Recovery is a frustrating and often disheartening expedition. The goal is known and believed to be attainable, but the timescale is long and highly variable. Some days the achievements are obvious, champagne-celebrating events, such as the first walk around the block, the first shower unaided or the first time my clothes were self-applied. From this viewpoint I am a thriving woman, constantly improving, constantly progressing and constantly having cause to celebrate. Unfortunately, I am disgracefully impatient and although able to recognise these acts as stepping-stones towards my dream, I am horrendously, mind-numbingly and irritatingly bored. An estimated three to six months is a dreadfully long time for one’s whole purpose, one’s whole existence, one’s whole life to be focussed on “getting better”. I would love my actions to be according to Immanuel Kant’s words,
“So act that your principle of action might safely be made a law for the whole world.”
The principle of action behind my daily routine of exercise, food and then rest repeated three times could safely be made law. It does not offend, does not require money, and is considered most healthy by medical professionals. My sole intentions have been physical progress and this would form a most uninteresting decree, neither ameliorating nor damaging the world. My ravenous requirements have recently recovered, I now long and desire for more than the right of return of my legs. I need new ambitions and projects that are achievable in the interim between ill health and health, mental as well as physical stimulation. The recovery of my former life is the new hurdle.