Written by: Madeline McCallum, contributing writer and blogger at http://madelinesmusing.blogspot.com/?m=1
“So a continual and deep risk for us, if we are to feel the presence and friendship of all there is, is to humbly lift the veils we drape ourselves in, the veils that insulate us as the self-creators of everything we experience.
“Whether we accept it or not, we are asked to let life, in all its unseeable elements, touch us.”
-Mark Nepo from “The Exquisite Risk: Daring to Live an Authentic Life”
I feel really frustrated when I wake up and find myself in a Bad Day again.
I would actually consider myself pretty in line with social researcher Hugh Mackay’s concept of happiness – or, rather, his attack on the concept. He says that “the idea that everything we do is part of the pursuit of happiness” has led to a “contemporary disease in Western society, which is fear of sadness.” If there is one thing I am not afraid of anymore, it is my range of emotions. I think that my capacity for deep feelings, for sentiments strong enough to carve ravines into the canyons of my memory, is actually a beautiful thing that makes me uniquely me. Not everyone has access to such a wide spectrum of being – and I’ve grown to appreciate it as a gift.
However, when it comes to recovery and those feelings and urges that don’t have an explanation and don’t make any sense, I still get taken aback when they seem to crop up out of nowhere.
And this isn’t just waking up on the wrong side of the bed.
This is like somehow I managed to crawl inside one of my night terrors while I was sleeping and when I woke up I didn’t blink out of it – instead I see darkness, I feel heavy, my brain is like smog and my heart is drowning and I want to press the Off button and hope that tomorrow I can reboot.
I struggle to see how the presence of this kind of experience in my life can still mean that I am on some sort of road to recovery.
And as I write that, I am thinking that maybe it isn’t about a road to recovery, or really a road at all. A road seems to imply an end, a final destination. But maybe recovery is really just a wave, a tide that ebbs and flows but always feeds back out into the vast ocean of self.
I recently came across a Margaret Atwood quote that I think captures the essence of this wonderfully:
“When you are in the middle of a story, it isn’t a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It’s only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or someone else.”
The story of my journey isn’t a story yet – it can’t be neatly tied up into a beginning, middle, and end. And thank goodness for that, really – that gives me room to grow, to experiment, to fail, to try again.
Recovery means staying On even through the Bad Days. Just that, just the getting through, is recovery. It’s been crucial for me to recognize that there isn’t an alternate universe that I’m striving for where every day is full of happiness and fulfilment and great strides forward.
My day to day life is full of so much glory that I am constantly floored by the magic and mystery of it all, and it is also full of dips and clouds and moments when I feel like a puddle on the floor.
Being patient with myself means recognizing that all of me, the night terrors and the wonder, the eyes that see beauty in every crack and crevice as well as the soul that stores pain like throbbing wounds in the muscles between my shoulder blades, is part of my story. Even if it’s not clear to me yet, even if it never will be clear. It is valid and it is my truth.