aren’t going to drink and your legs aren’t going to fall off and you’re not going to fall for his bullshit and you aren’t going to cry when someone orders pad thai with no bean sprouts just like she did.
And that’s the thing. That’s the thing we work for, really.
And it’s really fucking hard.
I guess that’s all I wanted to share. I get it. It’s hard.
The hardest thing you’ll do.
Do it anyway.
X
L.
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