It’s a Tuesday afternoon and I have some quiet.
It seems a good time for some soul-searching, a task to which I’ve been devoting much of my time as my recovery continues.
It’s sunny out, but only two degrees, and today I slept the morning away.
I started my day with a doctor’s appointment, during which I uncharacteristically slid in and out of sleep.
Then I came home and crawled under the covers and and didn’t stir until 2 p.m.
Part of me feels guilty, but part of me wonders if I needed the extra time to pull myself together and continue this journey.
I am trying to be careful with body, mind, and soul, even though self-love doesn’t always come easily to somebody who enjoys the strain of accomplishment as much as I do.
In order to help myself, I’ve been reaching out to loved ones and trying to allow my inner self to try on crutches every once in a while.
I’ve been learning that sometimes I need help.
I remember a sticky day in India when fifteen teenagers played a game in which we were blindfolded and encircled with rope.
Our task was simple: we had to find our way out of the circle without breaking the nylon strands that bound us.
If we needed help, we merely had to raise our hand and a group leader or somebody who had already made their way outside the confines would help lead us out.
I spent an unknown stretch of time repeatedly circling the rope, grasping with my fingers, trying to find a break in the knots, before I realized I was the second to last person still fumbling in the dark.
I raised my hand, and understood the message: Every hand needs to grasp another’s at some point.
So these days I’m learning both how to walk on my own and when to reach out to the nearest kindred spirit.
Sometimes there are no kindred spirits around and I need to humble myself enough to accept somebody else’s attempt at throwing me a lifeline.
And I do mean lifelines literally.
I have met doctors with shoes from Peru who liked my books and were willing to slip in a “I like you” every once in a while, and I have met doctors who studied at Harvard and are willing to push insurance companies so that I can have the care I need to survive in this spinning world.
I have also met doctors who have insisted I was selectively mute, or who needed extra prodding in order for them to hear my voice, but I try not to dwell on those experiences.
I am getting stronger, every day, and it is thanks to readers like you and countless others that I am able make this transformation and escape the bonds my own body has placed around my brain.
So thank you to those who read these words and those who accept coffee dates and laugh at my trials and errors and offer a helping hand when I so desperately need it.
Sending love and light,